lady djarin🗡️

she/her | 26yr | aries | mdni

[lady-djarin]

lady djarin's master list

* ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　 ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

please read before entering!: 99.9% of my works are 18+, enter at your own risk. they are also all from fem (afab) perspective. no physical description of reader other than “typical” fem anatomy. warnings on each work. thanks for reading!

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DIN DJARIN

• across the galaxy - series

din djarin x f!reader/each chapter has warnings/ratings

• yes sir - drabble

din djarin x f!reader 18+

• quiet - drabble

din djarin x f!reader 18+

• under the moonlight - pt. i

manda'lor!din djarin x royal!f!reader 18+

• under the moonlight - pt. ii

manda'lor!din djarin x royal!f!reader 18+

• biker!din djarin - drabble

biker!din djarin x f!reader 18+

• five - one shot

din djarin x bi!f!reader 18+

JACK DANIELS

• a cowboy’s hat - one shot

jack daniels x f!reader 18+

• heartbreaker - one shot

jack daniels x f!reader 18+

• whiskey fever - one shot

jack daniels x f!reader 18+

• need you now - one shot

jack daniels x f!reader 18+

OBI-WAN KENOBI

• only a sith deals in absolutes - pt. i

obi wan kenobi x f!reader 18+

• only a sith deals in absolutes - pt. ii

obi wan kenobi x f!reader 18+

BUCKY BARNS

• bucky barnes vs winter soldier head canons

bucky barnes x f!reader 18+

• apple pie - one shot

bucky barnes x f!reader 18+

JOEL MILLER

• oh captain, my captain - pt i / ?

dbf!joel miller x f!reader 18+

• on my radar - one shot

joel miller x f!reader 18+

• lace and pretty things - drabble

joel miller x f!reader 18+

• independent contractor - one shot

joel miller x f!reader 18+

• home - one shot

joel miller x f!reader 18+

• the ranch manager - one shot

joel miller x f!reader 18+

• thoroughfare - one shot

joel miller x f!reader 18+

[keytomylockhart]

you shaved your bush

Jack Abbot x Reader

summary: In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.

tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), piv sex, pussy eating, fingering, pussy slapping, jack abbot certified bush lover, overstimulation, implied age gap (reader is a resident), medical inaccuracies (peritoneal lavages are rarely used nowadays, but who cares), no use of y/n, trauma scene based on an episode of ER teehee.

wc: 9.5k

a/n: okay this is fully like two weeks late to the trend but it was inspired by that “you shaved your bush” tiktok trend lol. I genuinely do not know how this got so long, It was supposed to be a cute little fic but i got carried away, oopsies! I hope you enjoy <3

credits: gif credits to @ho-ii !!

It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny. 

You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster. 

Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem. 

Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment. 

And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now. 

That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you. 

So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was. 

It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule. 

But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven. 

You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably. 

You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed. 

The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it. 

It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message. 

Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.

You settled on: 

you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;) 

You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out. 

What a mistake. 

Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen. 

Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them. 

Why? 

Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you. 

Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing. 

You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt. 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either. 

And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him. 

It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency. 

“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably). 

He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway. 

Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be. 

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.

You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress. 

It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun. 

What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot. 

Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo. 

Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually. 

Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened. 

There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up. 

Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare. 

Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo. 

Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with. 

You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off. 

You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you. 

You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it. 

You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that. 

You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios. 

In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation. 

But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…  

Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you? 

A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification. 

Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍 

It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance. 

You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days. 

You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.

You woke up two days later and ran through your options. 

Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)

Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble) 

Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?) 

Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible. 

That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay. 

You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started. 

“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask, 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing. 

Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis. 

Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done. 

“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.  

“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second. 

He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own. 

And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze. 

When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile. 

Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work. 

This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.

Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either. 

His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more. 

But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore. 

And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former. 

As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling. 

Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.

The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse. 

To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom. 

Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night. 

You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through. 

“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient. 

The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15. 

“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.  

You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room. 

“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now. 

You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life. 

“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his. 

“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”

Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.” 

“BP is down to 60!” 

“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.

Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty. 

“Must be the belly,” Santos said.

“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?” 

You shook your head. 

“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.

Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin. 

“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear. 

“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.  

Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked. 

“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway. 

Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked. 

“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.

Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student. 

Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there. 

“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.

You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot. 

“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact. 

You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder. 

“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them. 

You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to. 

He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat. 

“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin. 

“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face. 

Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.

Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips. 

“Dr. Abbot–”

“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought. 

“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.” 

“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes. 

He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. 

“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked. 

A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.  

“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there. 

You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence. 

“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin. 

You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.” 

He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending. 

You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.  

He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.

You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips. 

“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top. 

His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly. 

You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks. 

“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face. 

You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top. 

He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you. 

You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.

The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency. 

It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you? 

He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy. 

“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.

His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.  

You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art. 

But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools. 

“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself. 

You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine. 

The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation. 

“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it. 

You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”  

You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale. 

“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face. 

“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile. 

He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs. 

Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you. 

The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours. 

He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.

“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact. 

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?” 

You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said. 

“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop. 

“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?” 

You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight. 

He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign. 

“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it. 

“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone. 

A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits. 

Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him. 

“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now. 

He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.

His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face. 

He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway. 

Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing. 

“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?” 

No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there. 

He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden. 

He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.  

“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”

“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.  

And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much. 

He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve. 

“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument. 

“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb. 

“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger.  Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes. 

Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably. 

And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.

Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.  

You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve. 

“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.” 

You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome. 

“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit. 

You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out. 

“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning  your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout. 

“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore. 

He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him. 

Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.  

A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time. 

Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you. 

“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy. 

The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.

You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy. 

“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.  

Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm. 

It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him. 

Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could. 

Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought. 

Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath. 

Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up. 

He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated. 

“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.  

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together. 

“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you. 

“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice. 

“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.” 

You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s. 

“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

a/n: whew that was a lot!! thank you if you made it all the way through!!

[lady-djarin]

it’s all yours jackie😭

[pearlessance]

Sweat It Out

Pairing: Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Summary: On the hottest summer day Texas has to offer, the heat brings out the worst in you and Tommy both. But Tommy knows his girl like the back of his hand, and he isn't above tiring that attitude out of you if he has to.

Warnings: +18 MDNI, bratting and brat taming, established relationship, no outbreak au, unspecified age gap, porn with some plot, domesticity, heat induced bickering, reader has hair but no other description, oral sex m!receiving, clit stimulation, unprotected piv, dirty talk, begging, kinda mean!tommy, praise and light degradation, creampie

note: i hear u i see u asking for more tommy miller and i aim to please, so here i am returning to my roots for my tommy girlies (but mostly for @havensucks <3)

wc: 4.6k

[masterlist] [AO3]

It's fucking hot.

Unbearably so.

Hot enough that even the chilly air from the vents of his truck only just barely cool him down. The kind of weather that makes the air look wavy with refraction and has him thinking about moving states for relief because, surely, he can't keep living like this.

Tommy's hair is up, pulled back with an elastic tie, but the curls still feel too thick and heavy. There's beads of sweat trickling down his neck and his belt buckle sticks to the curve of his soft belly.

He knows it's effecting you, too. Can see the way your shoulders deflate while you sit in the passenger seat, the backs of your thighs sticking to the leather beneath you.

The iced coffee he'd got you this morning sweats in the cup holder, ice nearly gone before you're even halfway done drinking it. He'd gotten it for you in hopes of keeping the peace today.

All you had to do was get groceries and do a couple loads of laundry at the laundromat. Errands that Tommy often finds enjoyment out of doing with you most days. A Sunday afternoon ritual he'd come to love.

But when it's hot like this? You're both irritable and quick to anger. All it takes is one thing to go wrong and you're snapping at each other, frustration building with the temperature.

And to no one's surprise, you start bickering first thing.

While you carry the bag of detergent and quarters, Tommy carries the basket of clothes down from you shared apartment. He puts it in the back seat of his truck at a weird angle, and you try to warn him, but your warning only serves to provoke him.

"Has nothing to do with the angle, it's this stupid fucking basket."

You roll your eyes, angrily shoving a pair of jeans back into place. "Sure, yeah. It's definitely the basket that's been the same size and shape for the last two years. Makes sense."

His jaw ticks, and the thought crosses his mind to take you over his knee. His bratty girl and her smart ass mouth.

But he keeps quiet.

You accidentally drop the bag of quarters in the laundromat, and Tommy spends five minutes of his life chasing them around on a floor that probably hasn't been properly mopped in months.

When you see the irritation plain as day on his face you say, "I didn't mean to drop them. Don't get mad."

"I'm not mad," he argues. "Never said I was."

"Yeah, well. You look mad."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you look it?"

"Can we just put the quarters in the fucking machine?"

You scoff. "You curse at me like that again and we're gonna have a fucking problem."

It's so stupid, such a silly argument, that it makes Tommy laugh.

Your brows furrow in disbelief at first but then you laugh, too. And it lightens the mood, if only for a while.

The two of you sit in the air conditioning of the laundromat until your clothes are folded and neatly put back in the basket, no further damage made to the easy energy you've created.

But the moment you're back outside in the grueling heat, the tension returns.

The two of you are discussing what sounds good for dinner this week on the way to the grocery store when he says, "We've gotta pick up cake mix, too. You still gonna make one for Mike's birthday so I can bring it in to him Wednesday?"

"Wednesday?" Your nose scrunches in that cute, frustrated way he loves. "You told me it was Friday. I was going to go to that bakery in San Marcos to get that pistachio frosting he said he likes—"

"Can't you do that tomorrow?"

"No, tomorrow is Sarah's recital."

"Okay, so Tuesday then."

"And get home at nine and be up until midnight making a damn cake?"

Tommy sighs. "So skip the pistachio frosting. What's wrong with vanilla?"

"It's his fiftieth birthday, Tommy. You should've warned me ahead of time—"

"I did. Twice, matter of fact."

"You told me it was on Friday."

"No I didn't. Why would I say that?"

"I don't know, you tell me!"

His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. He hates arguing with you at all, and it's even worse when it's arguments like this.

It feels like you're fighting against each other instead of with each other. Like you're on opposing sides and not two people in love working together to solve a problem.

He makes the decision right then and there, stopping in the middle of the road and pulling into a random driveway to turn the truck around.

"What are you doing?"

"Turning around."

"Oh my god," you huff. "No shit. Where are we going? Tommy, we need groceries. We're out of milk and eggs and the cake—!"

"The store's not closin' anytime soon. And I'm not doin' this today. S'too fuckin' hot out. So just sit there and let me drive," he says. And for good measure adds, "Please."

You fold your arms over your chest, bratty little thing that you are.

But it's okay, Tommy doesn't mind. He knows it's not you, it's the heat. It's the sweat on your skin and the humidity that sticks like glue and the uncomfortable weight of it all.

There's a boat launch a short fifteen minute drive away. Joel and Tommy used to rent boats there to go fishing all the time. They hadn't been back in a while, a couple of years at least.

But today's the perfect day.

When he pulls into the dirt lot just outside the small, wood cabin office building, Tommy unbuckles and climbs out of his truck. He levels you with a stare and says, "Don't move."

"Wasn't gonna," you argue. "Just gonna sit here and let you drive, Tommy. Just like you wanted."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he hisses, shaking his head.

Inside the cabin is blessedly air conditioned. It's a small, one room building with cluttered paperwork on a desk and a cash register that looks like it's from the eighties. An old woman sits behind it with a pair of floral framed reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose and a book in her hand titled The Dirty Cowboy.

It makes Tommy chuckle softly to himself. Reminds him of all those filthy books you read on your phone before bed. "You guys got any rentals available for today?"

The woman looks up at him over her worn paperback. "Got a pontoon, a center cabin and a bowrider left. An' no extra poles, so I hope you've got your own. What d'ya want?"

"Let's go with the center cabin."

"You got cash?"

"Sure do." Tommy pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands over the cash once she reads off a total. He waits patiently as she prints out a few pages on what he assumes is the slowest printer still in use and sets it in front of him with a fuzzy red pen.

"Gotta sign the waiver and take a life jacket for each passenger," she says. "There's some extras around back."

Tommy does what he needs to. Dates and signs and leaves a copy of his ID. When she hands him the keys, he leaves the cabin with a newfound relief.

He finds you with your feet on the dash and every AC vent in the car turned towards you, scrolling on your phone with a crease between your brows. Tommy pulls the door open and says, "C'mon."

That snarky little tone still resides in your voice when you ask, "What are we doing?"

"Goin' out on the lake," he answers, unbuckling your seatbelt and tugging you out of the truck. He tosses his cellphone onto the floor at your feet. "Let's go."

"Tommy, I don't want—!"

"Baby." He closes his eyes and takes a slow, steadying breath. The heat is already getting to him again, the sun unbearably hot at his back. "I'm gonna need you to just trust me. Leave your phone, ya won't need it."

That scowl still remains, but you no longer argue. You let him take your hand in his and lock the truck behind you.

Tommy leads you around the back of the cabin and plucks two life jackets from the racks before starting down the familiar path to the lake. It's not a long walk, but it feels that way. Sweat trickles down his spine and his breath feels hollow.

He finds the boat tied to the end of one of the docks and doesn't give you time to argue some more before he begins to untie the rope. Tommy tosses the frayed jute cord into the front of the boat, climbs in, and holds out his hand for you to take. "C'mon."

"We have stuff that needs to get done today, Tommy," you tell him, hand on your hip. The sunshine reflects off of your hair and he thinks you look so fucking pretty like that it almost makes the hellish temperature worth it.

"Our errands aren't goin' anywhere."

"We still need to get groceries—"

"The store will be open late."

"—and put away laundry—"

"Baby."

"—and I promised Sarah I'd—"

"Baby, get in the damn boat."

"It's just so hot and I need to—!"

"You think I don't know what you need?"

The question silences you, and your eyes soften just slightly. "That's not what I'm trying to say, I—"

Tommy takes your hands in his, pulling you forward. "C'mon."

You let him pull you begrudgingly onto the deck, mumbling those smart ass remarks under your breath all the while.

Tommy just laughs. Puts the key in the ignition switch and settles into the seat behind the wheel in the cabin. It roars to life, propellers spinning beneath the water. He pats his thigh twice and says, "Get over here, brat."

"I'm not a brat," you argue, coming up to his side and sitting in his lap right where he likes you. Even when you say it, your mouth turns up at the corners.

"Mhm, sure," Tommy teases, voice thick with sarcasm. He squeezes the hand throttle behind the wheel and the boat surges forward through the water.

And the wind—god. It might be the most soothing thing he's ever felt in his entire fucking life. It cools the sweat that sticks to his skin, lifting the collar of his shirt and reaching beneath the fabric.

Tommy sees you visibly relax at the sensation and knows he made the right choice, bringing you here today.

Silence settles between you as he drives further and further away from the dock. The sun still shines painfully bright in the clear blue sky, but with the chill of the water spray it feels far less daunting.

He turns the radio on and the soft, bluesy ballad of a Santana song plays through the open space. The lake is surprisingly empty for a day like today, but Tommy finds himself grateful for it.

He slows the boat to a stop a handful of miles out, until he can no longer see the shore or the docks or any other boats. He stands to his feet, pulling you up with him, and says, "Take off your clothes."

You shake your head, but when you speak there's ease in it for the first time since you'd left the apartment this afternoon. "I don't really want to swim today," you confess.

But Tommy's not having it. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, toeing off his boots next. "Wasn't askin', sweetheart."

With a sigh, you say, "I'll admit it, the boat is nice. It's cooler out here and I don't feel like I'm dying in the heat anymore, but I don't want to get in the water. I'll just…I'll watch you. How's that?"

Tommy undoes his belt buckle with a clink and shoves his jeans down his thighs, leaving his boxers. He wears one of those big, toothy grins as he explains, "You can either get undressed or you can get in fully clothed. Your choice."

"I said—!"

He shrugs. "Suit yourself."

And without another word, Tommy squeezes you in an embrace and hauls you overboard with him.

The water is cold. Not just cool, but borderline freezing. It feels so refreshing that he lets out a low groan when he breaches the surface, letting out a breath that's been stuck in his lungs for what feels like hours.

You come up for air half a second after he does, wiping water from your face. Droplets cling to your eyelashes and all Tommy can do is smile wide.

Because he thinks you're the most beautiful woman to ever live, and he will never take for granted that even on the hottest day of the year, you still choose him to do laundry with.

"You're the worst," you say, but there's no salt to your words. There's a smile on your face and laughter on the tip of your tongue instead. The tension that's been building all day dissipates, washed away by the cold water.

Tommy nods and takes your face in his hands. "Mhm," he says. "You're right. I am the worst. Tell me more."

"You get this awful attitude when it gets hot out. You know that?"

It makes him laugh hard enough that his shoulders shake. "We got that in common, sweet girl."

"Nuh-uh. Not me. I'm an angel, actually."

He leans forward, grin still on his wet lips when he presses them to yours. "Yeah you are," he mutters. "My bratty, angel girl." He kisses you again, this time at the corner of your mouth. And then he kisses your cheek, your temple, the tip of your nose, , the tickling hairs of his mustache making you giggle.

"M'sorry I've been mean today," you say with sorrowful eyes.

Tommy wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you close, delighting in the way your soft, warm skin glides easily against his underwater. "I'm sorry too, baby. S'alright. Just the heat."

You nod in agreement and reach behind his head to pull the elastic band from his hair. "Yeah, I know," you say. "But I'm still sorry. And I love you."

"Even though I'm the worst?"

With a laugh, you shake your head and pull away from him, swimming towards the back end of the boat.

Tommy watches, floating on his back with his arms outstretched, as you pull yourself up over the hull and onto the deck.

You peel your top off, wring the water out of it, and lay it over the leather seat at the front of the boat. Your jean shorts are next, and then your sandals, leaving you in nothing but your sports bra and a flimsy pair of blue panties.

The fabric clings to your wet skin so closely that Tommy can almost see right through them, to that pretty pussy that lies beneath. It makes him feel hot in an entirely different way.

"Don't stop on my account," he urges, a playful tone in his voice. "If I knew takin' you to the lake would get me a free striptease we would'a been here hours ago."

You scoff and say, "Shut up."

But Tommy sees it; the way your pulse picks up, the way your thighs press together, the way you consider it, just for a fleeting second.

But you leave the last two articles of clothing on before jumping right back into the water.

Tommy's not sure how long you stay out in the lake. You do back flips under the water and splash each other and kiss with slippery mouths.

He takes to doing cannonballs off the side of the boat and your laughter echoes across the water's surface. An Aerosmith song comes on the radio and you both sing along so loudly that he forgets all about the heat and the frustration and your bickering.

By the time you decide you're finished, the muscles in his legs are tired and the tips of his fingers are pruned.

Tommy helps you back into the boat and drops down onto the leather bench near the front of the deck. He spreads his legs wide and drapes his arms over the edge, head tilted back just slightly. Water drips off his skin, sliding down his neck and the broad expanse of his shoulders. "C'mere," he orders.

There's no argument to be had, not this time. You simply walk over to him, leaving little wet footprints in your wake, and stand between his spread knees.

"You feelin' better?"

With a nod, you admit, "Yeah, a little."

"Just a little?" Tommy playfully clicks his tongue. "Now, that just ain't gonna work."

You narrow your pretty eyes at him, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"Why don't you g'head an' take off your clothes, baby," he says. And when you begin to protest he adds, "Need to get dry before we head back, don't we?"

You see right through him, shaking your head. But you do as he instructs, struggling for only a second before tugging the wet fabric of your bra up and over your head.

Tommy just watches, leaning back, enjoying the sweetest view of his bratty girl listening so well. He's not shy in his assessment, eyes roaming greedily over the swells of your breasts and the hardened peaks of your nipples.

And when you peel your panties down your legs, Tommy's cock stirs beneath his boxers. You ring the water out of them and lay them out to dry.

"I oughta get dry, too," he says. "Wanna give your old man a hand?"

He watches it happen in real time, that shift in you. Watches what begins as suggestive amusement turn into want. Your pupils flare and your lips part just so.

You drop to your knees slowly, each breath a manual inhale. And then you slide your hands up his calves, still dripping with water. They move over the bend of his knee and through the coarse hair that litters his thighs. And when you finally reach the waistband of his boxers, your fingers curl around the edge to tug them off.

Tommy lifts his hips, and that's the only assistance he allows himself to give. His cock hangs heavy and hard between you, resting against the softness of his belly.

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and he hears the silent question before you ask it.

"G'head, baby. Give me a little kiss." He thinks that sweet smile you give him in response is real cute. And it's even cuter when you take his cock in your hand and lean forward to lick a long, wet stripe up the underside of him.

The muscles in his thighs flex at the sensation, at the sight of you. Naked and pretty and on your knees for him, with all that worship in your eyes that always makes him feel weak.

Your tongue laves over every hardened inch of him, following the path of each vein, swirling around the tip and coating him in a different sort of wet. Your spit is warm and slippery, providing the perfect amount of ease when you take him into your waiting mouth.

Tommy's head falls back even further as you swallow him down. He groans low, fingers curling tight around the edge of the boat to try and fight off his urge to touch you. To hold your pretty face in his hands and rest his fingers against the side of your throat to feel himself inside it.

But he wants it to be you. All you.

So Tommy just lets you suck his cock, lets you enjoy it the way you want to. Spit pools at the corners of your mouth and you whimper around him, the sound ratcheting his pleasure even higher.

"Yeah," he muses. "That's it. So fuckin' pretty with my cock in your mouth, baby. Look at ya. Fuckin' droolin' on it."

You look up at him through your lashes, and smile around his length. Tommy thinks he could fall off the edge right then and there, just seeing how happy you are to taste him, how pleased you look with him in your mouth.

But he resists, pulling his hips back just slightly to say, "S'enough, now. Get on up here."

You do as he says, wiping the spit from your mouth with the back of your hand. When you climb into his lap, knees on either side of his wide thighs, Tommy stops you just before you're fully seated.

"Hang on now, greedy girl," he says. "Lemme see her."

Carefully, you place your hands on the edge of his knees and arch your spine, giving him the most beautiful view.

Tommy can't resist touching you. Not this time, not when you look like this. He gently squeezes your breasts in his hands, smoothing away the water droplets that still sit on top of your soft skin.

His thumbs ghost across your nipples before he glides his palms down your torso, over the dip of your navel, and then finally—blessedly—between your legs.

"Oh, baby," he sighs. Tommy gathers his saliva at the front of his mouth and brings his hand to his lips. "No wonder why you're only feelin' a little bit better." He spits on his fingers before bringing them to your clit, already pulsing the moment he touches you.

You moan when he begins to stroke gently at your pussy, spreading his spit and your slick. His fingers move slowly, just feeling you without true intent, gliding through your arousal.

When he slides his hand a little lower and begins to circle your entrance with the pad of his middle finger, your hips begin to move. Trying desperately to pull him inside, muscles clenching around nothing.

Tommy just grins. Chuckles low when you start to whine, nails digging into the skin of his thighs. "You want it?"

You nod comes feverish and instantaneous. "Please," you moan. "I need it."

He thinks you sound so pretty, begging like that. He moves his fingers back up to your clit, stroking with just enough pressure that you gasp in relief.

But as soon as he gives, he takes away.

Tommy removes his touch completely, stretching his arms back over the boat's edge, resting casual and cocky the way he always is. "Go 'head, baby. Take what ya need."

You don't waste a second, scooting up his lap. You take his cock in your hand and line it up with your entrance before sinking down on him fully.

The sensation of it nearly knocks him on his ass; the tight, wet grip of your cunt around him. His fingers flex against the leather seat, and you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders.

It starts easy. A gentle rocking of your hips, his cock pressing in deep, the swollen head flush against the tip of your cervix.

But each movement grows more and more desperate, your sounds echoing across the lake. "Such a cute little thing," he says, eyes dark and lids hooded. "Takin' it so good. You feel me in there, baby? Stretchin' you real wide?"

"Mmhm," is all you can manage right away, breath coming fast, chest heaving with each ragged inhale. "Feels so…god—feels so good, Tommy. So big."

You start getting real whimpery, slick dripping down his cock, wet sounds coming from between your legs.

Right about now is when Tommy will normally take over, thrusting up into you, giving you the roughness you always seek.

But he stays still today. Let's you roll your hips over his, fucking yourself on his thick length until you're begging him. "Please, Tommy—touch me."

He cruelly clicks his tongue. "Had the energy to give me all that attitude this morning, didn't ya? Still got stuff to do today, sweet girl. Gotta tire you out before we head back."

A sweetest sounding groan leaves your mouth. "But—please!"

Tommy's real weak when it comes to you. The temptation to give in is there, building inside his chest, right beside the warmth of impending release. "Nuh-uh," he says. "You wanna cum? You're gonna work for it this time. Not gonna have all that sass by the time you're done. Gotta sweat it out, little girl."

You're still moving, still grinding yourself down on his cock, pace ragged and out of rhythm now. "Tommy please, I can't—!"

"Yeah you can," he encourages, taking one a low, condescending tone. "Got full faith in ya. C'mon baby, you're almost there. She's squeezin' me."

He can feel the tension in your thighs and the way your fingers dig into the hard muscles at his shoulders. "Will you at least—" you stop, a moan tearing its way through your chest. "—kiss me. Please, just a kiss. Need to feel you, to taste you."

The request is so spoken so softly, so sweetly, that it send a shock of delight down his spine. And Tommy—God. He can do nothing to resist it. "'Course I can give you a kiss, sweet girl," he says.

Tommy leans in, and the moment he touches his lips to yours he can feel the velvety walls of your cunt clench around him.

He kisses you deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, licking and sliding against yours. You moan his name and it sounds so fucking pretty that his fingers find your clit on instinct.

He strokes it in small, tight circles. And only a few seconds later, you're falling off the edge. Thighs shaking, whimpering into his mouth, riding him as hard as your strength will allow.

"So fuckin' pretty," he whispers. "Such a good girl for me when you're all full, huh? Oughta make you work for it more often."

"Feels so good—hmm."

"You're my good girl, baby. Ain't that right?"

"Yes, yes. I'm your good girl, I'm—oh, god—"

"Uh-huh. That's right. Mine. My baby."

His.

Tommy follows you off the precipice, his release rushing up to greet him, that tight coil around his spine pulling taught just to snap.

A low groan rumbles through his chest as he fills you with his release, so much of it that it spills out of you and drips onto the thatch of dark hair between his legs.

You roll your hips a few more times, until you're spent and aching, before collapsing on top of him entirely.

Your shoulders drop and your muscles go slack, head falling into the crook of his neck.

Tommy laughs and finally touches you, arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close, fingertips stroking lazily over the relaxed curve of your spine. "You're alright," he says. "I've got ya."

He's not sure how much time passes. Tommy just holds you for as long as you need, cock still twitching inside you, the mixture of your release and his dripping down the inside of his thighs. He lets you catch your breath, and doesn't move until you do.

When you finally ease yourself off of him and stand to your feet, you do so on shaky legs. The heat has dried your shorts and top now, and you pull them back on while Tommy does the same with his jeans.

Once you're dressed he asks, "You ready to head back?"

You nod soundlessly, an ease on your face. Tommy sits behind the wheel of the boat and flips the ignition switch, and this time he doesn't even have to ask for you. You just come to him without a word, sitting in his lap and resting your head on his shoulder.

Tommy kisses your temple with a syrupy smile. "Feelin' better?"

The answer this time is paired with a soft, sleepy sigh. "Much better. Thank you."

His heart swells. And even though the heat persists, warming him back up already, Tommy feels himself relax fully for the first time all day.

"Ain't gotta thank me, baby," he says. "M'always gonna make you feel better."

thank you for reading, i love you!! <3

[lady-djarin]

ohhhh to swim in a lake with tommy🫠

[geminiwritten]

── profiled ; aaron hotchner

summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.

notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.

word count: 19001

MONDAY 9:25AM

Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.

Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.

At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.

Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.

Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”

You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”

“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”

You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”

“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”

You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”

Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”

You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.

“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”

The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.

“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”

“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.

She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”

Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”

You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”

Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”

“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”

“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.

You perform.

You scroll through dating profiles, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.

He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:

Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.

Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.

Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”

His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.

“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”

Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”

Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”

“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”

Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.

Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.

“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”

He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.

His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—

“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.

You blink hard. “What?”

He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”

You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.

Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.

You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.

Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”

You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”

He hums. “Sure.”

“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”

He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.

“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.

You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.

The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.

In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.

To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.

Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.

“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.

You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.

“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”

You frown slightly.

“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”

“What’s she right about?”

You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.

“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”

He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.

“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”

Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.

Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.

“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”

Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”

You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”

“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”

Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.

You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”

You finally blink. “What?”

“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”

You frown. “What are you—”

“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”

“Reid.”

“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.

Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.

Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”

Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”

Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”

Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.

You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.

“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.

Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.

You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.

The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.

Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.

“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.

“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”

Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”

You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”

“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”

You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”

“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.

With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.

You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.

And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.

Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.

You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.

There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.

It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.

You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.

It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.

Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.

You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.

No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.

One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.

Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.

That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.

The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.

Twelve notifications.

You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.

After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.

But one of the messages catches your eye.

DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.

You snort, then type out a reply.

You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.

Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.

“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.

Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.

You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”

You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given. DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.

That answer comes a little too easily.

You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.

You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.

You shake your head, typing quickly.

You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.

Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.

TUESDAY 9:50AM

“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.

Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”

Hotch ignores him completely.

“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”

He glances once around the table.

“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”

Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.

The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.

Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.

“You should probably blink.”

Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.

Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.

You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.

You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.

Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.

You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”

“How late were you here last night?” he asks.

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”

“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”

“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”

Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”

He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.

“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.

You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.

By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.

You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.

You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.

You: Better than ‘Workaholic’. You: You read Stephen King?

“Hey, you busy?”

You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”

He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”

You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”

“I could use your help.”

“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.

He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.

“Where do you want to start?”

“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”

You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”

Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?

“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”

He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”

You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.

“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”

He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.

“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”

Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.

You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”

“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”

You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.

“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”

Your face heats.

“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”

Oh my God.

“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”

You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”

He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.

You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—

Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.

You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.

When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.

DCRunner00: I’ve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?

You type your reply as you step out of the building.

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.

“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.

You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.

DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person. You: Nah. That’s my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.

“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.

You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.

He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.

“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”

Your face heats instantly.

“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.

You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.

You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.

Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.

Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.

You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.

DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people. You: Rude.

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.

You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.

DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?

You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.

You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.

He replies instantly again.

DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.

You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.

DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?

You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.

He’s already replied by the time you log in.

DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.

You open your protein bar.

DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?

You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.

You type out a vague response.

You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: He’d only call if it mattered.

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.

You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.

“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”

You: I’m going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.

His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.

You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.

“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”

You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.

“Is Garcia in yet?”

He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—

“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”

His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.

You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”

His brows pull together slightly.

“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”

You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.

It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.

She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”

“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”

“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”

You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.

“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”

She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”

You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.

“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”

She nods.

“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.

“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”

You wince.

“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”

You hesitate.

“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”

She squints at the screen.

DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.

“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”

You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”

“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.

“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”

Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”

You frown. “In English?”

She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”

“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”

“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”

Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.

She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”

You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”

Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”

“No.”

She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”

You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.

“You’re the best, Pen.”

“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”

By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.

Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.

“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”

Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.

You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.

“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”

You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”

“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”

You stare at him.

“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”

When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.

You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.

You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.

Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

You: Trust me, that’s not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. I’m working. Garcia: Boo!

You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.

It doesn’t work.

Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.

If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.

An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.

One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.

DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”

You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”

“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”

You press your free hand against your forehead.

“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Garcia scoffs loudly.

“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”

She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”

“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”

You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”

“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”

You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.

You: Lucky guess.

The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.

At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.

When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.

By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”

You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.

“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”

You pause mid-motion.

“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”

“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”

He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—

“Agent.”

You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”

You nod once. “Of course.”

He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”

Your breath catches.

He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.

“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.

You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”

Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.

You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.

“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”

You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.

And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.

The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.

“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”

Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.

Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.

“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.

You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”

She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.

DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.

You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.

You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.

Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.

“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”

You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”

“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.

DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what they’re trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?

You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.

Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.

“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”

“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”

You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.

THURSDAY 6:45AM

You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.

Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.

The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.

Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.

“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”

You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”

Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”

Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”

Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”

“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”

Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”

Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.

“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”

“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”

Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”

“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”

Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”

Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”

Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.

“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.

Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.

You want to die.

The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.

“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.

Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.

“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.

You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.

Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.

It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.

“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”

Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.

But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.

“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.

You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”

He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.

The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.

It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.

From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.

Your stomach flips.

“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”

You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.

“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.

You turn back to him, frowning.

He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”

You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.

You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.

Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?

The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”

She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”

You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.

Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.

“What’s going on?”

His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.

Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.

Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.

“Who sent this?”

Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.

It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.

Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.

“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”

Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.

Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.

“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”

You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”

“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”

Could this day get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”

“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”

You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.

“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”

Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”

“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”

You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”

The room goes still for half a second.

“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”

Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.

“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”

You sink lower in your chair.

“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”

“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”

Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.

“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”

“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”

Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.

“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”

Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.

“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”

“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.

“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.

Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.

“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.

You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.

“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.

Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.

Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.

“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.

He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.

He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.

“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”

The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.

Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”

You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”

He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.

Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”

Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.

Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?

He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.

You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.

The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.

Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.

Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.

Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.

And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.

By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.

“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.

Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.

“I’m fine.”

You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”

He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”

You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.

“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”

His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.

“You think this is nothing?”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.

“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”

Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.

That’s all.

You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”

His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.

You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.

If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.

“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.

“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”

The name hits you immediately.

“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”

You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.

“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”

“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”

He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.

He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”

The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.

“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”

The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”

“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”

Your pulse stutters.

“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”

“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”

Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.

“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.

“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.

“You track me.”

The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.

“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.

“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.

He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”

Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.

And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.

You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.

“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.

He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.

“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.

You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.

“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”

“Oh.”

“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.

“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.

“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”

Hotch stills.

Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”

“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”

He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.

“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.

But you can’t.

All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.

You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.

His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.

Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”

FRIDAY 6:15AM

Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—

Oh God.

The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.

Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.

You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.

“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”

“Oh my God.”

You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”

You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.

“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Mm, sure.”

You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.

The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.

That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.

Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”

You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”

Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”

You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”

Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.

You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”

Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.

You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.

You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”

“I was.”

Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.

“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”

Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.

“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”

Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.

“…Huh.”

You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”

© 2026 geminiwritten

[lady-djarin]

this came across my desk right during my criminal minds rewatch. writing is amazing, characters perfect, i wish we saw hotch in action in bed but that’s cuz im a PERV. still 10/10

[h0lyshift]

The older i get the more i understand why some people become obsessed with privacy, not because they’re hiding something, but because being constantly perceived starts to feel spiritually exhausting.

[followyourfleart]

Baby, Come Back to Me

a03 | masterlist

blurb - Separated by miles, years, and the undead, you and your husband have been ghosts in each other’s lives for two decades. The thought of Joel being alive hurt just as much as thinking he was dead. But when a stand-off forces you face-to-face with a familiar man—older, harder, and still devastatingly him—all the pain resurfaces.

warnings - nsfw,  mdni  18+, attempted murder, violence, yearning, loss of a child, parent!Reader, grief, fear of intimacy, slight suicidal wishes, female masturbation, mutual masturbation, 69, cuddle fucking, creampie (don't try this at home), emotional sex, scent kink???

author's note: I did listen to "Back to Me" by the Marias the entire time I wrote this...

One shot requested by: anyomous

wc: 18.3 k

Mwah!

“Joel…”

Mwah!

You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”

Mwah! Mwah!

“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”

He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely reach for your keys.

“You ain’t leavin’ yet,” he said against your hair.

You tried to twist out of his hold, but he just shifted with you, his body like a weighted blanket. “Joel—”

“My birthday is tonight,” he murmured, cheek pressed to the side of your head. “Keyword: Tonight.”

“You’re not six.”

“Don’t need to be,” he muttered, “To wanna spend it with my wife.”

Somewhere down the hall, Sarah’s laughter drifted from her room, soft and muffled. You exhaled, melting into his chest despite yourself. He smelled like sawdust and soap, and you hated how safe it made you feel, because you did need to go.

“Joel,” you whispered again, gentler this time. “It’s an ER shift. You know I can’t just—”

“I know, I know.”

He finally leaned back enough to look at you. His face was that ache that always peeked out when you had to leave for your night shifts.

“I packed you dinner,” he said finally, nodding toward the counter.

Your gaze followed. A brown paper bag sat neatly by your keys, the folded top pressed flat with ridiculous precision. You could see his handwriting scrawled across it: Eat every bite.

You looked back at him, and his expression was stubbornly casual, like you hadn’t watched him make sure your thermos didn’t leak and your sandwich didn’t get squished while you changed into your scrubs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yeah, I did,” he cut in, quiet but sure. “You forget to eat when it gets busy.”

“I do not forget.”

“Mm,” he said, unconvinced. “That’s why last week you came home and inhaled pizza like you ain’t seen food in a week.”

You shoved at his chest, and he caught your wrist with a smirk, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles.

And that’s when the sound of socked feet sliding down the hallway interrupted you.

“Ew,” Sarah groaned, appearing in the doorway, half-eaten apple in hand. “Not this again.”

Joel didn’t even look her way. “What’s this ‘gain?”

“You being a total sap,” she said, hopping up on one of the stools. “She’s just going to work.”

Joel’s head turned slowly to his kid. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re dramatic.”

You covered your mouth to hide a smile, pretending to check your bag again.

Joel lifted a brow at her. “You done?”

“Not even close,” she said sweetly. “Stop hogging her.”

He glanced back to you, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Why’d wanna talk to her so bad, huh?”

“Maybe I wanna talk to someone other than you for the next twelve hours.”

Joel let out a low noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and grabbed his mug. “Uh-huh. I’ll remember that next time you need a ride to the mall.”

You and Sarah watched him disappear around the corner. There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of him shutting the bedroom door echoed faintly.

“Did it get fixed?”

Her grin was instant, mischievous, like she’d been waiting for that cue all night.

“You bet it did.”

She glanced over her shoulder once more, then ducked into her backpack and pulled out a small box. When she cracked it open, the soft ticking filled the quiet kitchen.

Joel’s watch. Working.

You hadn’t seen it tick since—well, since ever. Not once in all the years you’d known him. She smiled so wide it almost broke your heart. “He deserves it,” she said softly.

You wrapped your arms around her before she could hide her blush. “You did good, baby.”

Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and laundry detergent. You pressed a kiss into her curls, and she squeezed you tight.

“When I’m back in the morning,” you murmured against her hair, “Your dad gets me, then it’s all you and me, okay?”

She pulled back, grinning. “Deal. I need a dress. Homecomings, like, next week and everyone already has theirs.”

You smoothed her hair from her face. “Then we’ll find you the perfect one. Promise.”

Her eyes sparkled. “It’s gonna be the best.”

You smiled, meaning it. “It will.”

For a moment, it was just the two of you, the low hum of the fridge filling the silence, the clock ticking in time with the watch.

Then you glanced up—and froze.

“Shoot,” you muttered. “I’m late.”

You moved fast—badge, phone, keys—but she was still standing there, smiling at you.

“I love you, Sarah!” you called as you backed toward the door.

“Love you too!”

The night air was cooler than you expected, the kind of fall chill that hinted at rain but hadn’t quite decided to commit. The street was quiet, just the whisper of trees and the hum of a streetlight flickering at the corner.

The porch light cast a pale gold over the hood of your car, and you were halfway to opening the door when you heard it.

“Hey!”

You turned.

Joel was coming down the porch steps, hair mussed.

“What—?”

Before you could finish, he reached you. His hands found your face, warm and calloused, and his mouth was on yours before another word could form.

Steady. Familiar.

You smiled against his lips, your fingers curling in his shirt. “Happy birthday,” you murmured.

His eyes softened, lines crinkling at the corners. “Thank you, baby.”

He kissed you again—slower this time—and then rested his forehead against yours.

“You sure you can’t call in sick?” he whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Y‘know I can’t.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You brushed your thumb along Joel’s jaw, tracing the familiar edge of stubble.

“Tomorrow morning,” you promised quietly. “I’m all yours.”

He nodded once, like he was filing it away. “All mine,” he repeated, voice low, half-rasp, half-prayer.

You stepped back, his hand still holding yours until the distance forced it to fall away.

“Go on,” he said, smiling now. “‘Fore I think of another excuse to keep you.”

You opened the car door, sliding in. The engine coughed to life, headlights washing the driveway in white.

Joel leaned down to your window as it rolled open, bracing one hand on the roof. “Text me when you get there.”

“I always do.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Still.”

You looked up at him for a moment—just a man standing under the porch light, watching the woman he loves drive away to work.

Then you smiled one last time, lifted your fingers in a small wave, and pulled out of the driveway.

The taillights disappeared down the street.

And behind you, Joel stood there for a long while, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the road that led toward the hospital, until the light finally went out.

That was the last quiet night.

┈┈・┈┈

The gas station sits at the edge of the highway like a fossil—half-buried in snowdrift, windows caked in frost, the faded sign creaking against the wind.

You pull your scarf higher over your nose and push through the door. The bell above it gives a tired little jingle, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the emptiness inside.

The place smells of dust and fuel. Rows of cracked candy wrappers and long-dead flies line the counter. A can of peaches sits upright on a shelf like it’s been waiting for you all these years.

You pause, listening. Wind sighs through a shattered window. Nothing else.

Good.

Your boots crunch on the tile as you move down the aisle. You check under the counter—some old batteries, half a lighter, a few shotgun shells. You pocket the shells, roll the lighter between your fingers, flick it. Spark. No flame. You toss it back.

You find the storage room behind a warped door, push it open with your shoulder. The metal hinges wail.

Inside: shelves toppled over, a spill of canned goods frozen to the concrete. A single cot in the corner—torn, mold creeping up the side. But it’s shelter.

You run a hand through your hair, exhale through your scarf.

You start sorting through the wreckage. Your bag was already heavy, but there’s always room for something that might keep you alive another week. A can of beans, a box of ammo if you’re lucky, maybe even a flask with something that burns on the way down.

Outside, the wind changes pitch—sharper now, colder. Snow was coming quick.

You glance through the window. Clouds roll over the mountains, dark and low, swallowing the last streaks of light.

Wyoming. You’d always wanted to see it. The peaks in the distance look soft under the gray sky, like something out of a dream you half-remember. You lean against the window frame, watch the world blur behind the snow.

The beans taste like dust. You chew anyway, slow and mechanical. You swallow, stare at the dented can in your hand, and wonder—not for the first time—why food never tastes like anything anymore.

The silence stretches long and thin.

Outside, the wind howls low through the busted doorframe, slipping under your coat. The storm’s closer. You pull your scarf tighter and sit cross-legged on the moldy cot.

The flickering fluorescent light above you buzzes. Once. Twice. Then dies completely. You sit in the dark for a long moment.

You fish out a flashlight from your pack and click it on. The beam slices through the dark in a narrow cone. Dust motes float like ghosts.

You set the can aside, grab your knife, and start sharpening it against a stone. The rhythmic scrape fills the space. Shk. Shk. Shk.

You stop only when you catch your reflection in the blade. Eyes sunken. Hair streaked with gray. Skin roughened by twenty-four winters too many.

You huff a breath through your nose, letting the knife fall beside you and lean your head back against the wall.

For a moment—just a flicker—you see it again.

The hospital. The gurneys. The screaming.

You still smelled antiseptic and blood, heard the alarms, and felt the heat of panic flooding every hallway.

Your hands had been shaking so badly back then that you couldn’t even hold the scalpel right. And when they shoved the rifle at you—you’d dropped it. You remember that clearly. You’d dropped it, and the nurse beside you had died two minutes later.

You open your eyes fast, drag in air until your ribs ache. You stare at your hands. Calloused. Scarred.

The storm outside is getting heavier now, snow slamming against the roof in thick, rhythmic waves.

You sit for a while, just breathing.

Then you reach pass your collar. Metal is cold against your fingers, smooth from years of handling. You pull out the necklace—its chain tangled from travel, the ring catching faint light from the window.

Your wedding ring.

It still fits around your finger, though you haven’t worn it in years. The gold has dulled, edges rough from weather and time. You turn it between your fingers, feeling the tiny engraving on the inside—J.M. The letters are faint now, nearly worn away.

Since rings were a ripping hazard through gloves, you always ended up leaving your ring in Joel’s hands. Meaning you left it when you escaped.

Years later, you went for it. Maybe to see if someone took it, or if it was possible that time had stopped in that house, just waiting for you to come home.

Half the roof gone, windows shattered. You’d stepped over the debris, heart thudding in your chest, and found the ring sitting in your dresser. Dust-coated. Waiting.

The rest of the house had been silent, save for the groan of wood and wind slipping through the cracks. There’d been blood by the entryway—dark, old. But no bodies. The truck was gone.

That had meant something. You’d clung to that, smiling through the tears back then.

“They made it out,” you’d whispered into your old bedroom. “He got her out. He always does.”

Now, years later, you still hold the ring like it’s proof that somewhere, somehow, they’re still alive.

That Sarah’s grown—thirty-eight now, if you’ve done the math right—maybe with her father’s strength, that same stubborn tilt of her chin.

You smile, just a little. And for that small, fragile moment between exhaustion and faith, you let yourself believe it.

That if you keep walking, keep breathing, fate might finally let your paths cross again.

The wind howls against the window. And then—a noise. Not the wind. Not the shifting of snow. You freeze.

It’s faint, beneath the storm. A crunch of a can, the muted thud of boots.

You snap out of it fast, tucking your necklace back underneath your layers, and you grab your rifle. You move silently, muscle memory taking over. The scarf wanted up, covering your mouth. You sling the rifle over your shoulder, knife in your other hand.

Another sound. Closer this time.

You forced your breathing to be small. Listened. The sound is human—not the ragged rasp of infected but even, purposeful steps. You creep to the door, ease it open a crack. Cold air hits you.

You don’t take chances. You move through the gas station like a ghost.

Shelves cast long black teeth. You navigate by sound: the snap of a plastic wrapper, a muted clink of metal. You pass an aisle and there—under a hanging sign that reads ‘SNACKS’ in flaking red paint—is a person.

She’s young-ish, brown hair dusted with snow. Pale. Focused on canned goods. You watch her for a beat, then you’re beside her; blade at her throat, gloved hand clamping her jaw before she can scream air into the room.

“Don’t make noise,” you whisper, teeth pressed to the syllables. Cold breath fogs between you.

She makes a sound—a sharp intake—but you clamp harder until it’s a single pulse under your fingers. Her green eyes are wide and furious.

You press the tip of the knife, close enough the metal kisses her skin. She doesn’t flinch. “Who are you with?”

Her eyes flick left, then right, then back up to your face. She groans something obscene. You tilt your head.

“Nod if you’re alone.”

Slow, stiff nod. Her gaze keeps sliding. You don’t believe her.

“Walk.”

She huffs and starts shuffling. You edge behind her, blade at the hollow of her throat in case she bolts.

Outside, horses stand tethered to a dented pickup. Two adult-size steeds, their breaths steaming into the night. Packs sewn onto their flanks look new—canvas stitched and mended, not the scavenged mess you usually see.

“Community,” you mutter.

The girl mumbles behind your glove—garbled words, half-swallowed by the wool. You pause, glancing down at her. Her eyes flicker with something sharper than fear. You can’t tell if it’s anger or a plan.

You loosen your hand just enough for her to speak. “You’re making a mistake,” she says, voice low, shaky but not scared. Not really. There’s defiance there. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“That right?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, chin tilting toward the dark. “Because—”

She stops. Eyes dart past you. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But it’s enough. Your instincts snap tight.

You spin, knife still at her throat, snow exploding under your boots. The world narrows to metal and breath and the small, frantic drum in your ribs. A man stands a few yards off. Broad shoulders, an old bandana pulled up over his mouth, thick winter jacket bulking up his frame more that it is; only his eyes are free.

They’re cold. Wild. Protective.

He’s holding a blade too. The wind howls between you.

“I’ll slit her throat before you take a step.” you snarl.

He doesn’t blink.

You circle, keeping the girl as a shield. He mirrors you both of you counting the breaths, looking for the twitch that means fight. Wind keens between the pillars, the horses stamp and throw up more steam.

“Back off, I swear I’ll—”

“I’ll kill you ‘fore you can.” he interrupts, stepping closer. There’s a cadence to the sentence that slips under your skin, some pattern you know but can’t name. Texan accent. Worn by the years, but Texas nonetheless.

Your hands tighten around the girl. Then she jerks—twists. You shove her back against your chest and press the knife harder; she hisses.

“Stop movin’, Ellie!” The man yells.

“Goddammit!”

She spits, and the world completely inverts—just by one word in her next sentence detonating in your chest.

“Kill her already, Joel!”

Joel.

The name stops you cold.

Joel.

It hits like a gunshot under your ribs. Your grip falters—barely, but enough.

Joel.

“...What did you just say?” you whisper.

The girl feels it, the hesitation. She wrenches free. In the same motion, she grabs your scarf and yanks it down. Cold air hits your face.

Then—pain. A hot, sharp slide near your ribs. You stumble back with a strangled noise, clutching your side.

For a second, you don’t feel it. Not really. Your body’s in survival mode, your mind already screaming move, move, move.

Two against one. You’ve been in worse. You’ve survived worse. But still—your pulse hammers so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.

The wind whooshes past your ear. White noise. You can barely hear anything else.

Except the softest call you’ve heard in years. Your name. Spoken like a memory dragged out of the grave.

You haven’t heard it in years. You’d forgotten the shape of it, the way it used to sound. You’d forgotten what it felt like to belong to it.

You look up.

The man’s eyes are on you—wide, unsteady. His chest rises and falls like he’s staring at a ghost. His knife is forgotten, dropped to the snow. You stumble back a step, confused, dizzy. He mirrors it, stepping forward, matching your retreat. One for one.

“Stay back,” you rasp, though your voice cracks halfway through.

He doesn’t. The girl says his name again, a sharp exhale of confusion. “Joel! What are you—?”

No.

No, no, no.

The world tilts. The light from the moon flickers across his face, and in that fractured second, you know. He rips the bandana from his face—

It’s him. Your life. Your love. Your other half. Your soul. Your husband.

Your Joel Miller.

Lines carved deep into his face, gray hair decorated his beautiful brown. His face is more wrinkled than before, his body more wider. But those eyes—same as the day you lost saw him.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Joel…”

The word breaks, splintering halfway out. It sounds nothing like how you used to say it. He takes another step. His voice shakes.

“Darlin’...”

You want to run. To reach for him. To scream in fear. To laugh. You can’t do any of it. You just stand there, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you and the ghost of everything you lost.

Your knees go weak. You can feel pain now—the slow, spreading warmth of something sticky seeping through your coat. You press your hand harder to your side, but it doesn’t stop the tremor.

Joel takes another step.

“Don’t…” you manage, breathless. “Don’t—come any closer.”

You stumble back again, your boots slipping in the snow. The light-headedness hits harder now. The sky spins. You reach out, steadying yourself against the cold metal of the building behind you.

The girl’s hand tightens around her knife. Her voice is shaking now, too. “What are you waiting for?! She’s…she’s—why are you hesitating—”

You sway, vision blurring. Ellie takes another step, as if she’s going to finish the job for Joel, and that’s when you see it—the blade in her hand. Red. Glinting as it drips. Your blood.

“Christ…” you whisper.

You can barely keep your eyes open now. The snow feels softer under your boots than it should. You blink, slow and heavy, your breath coming out in short, white bursts.

Then, you fall.

Joel moves fast. A shadow through the storm. The next thing you feel is his arms wrapping around you, pulling you in. The warmth of him hits like a blow, his chest against yours, his breath shaking against your temple.

You forgot this.

The sound of him breathing, the rough rasp in his throat. The weight of his hand and how they shake when they press against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. His voice breaks through the wind, hoarse, terrified—words you can’t quite catch, just the vibration of them.

Your fingers find his coat, clutching it. It feels real. Too real. You lift your head—barely—and see his face. That face.

The man from your dreams, the one you used to stare at when you couldn’t sleep. The one you buried with your past. The one you thought you’d never touch again.

You try to speak, but it comes out as a shiver.

He presses his hand harder, cursing under his breath. His mouth opens over and over, forming words but you can’t really hear him. The wind eats at his words. You can only see his eyes frantic.

You forgot how soft his eyes could be when he was afraid. Your vision blurs around the edges. His face flickers in and out, the snow dimming into a wash of gray and white.

He yells something over his shoulder—maybe to the girl, maybe to no one. You can’t tell. The world’s shrinking too fast.

Then—his voice, raw, breaking:

“Not ’gain. Not ’gain.”

You blink slowly, trying to focus on his mouth, the way his voice trembles like he’s said this before.

Again?

The thought cuts through the haze for a second. Did he mean you? Did he dream of you, too? See your face in strangers? Hear your voice in the dark like you did his?

The thought makes you smile. You look up at him—just once more—and the sight fills you whole.

Then the light fades. You go limp in his arms.

He calls your name again, but you don’t hear it. The world folds inward—black and quiet.

┈┈・┈┈

The church wasn’t much.

A narrow, sunlit room with peeling paint and crooked pews. The air smelled faintly of wood polish. There was no music—just the soft hum of cicadas outside and the creak of the floorboards under your heels.

It was perfect.

Your mother sat front row, tissues clutched in both hands, whispering something to your father that made him chuckle under his breath. Tommy was beside them, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, trying and failing to keep a squirming little girl in her seat.

“C’mon now, darlin’,” he muttered as Sarah kicked her legs and reached toward the front of the hall. “Your daddy’s a little busy right now, alright? You’ll see him in a minute.”

Sarah let out a squeal that echoed through the church, a bright little sound that made Joel’s shoulders stiffen and then sag.

You laughed under your breath, watching him. His hands were clasped nervously in front of him, the tie around his neck slightly crooked. His hair was damp from sweat, combed back but already falling out of place. There was a flush high on his cheeks.

“I swear I listened when you told me to feed her. She jus’—” He sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She don’t like sittin’ still. Guess that’s my fault.”

“She just wants her daddy,” you said softly.

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, warm and nervous all at once. “Well, can’t say I blame her for that.”

“You always this confident at the altar?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Confidence or stupidity—hard to tell.”

There was a pause. Sarah let out another squeal and Tommy groaned, muttering something about ‘should’ve brought snacks.’ Joel grinned, shaking his head, then looked back at you with that same teasing glint.

“Still time to back out, y’know,” he said. “Ain’t too late to change your mind.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—not like that, darlin’. Jus’... y‘know I’m not exactly prime real estate.”

“Joel Miller…” you said, voice full of mock outrage.

“What?” he said, laughing now. “I’m jus’ bein’ honest!”

You took a step closer, your dress brushing the floor. The minister cleared his throat softly, but neither of you looked away. You reached up, caught his tie in your hand, and tugged him just enough that his eyes widened a little.

“Never,” you whispered.

He blinked, his breath catching. And then you kissed him.

The world went still for a moment. It was just the two of you—your hand fisted in his tie, his palm finding your waist, the rough scrape of his stubble brushing your cheek. He kissed you back, slow at first, then deeper when you smiled against his mouth.

Behind you, your mother and dad sniffled audibly. Tommy muttered something, but there was laughter in his voice.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

And when Joel finally whispered, “For as long as I got breath…”, you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.

┈┈・┈┈

You wake to the sound of wind and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t your own.

Your lashes flutter open. Wooden beams. No patched roof. The air smells faintly of pine and smoke, warm from… a heater? For a moment, you think you’re dreaming. Then a deep ache blooms along your side.

You jolt upright—too fast. The pain punches through you. A strangled noise escapes your throat as you clutch your ribs. Bandages. Tight, clean, freshly changed.

That’s when you hear it again.

You whip your head toward the sound—instinct first, reason later—and shove back against the headboard, teeth bared, ready to fight through the pain if you have to.

“Hey—hey, easy, easy.”

That voice.

Joel’s sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, that same rugged face you’ve seen a hundred times in dreams, weathered now by years and loss. The gray in his beard catches the light. His flannel’s frayed at the cuffs. Sleep wears on his face. He must’ve just woken up.

It’s all impossible. It has to be.

“Joel?”

His mouth parts just slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe wrong. “Yeah, darlin’. It’s me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the world feels warped. His eyes are the same—warm brown, flecked with gold—and that hurts worse than anything else. Because they look real.

For a long, unbearable moment, neither of you move. The room hums around you—wind through the cracked window, the faint thud of boots outside—but all you can hear is your heartbeat and the sound of Joel’s shaky breath.

You shift again, the pain in your side flaring white-hot. A groan slips out before you can stop it. Joel’s expression crumples.

“Stop movin’,” he mutters, half rising, hands twitching uselessly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. “You’ll rip the stitches.”

You swing your legs over the bed, ignoring the protest in your ribs. He flinches like it physically hurts him to see you do it. He stands with you, crossing around the bed to get in front of you.

His jaw works, like he’s trying to find something to say.

But all that comes out is your name.

It roots you to the floor.

You blink hard, throat burning, and when you look up again, his eyes are wet. He tries to blink it away, to look like the same man who used to fix things, who used to steady you.

He says it again. Softer this time.

Your breath stumbles. There’s a tremor in his hand when he finally reaches out.

When his fingers brush your cheek, you flinch— from a strange mix of fear and disbelief. His hand’s rough, warm. He drags his thumb slow across your skin, tracing your jaw, your cheekbone, your nose.

Like a blind man who had just earned his sight back.

For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing—fast, uneven, disbelieving.

And then—

You take a step back. Another. Another.

Distance.

You hit the metal tray behind you, the clatter piercing through the air, and Joel’s brow furrows. “It’s alright,” he says, voice low, coaxing, like you’re some frightened animal.

You shake your head, breath catching. “No—no, it’s not.”

“Darlin’, it’s me—”

“Don’t.” The word rips out of you, sharp and trembling. “Don’t call me that.”

His mouth parts, but nothing comes out. His hand drops uselessly to his side.

You can’t breathe. The air feels too thick, the walls too close. Your body won’t stay still—your fingers twitch, your shoulders jerk. You can hear your pulse in your ears.

He was here. You wanted this. You wished for it, but now that it was here… it was all too much, him standing here, alive.

“I knew you died,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I knew and I still believed—"

“I didn’t,” he interrupts, desperate. “I didn’t die, darlin’. I—”

“Stop!” You press your hands to your temples, nails digging in. “Stop calling me that!”

“You’re shakin’. Lemme me—”

“No!” You stumble back, hand slamming into the cabinet. “You can’t—no—you can’t just—”

Your chest caves. Breath stutters. You can’t fill your lungs, can’t find air. The room tilts, the fluorescent light overhead flickering like a heartbeat gone wrong.

He’s reaching again, trying to catch your shoulders, but the touch only makes it worse. You jerk away, a strangled sound tearing out of you.

And then—

Bang.

The door slams open.

“Joel!” Tommy’s voice, rougher now, deeper, but still that same drawl that once filled your old house with laughter.

You stare at him. He’s got a mustache now. Older, broader. Wrinkles that line the corners of his eyes.

You make a small, broken sound in your throat. It’s too much—the sound of his voice, the sight of Joel, your world cracking open and mending together all at once.

Tommy’s eyes soften when he sees you, but his tone is firm. “Step outside, brother.”

“Hell no,” Joel snaps, stepping in front of you. “My wife’s panickin’, Tommy—”

You twitch at that word—wife—and your breath catches, shuddering.

Tommy lifts a hand. “Out. Now.”

“Tommy—”

“Joel.” His tone hardens. “Get out.”

The two stare each other down, that familiar stubborn silence passing between them. Joel’s chest heaves. His jaw flexes.

Then his eyes flick to you. Just once. And that look—raw, gutted—undoes something in your chest. He goes. But not without a fight in his stance, not without looking like every step toward the door costs him blood.

Tommy stays behind long enough to look at you. His smile’s thin, a shade of what it used to be. “Why don’t you sit down, huh? Maria’s comin’ over real soon. She’ll take care of you.”

You don’t even nod, just stare like those abandoned mannequins in the windows of clothing stores. He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.

Then he leaves. The door shuts behind them with a soft click.

You stand there for a long time, trembling, until the sound of your breathing evens out. The air still smells like alcohol and metal. You press your back to the wall, sliding down until you’re sitting on the cold wooden floorboards.

You don’t cry. You just listen.

Through the crack of the door, their voices filter in—muted, low, but heated.

“You’re overwhelmin’ her, Joel. Can’t you see that?”

Joel’s voice, rough and unsteady, comes right after. “She knows me, Tommy. She—she looked at me. You saw it too. She knows me.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, dry. “Don’t mean she can handle you right now.”

“I ain’t some stranger, dammit! I’m her husband. That’s my wife. You understand? My wife. I thought she was gone. I thought—”

“You thought a lotta things, but that don’t change what’s in front of you. I get it.”

A pause. You imagine Joel’s face—the way he presses his lips together when he’s holding back something too big to say.

Then his voice again, lower. “You didn’t see her eyes, Tommy. I did. She remembered me. She didn’t forget.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“She belongs with me. She should live with me—get used to things ‘gain, get used to me.”

“The hell she should,” Tommy snaps. “That’s the worst idea I’ve heard come outta your mouth, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Why? Why the hell not? Y’think I can jus’—what—leave her sittin’ in some damn corner, pretendin’ like she didn’t spend almost half her life with me?”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches, filled with the sound of boots shifting on wood, wind against the windows.

When he does speak, his voice is steady. “’Cause she’s scared of you, Joel.”

The words land heavy. You can feel the air change on the other side of the door.

“She flinched when you touched her.”

Joel says nothing.

“She damn near stopped breathin’ when you got closer,” Tommy goes on, quieter now. “And not ‘cause she don’t care. It’s ‘cause she’s been out there, alone. Y’know what that does to a person.”

Joel finally mutters something, too low to catch.

Tommy sighs. “Y’think she had folks lookin’ after her all this time? Hell, for all we know, she’s been walkin’ ‘lone for years. One, two, five, ten—Christ, maybe since the whole damn thing started.”

A pause. Then Tommy again, voice soft but heavy.

“She ain’t the same person you lost. And neither are you.”

The words twist deep, where you don’t want them to reach.

Eventually, you hear the floor creak again—Tommy’s boots moving away, Joel’s slower behind him. The sound fades down the hallway, swallowed by the hum of your own thoughts.

You tilt your head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling light until your eyes blur.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

And you don’t know whether to thank God or curse Him.

┈┈・┈┈

To say you’re skittish is an understatement.

Tommy and Maria’s house feels too clean. Too normal. Every sound—every creak, every low murmur from the kitchen—puts your nerves on edge. You keep expecting someone to barge in and tell you to pack your things, that you don’t belong here.

The curtains remain half-shut, and you sleep on top of the blanket instead of under it, because the bed is too soft. The first night, you woke up gasping, the fabric bunched around your throat, the scent of cleanliness sharp enough to make your eyes sting.

Now you avoid it altogether. You sit on the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the wooden nightstand. You run your fingers over the lamp switch. The clock. The drawer handle.

Twenty years ago, these things were nothing. Background. White noise. Now they feel like relics from a life that belonged to someone else.

Beds. Nightstands. Floors that don’t creak from rot.

Hot water. Toothpaste. A door that locks from the inside.

You leave the room only the bathroom, since they bring you your food. Once, Maria knocked to tell you that there had been snow on the Christmas tree they just set up, and it was gorgeous with the lights, and you almost said yes to following her out there.

Almost.

But the second your hand touched the doorknob, something inside you froze. You mumbled an apology and stayed put.

They never complained. Not once.

Maria—she tries. She smiles at you when she offers you fresh bread, tea, small comforts. She has that kind of strength like she’s seen her share of ruin and decided not to let it show. You can see why Tommy married her.

He checks your wound every couple of days, his hands steady, his voice low. “Healin’ good,” he says. “Maria’s been keepin’ the bandages clean. You’re lucky she’s the one runnin’ the place.”

You nod. You never know what to say back.

He talks a lot, though. Tries to fill the silence with something easy. “Jackson’s different,” he tells you. “We got systems. Rules that keep folks fed, safe. We all pitch in.”

You hum under your breath, skeptical. “Sounds like a QZ,” you croak out before you can stop yourself.

Tommy chuckles, but his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows what you mean. “Ain’t no QZ. No FEDRA. No soldiers. Nobody hoardin’ food. We look out for each other here.”

You study him a long time, trying to decide if you believe it. He must see the hesitation in your face, because he adds, quietly,

“I wouldn’t have stayed if it wasn’t what I said.”

He means it. You can tell.

Days pass. A week and a half. You fall into a rhythm, if you can call it that. You wake up, sit on the edge of the bed, watch the light crawl across the floorboards. You listen to the faint laughter that sometimes drifts from the street outside. You eat when someone leaves a plate at your door. You wait until night to move around.

Then one morning, Maria breaks it by knocking softly.

You’re sitting on the bed, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sheets, half-lost in thought.

When she opens the door, her face is lit by that calm, unshakable smile. “Got someone who wants to see you,” she says.

Your stomach tightens. Your hands flex, unflex. “Who?”

Her smile widens, but her eyes study you carefully, gauging every twitch of your face. “A visitor.”

You nod, pushing yourself up. The floor feels uneven under your bare feet. Your heart thuds in your throat. “Alright.”

She waits in the doorway until you follow her. The house smells faintly of coffee and wood polish. You pass the family photos hanging on the wall—Tommy with Maria, and beside them, a small boy with his father’s grin. You pause for half a second, staring.

A son. You hadn’t known.

Your pulse stutters.

Maria’s voice pulls you back. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

Every step down the hallway feels heavier than the last. The closer you get to the living room, the louder your thoughts get. What if it’s Joel? What if he came here, decided he’d had enough of waiting? You can almost hear his voice already—low, stubborn, that Texas gravel tone saying your name.

No. You can’t do that. Not yet.

Maria stops at the doorway, her hand on the frame. She glances back at you, softens her voice. “Don’t worry. She’s kind. Sometimes.”

She.

The breath you were holding spills out, shaky and uneven.

Then you see her.

Sitting on the couch, her elbows on her knees, head down, fiddling with something in her hands—a knife, no, a pocket tool. Her hair’s brown and tamed now, no longer wild from the wind. The anger that once burned in those green eyes is gone.

It takes you a second to place her. That girl from the gas station.

Maria’s voice is light. “Ellie. I brought her.”

Right. Ellie.

She looks up then, blinking at you, and for a moment you both just stare.

Her mouth opens first. “Uh… hey.”

You nod once, your throat too tight for words.

She clears her throat, awkwardly rubbing her palms on her jeans. “You, uh… you probably don’t remember me. I mean, I guess you might. Back at the station, you were kinda…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands, grimacing. “Y’know. Your knife to my throat, my knife in your side, whole thing.”

“I remember.”

“Oh.” She blinks too, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Cool.”

Maria hides a smile, stepping back toward the kitchen. “I’ll let y’all talk.”

You and Ellie both look after her as she leaves, then at each other again.

The silence is prickly. Ellie shifts in her seat, taps her knee a few times, then blows out a slow breath. “I wanna… apologize.”

She says that last word like it’s a grater dragged across her throat.

You raise an eyebrow.

“For—uh—stickin’ you like a pig.”

Your frown comes without effort. “You stabbed me.”

“Yeah. Guess that’s another word for it. My bad.”

You just stare at her.

She scratches at her eyebrow, mutters, “You were sneakin’ around, and I was freaking the hell out, and I just—look, I didn’t know who you were, okay?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, maybe because her discomfort is so naked, maybe because she’s just a kid trying too hard to sound grown, you huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.

“I’ll live,” you say quietly.

She sighs, quick and relieved. “Yeah, looks like it.”

Ellie seems to notice the change in your posture, how you loosen slightly, and leans back a little, studying you in that curious, unfiltered way teenagers do.

“So,” she says, drawing out the word. “You were… married to Joel?”

You stiffen. That one hits bone.

“Okay, too soon.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s—” You pause, gathering your voice back into something flat, neutral. “Yes. We were married.”

“Wow.” She whistles softly. “I mean, huh. You and Joel. That’s—” She stops, shakes her head, smirking. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just. Hard to imagine him married. He kinda strikes me as the lone-wolf-and-whiskey type, y’know?”

“He wasn’t always.”

“Yeah?”

“He liked to dance.”

That makes her laugh—loud, surprised. “Bullshit.”

“He did. Badly.”

She snorts. “Okay, now I gotta see that someday.”

You don’t answer. You just look down at your hands, tracing the small scar near your knuckle. A moment passes. Then she shifts again, like she’s working up the nerve to keep going.

“So… you guys got, uh…” She squints. “What’s the word—divorced? Before the outbreak? You said ‘were married’.”

The question hits you like cold water.

“No,” you say softly. “No, we didn’t.”

“Oh.” She looks at you for a second too long, then nods slowly. “Just been a long time, huh?”

You exhale through your nose. “Yeah. Long time.”

Ellie is easy in a way you’ve forgotten how to be. She swears under her breath, uses her hands when she talks, doesn’t know how to sit still. She reminds you of… you, before the world before it burned down.

You find yourself leaning forward, asking her small things. How long she’s been with Joel. Where she came from. Whether she likes Jackson.

She answers, haltingly at first, then quicker, sharper. You learn she’s got a sense of humor that you enjoy. You understand it.

And then—

Ellie hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the window, then back to you. “You… you must’ve known Sarah, then.”

The name slices through you like wire.

Sarah.

You blink, too slow, too hard.

“Sarah,” you echo, the syllables thick on your tongue. “Of course I do.” You can’t stop the small laugh that breaks out of you—shaky, a little too high. “God, how did I not ask? I didn’t even—she’s grown now, right? Almost forty. Jesus. Does she—does she still paint? Or play soccer? She always had that little pink ball she’d kick around the kitchen—drove Joel crazy, used to leave scuff marks all over the floor—”

You stop. Because Ellie isn’t smiling.

She’s staring at you.

And her whole face has gone still.

“Oh.”

Just that.

And you know.

Instantly.

Your mouth opens, but no words come. The world seems to narrow, sound folding in on itself. You can’t feel your hands. You can’t feel anything.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s barely a sound. “No. Not Sarah.”

Ellie doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just watches you, stricken.

You shake your head, your body already rejecting it, like maybe if you move fast enough, you can outpace the truth. “No, she—she’s just a kid. She is—she—”

You don’t finish. The words choke, collapse.

Something inside you caves in slow motion. The air leaves the room, the floor vanishes. You sink to your knees before you even realize you’ve moved.

You see Sarah’s hair, the way it stuck to her forehead when she ran. Her laugh. The way she used to look at Joel. The way she looked at you. The smell of pancakes on Sunday mornings. Her tiny hand tugging at yours when she wanted to show you something she’d drawn.

Gone. Forever fourteen.

Gone twenty years ago, while you were out there convincing yourself it wasn’t true.

You cover your mouth with both hands. The sound that breaks out of you isn’t human—it’s raw, keening, dragged from the deepest part of you that never healed.

Ellie’s eyes are wide. She moves before she thinks, kneeling beside you, uncertain, awkward. “Hey, hey, I’m—shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

You stumble backward, your legs barely obeying you. The room is too bright, too close. Ellie’s voice is muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. You don’t even hear what she’s saying anymore. You can only hear Sarah. Sarah laughing. Sarah crying. Sarah’s voice calling for you in the dark.

Your throat closes. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.

“She’s gone,” you whisper to no one. “She’s gone. Sarah’s gone.”

Maria appears in front of you, gentle hands hovering but not touching. “Hey—hey, slow down. It’s okay. You’re safe, you hear me?”

You shake your head. “No. No, I—she—” You choke, your chest collapsing under invisible weight. “She’s just a kid. She—she calls me—she calls me mama—”

Maria’s eyes soften, and that’s worse. You can’t bear it. Her pity feels like fire.

You hear Tommy’s boots pounding against the floor, his voice low but urgent. “What happened?”

Ellie’s voice, trembling. “I—I told her about Sarah.”

Maria glances over her shoulder, and Tommy growls. “Christ almighty.” He doesn’t look at you for long—maybe he can’t.

You hear Tommy leave with a string of curses, his boots thumping until he disappeared into the snow.

You press your palms over your face, rocking slightly. The room feels like it’s tilting. Every breath comes in sharp bursts, tearing your lungs.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, voice trembling. “She’s gone, and I didn’t—”

Your breath shudders out of you, and you clutch at the wall like it might hold you up.

Maria glances toward Ellie, and something passes silently between them—understanding, guilt, something like fear. Tommy curses quietly under his breath. “I’ll get him,” he says, and he’s gone before Maria can stop him.

Your voice breaks. You press your hands over your face, curling inward. “I wasn’t there,” you whisper. “I wasn’t there.”

Maria’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then pulls back. She looks helpless.

A sound—heavy boots, the door opening. You don’t have to look up. You know that sound. You could find it in a storm.

Joel’s frozen in the doorway, chest heaving. His eyes land on you. You see the recognition hit him like a hammer.

“Darlin’,” he breathes, his voice hoarse, wrecked.

You shake your head, stepping back.

He doesn’t listen. He never did. In three long strides he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering before settling on your shoulders. His touch is rough, too warm.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—” You push at him weakly. “She’s gone, Joel. She’s gone.”

He pulls you into his chest anyway, his arms tight around you as you struggle. “I know,” he says, his voice low, shaking. “I know, baby, I know.”

You pound your fists against him, but the strength’s gone from your body. “You don’t—”

“I do,” he cuts in, desperate. “I do.”

You stop fighting. His arms hold steady, the kind of hold that used to calm you down. You can feel the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps his face buried in your hair.

“She’s gone,” you whisper, smaller now. “Our girl. She—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He shifts, lifting you the best he can, one arm under your knees, the other at your back. You cling to his shirt on instinct, your body shaking as he carries you down the hallway. You can barely see through the blur of tears.

Joel shoulders the door to your room open and nudges it shut behind him with his boot.

He sets you down gently on the bed, but you push yourself away the moment your feet touch the floor. You back up, hands shaking, your breath sharp and uneven. “Don’t—don’t do that,” you rasp.

He goes quiet. The silence stretches. You can hear the whoosh of snow starting against the window.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “You wanna know what happened?”

You don’t answer, but he tells you anyway.

He talks like a man digging up a grave. His words come in fragments—him and Sarah on the couch, the sirens, the Alders, Tommy’s truck, the soldiers, the gun. His voice falters only once, when he says her name.

“\We were tryin’ to get out. Got stopped by a soldier. They told him—told him to take us down. I was holdin’ her when he fired.” He swallows hard, eyes shining wet. “She was scared. Cryin’. I told her I had her. That I wasn’t gonna let go.”

You stare at him, unmoving. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. “You held her,” you say, the words barely forming. “You—”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t—” His voice breaks, and he turns his head, like looking at you hurts.

You sit on the edge of the bed, shaking. The words echo in your skull, each one heavier than the last. The room feels too small, the air too thick.

You look at him. His hands hang useless at his sides, his face drawn, hollow. You think of all the years he carried that weight alone. How you carried your own.

You reach out.

He hesitates, then closes the distance, kneeling in front of you again. You rest your head against his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp from your tears. His arms come around you, slow and sure.

You cry until you can’t anymore—quietly, your hands fisted in his shirt. He doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t move to fix it.

Now it’s just the two of you again. Broken. Breathing. Holding on because there’s nothing else left to do.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Joel didn’t give Tommy a choice to get you to move in with him.

He showed up the next day, the expression on his face enough to silence any argument before it began. Tommy stood there on the porch trying to say something that wouldn’t get his head bitten off. But when he looked at you—eyes blank, body barely holding itself upright—he just sighed, nodded once, and stepped aside.

The guest bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and dust, and cleaner than it should’ve been—like he’d gone through it himself and made it ready before he even brought you here. You didn’t thank him. You just sat down on the bed and stared at the wall until it blurred.

The first night, you cried so hard you made yourself sick. Joel stayed outside the door the whole time, boots heavy on the wood floor. He didn’t come in.

By the third night, he’d moved a chair into your room and sat there while you slept—if you could call it that.

Every memory twisted just enough to hurt. You’d wake up gasping, and Joel would already be there, and sometimes just murmur, “You’re alright,” though neither of you believed it.

By the end of the first week, he’d stopped pretending to sleep in his own bed. He just curled up at the foot of yours with a blanket and pillow, a quiet shadow. When you woke up sobbing, he was there. When you refused to eat, he was there, pressing a spoon into your mouth, his jaw tight with that quiet patience that looked more like punishment than care.

Never turned away when you cried from shame. Wiped your face clean. Tucked you in. Never said a word about it.

Tonight is like every one of those nights.

It starts before the sun sets. The light through the blinds looks too much like the color of fire, like the burning hospital, and something in your chest just snaps. You curl into yourself, hands gripping the blanket, and Joel’s there in a second, just coming off his patrol.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you might shatter if he breathes too hard. “Hey, now. Look at me.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re somewhere else entirely.

He sits on the edge of the bed, careful, slow. “You’re safe,” he tries again. “You’re right here, darlin’.”

That word—it tears something open in you. You turn your face into the pillow and sob so violently your ribs ache. Joel just sits there. Then he moves closer, kneeling beside the bed, his hands braced on the mattress.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

But it isn’t. It isn’t okay.

Your voice comes out hoarse, like you haven’t spoken in years. “She was scared.”

Joel freezes.

“She was—she was scared, and I wasn’t there.”

He swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“I just know it.”

His jaw flexes, and his breath stutters. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue—but then he just lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, only it’s broken right down the middle.

Joel drags both hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his knuckles go white. “I was supposed to protect her,” he chokes out. “That was my job. My one Goddamn job, and I failed.”

Your breath catches. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his arm.

He doesn’t flinch away.

“She was—she was so little,” you whisper.

He nods, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls too fast. “She was,” he breathes.

Neither of you speak for a while. You can hear the crickets outside. The faint, uneven hitch of his breathing.

When you finally speak, it’s a wish you didn’t plan to say.

“I wish Ellie’s knife killed me.”

Joel’s head snaps up.

“What?”

You meet his eyes—really meet them this time, even through the blur of tears. “That knife,” you say, voice breaking. “When she stabbed me—I didn’t think it then. But now…” Your throat locks. “It should’ve killed me. I can’t… can’t live in a world that took Sarah.”

He stares at you like you just reached into his chest and pulled out something he’d buried. His eyes glisten. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“Don’t say that,” he rasps.

“Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, sharper now, voice cracking under the weight. “Don’t you ever say that. You hear me?”

You flinch. His hand shoots out before he can stop himself, gripping your wrist.

“I can’t lose you too,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I ain’t strong ‘nough for that.”

“You already lost me.”

“No. No, you’re still here. You’re breathin’. You’re here.”

Something inside you caves in. You don’t know which one of you moves first, but suddenly he’s holding you, arms around you tight enough to hurt, his face pressed to your shoulder. His whole body trembles.

You cling back. For the first time since you moved in, you hold him just as tightly.

He leans in until your foreheads touch again, his thumb brushing over the tear tracks on your cheek. There’s no logic in the way he looks at you—just devastation and recognition, like you’re both staring into the same pit and realizing you’ve been standing beside each other the whole time.

He stays that way until the trembling stops, until your breathing evens out, until the room softens around the edges. Then, quietly, he moves to the foot of the bed, to settle in like always.

But this time, when you reach out, your fingers find his sleeve.

He looks up, startled at first, like he’s not sure he felt what he did. Your hand stays there, curled into the fabric, your knuckles white.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He blinks. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t go.”

The words come out small, almost childlike, and you hate how fragile they sound—but they’re true. Every piece of you feels hollow when he’s not near.

Joel’s throat works. He studies you like he’s trying to find the right answer in your face. “You sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, but it’s shaky. He still doesn’t move.

“I mean it,” he says again, voice rough. “You—don’t gotta say things you don’t—”

“I said don’t go.”

That’s all it takes. The bed dips when he sits beside you. You move without thinking—your hand on his shirt, then his chest, then his arm, like you’re checking to make sure he’s real.

He doesn’t stop you. You pull him closer.

He hesitates, every muscle in him tight, like he’s fighting instinct. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before it lands gently at your waist.

You tug him down until he’s lying beside you.

You can hear his heartbeat, feel the heat of him under your fingers. The two of you are stiff at first—two unfamiliar bodies trying to remember something that used to be second nature.

You don’t know what you’re doing. Neither does he.

He exhales against your temple, like he’s afraid the air itself might hurt you. You breathe him in, and it feels like something old and safe and terrifying all at once.

His hand finds yours under the blanket. His thumb moves, back and forth, the smallest stroke. You don’t realize you’re crying once more until he brushes one away with his knuckle.

He whispers something you can’t quite catch. Maybe it’s your name. Maybe it’s hers. You don’t ask. You just trace the rough line of his throat, the scars on his hand, the dip of his collarbone. He does the same, learning you by touch—your shoulder, your hair, the hollow at the base of your throat.

It’s clumsy, reverent, too gentle for how much it hurts.

You both crack there—slow, like spreading a fracture through glass. Thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw, his nose skimming your cheek, your jaw. He tucks you in against his chest. You listen to his heart until it steadies.

And this new ritual continues.

Time folds in on itself—weeks slide past like snowmelt, impossible to hold. You stop counting by days or calendars; you measure life instead by the smallest things.

The sound of boots at the door. The shape of his hand around a hammer, around a map, around the edge of your world.

By late November, you’ve grown familiar to the smell of coffee, sharp and earthy. He always makes two cups, one waiting for you by the sink. You don’t always drink it. Some days you only stand there, palms around the mug, letting the heat soak into your fingers until it cools.

He pretends not to watch. Sits at the table with a stack of repair notes or a half-folded map, eyes flicking up just long enough to catch you breathing. Sometimes you think he’s waiting to see if you’ll join him. You rarely do.

Instead, you spend time washing dishes. Folding blankets. You cook, sometimes—only simple things. Never what Sarah loved. Not the pancakes she’d drown in syrup, not the chicken stew she’d claim was “better than school lunch.” You can’t.

The world outside turns whiter, the light shorter each day. Ellie drifts in and out of the house, mostly keeping to the garage. You learn she’s been staying there. She has her own rhythm—friends, her girlfriend. It’s soft, watching her have something sweet.

Some days, Joel tries to coax you outside. Mentions the farmers’ meetings, the community dinners, the patrol schedules. You always shake your head.

“Maybe next week,” you say

He nods like he already knew. But he keeps asking.

And he keeps bringing things home. A pressed flower. A basket of foods you loved. A novel he found in the old library, the corners worn soft. He never makes a show of it. Just leaves them on the counter.

Sometimes you thank him.

Sometimes you just stare at the gift, fingertips brushing its edge, shock and disbelief running through your system.

Then one morning, the sky pale with early snowlight, you wake up to the house quiet. You move through the rooms on autopilot—bare feet against cold floors, the air sharp in your lungs.

You’re about to shower, something you’ve started looking forward to. You love the feeling of water washing away the ache, if only for a little while.

But when you open the drawer for clothes—nothing. Every shirt, every pair of jeans you’ve gathered from Maria and Tommy over the past few weeks is gone, tangled in the bottom of the basket. Unwashed.

You curse softly under your breath.

Passing through the kitchen, you spot a folded note on the counter. Joel’s handwriting—blocky, uneven.

Went to help at the barn.

Didn’t get to the laundry yet. My bad.

You can borrow whatever of mine you need.

—J.M.

You stare at it for a long time, thumb brushing over the edge of the paper. The thought of him doing your laundry hits you sideways. You can picture it too easily: at the sink, sleeves rolled up, that furrow between his brows.

Your face warms. You forgot he’s been the one washing your clothes. Your shirts. Your jacket. Your jeans.

Your bras.

Your panties.

God, you were married to the man for almost 15 years, yet now you were getting bashful and flushed over the fact that he was touching your underwear. You cursed your mind.

The note ends with a postscript, scribbled small:

Stay warm. Water heater’s touchy again—let it run first.

You let out a quiet, reluctant smile.

You take a shower. The water sputters and steams, hot enough to sting. You stand under it longer than you should, until the mirror fogs and your skin glows.

When you step out, the air bites against your damp hair. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad barefoot to his bedroom. The floorboards creak like they recognize you. The dresser drawers are stiff; they don’t like being opened. You rummage through the top one, the smell hitting you before your fingers even find it—cedar and faint tobacco.

Soft flannel. His.

You pause, thumb running over the collar, the worn edges. You haven’t worn Joel’s clothes in years—a whole lifetime has happened since. But the muscle memory is still there; you remember exactly how the fabric has been mended to shape.

You hesitate anyway.

“Jesus,” you whisper to no one. “You’re ridiculous.”

You slip it on.

The sleeves hang long, brushing your wrists, the fabric rough. It still smells like him, even washed. You close your eyes and breathe, until it almost hurts.

And suddenly you’re back there. In that other life.

The early mornings. The arguments about stupid shit. The way he’d leave his boots by the door and say, “I’ll get ‘em later,” and you’d roll your eyes and pick them up yourself. The nights when he’d come home late, exhausted and half-awake, and still manage to find you in the dark.

You don’t mean to move, but you do—backward, step by step, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. His bed. You fall onto it, the mattress giving beneath you. You press your face deeper into his pillow, chasing that comfort.

“Goddamn you,” you whisper into the cotton.

But what you mean is thank you.

It’s like being wrapped in him. And God, you’re terrified of what it means. Not of him—never of him—but of this. Of the way he lingers in everything.

He lingered on everything. Your soul, your life, your heart. Your body on those cold winter nights, him between your in a way only a lover knows how. Your body as you pinched and stroked you to ecstasy like it was his sole purpose.

Your breath hitches, and your fingers twitch against the fabric. You shouldn’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than this—or so you tell yourself. But your resolve frays like threadbare cloth.

Your hand moves before you can stop it, tentative at first, grazing the hem of his flannel. A shiver runs through you, sharp and electric.

No, you think, biting your lip hard enough to sting. Don’t do this.

But his voice echoes in your mind, soft and teasing, unraveling you.

C’mon, darlin’. Let go for me.

You’re lost in him, in this need whispered against your skin.

Your hand drifts lower, fingertips grazing the skin just above your knee. The touch is feather-light, testing.

You part your thighs, with cool air kissing your slick heat; you’re already drenched. When’s the last time you let yourself feel this? Years, maybe. Survival doesn’t leave room for want.

You slide through your folds, parting them, circling the swollen ache that built so quickly, just off his smell.

Please, Joel. Touch me. I’ve been so cold.

One finger slips inside, then another. The stretch is perfect, but not enough. You curl them, searching, and when you find that spot, your breath stumbles out in a broken moan.

You take me so good, baby. Always have.

You nod against the fabric, and then hastily pull the buttons undone down to your navel, and you push one side aside with trembling fingers.

Your breast spills free—flushed, nipple peaked tight. You cup it, thumb flicking with your nail once, twice, then pinching hard enough to make your breath hitch. The sting shoots straight to your cunt. You roll the nipple between finger and thumb, tugging until your back lifts off the mattress.

You move your head to the side, the collar in front of your nose, and you stay inhaling him while you fuck yourself on your fingers, deep, steady strokes that match the pulse in your ears.

The rhythm turns frantic. Wet sounds fill the small space, obscene and perfect. You add a third finger; the burn is exquisite. You imagine his weight pinning you down, hips snapping, voice rough in your ear.

You want me to come in the pussy I put a ring on?

You come with a muffled cry, body shuddering. Your walls clamp down, thighs trembling. Pleasure crashes in sharp, endless waves, your fingers still buried deep, slick coating your hand and the inside of your thighs.

The world narrows to the pulse of your heartbeat, the ragged rhythm of your gasps. Slowly, the waves ebb, leaving you trembling in their wake. Your hand falls away, slick and heavy, resting against your exposed breast. You don’t move to cover yourself.

The room is quiet again, save for the soft creak of the bedframe beneath your weight and the faint chirping of morning birds.

Your chest heaves, each breath a struggle. Staring at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the cracks as your mind catches up to your body. The pleasure lingers, but it’s drowned by the slow creep of something else.

Guilt, maybe.

You close your eyes, willing the thought away, but it lingers like the scent on the pillow, like your next thought:

You might be falling in love with your husband again.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

He was early.

You spotted him through the restaurant window, standing under the awning with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other rubbing along his jaw. He looked… nervous. The sight did something funny to your stomach, seeing this broad, quiet man fidgeting like a teenager on prom night.

When he caught sight of you walking toward him, he straightened so fast it almost made you laugh. His hand dropped from his face, and a faint, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, that easy southern drawl curling around the word. “You look—uh. Nice.”

You smiled. “You too.”

He was wearing his usual—plaid shirt, denim jacket, jeans—but somehow it worked differently tonight. Maybe it was the effort. The way his hair was combed down, neat but still a little messy near the edges, or the fact that his boots looked like he’d actually wiped them off before coming.

The hostess seated you near the window. The two of you sat across from each other, menus up like shields, both pretending to read while you waited for the other to speak first.

“So,” Joel started after a few moments, clearing his throat. “Uh—”

You looked up. “Uh?”

“I should probably jus’—jus’ say this upfront.”

You set your menu down, a small smile forming. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table once before curling into a fist. “I got a kid,” he blurted. “Her name’s Sarah. She’s one. Almost two.”

He paused, eyes flicking between you and the salt shaker.

“She’s… well, she’s my whole damn world. I jus’ don’t wanna waste anyone’s time pretendin’ otherwise.”

He said it like he was bracing for a hit. His shoulders were stiff, jaw tight. You could tell it wasn’t something he said often—probably something he practiced in his head on the way here.

“You love her.”

He let out a breath, softer than a sigh. “Yeah. More’n I thought I could love anythin’, to be honest. It’s jus’ been me and her since—well, since birth.” His lips twitched, almost a smile. “So that’s kinda my life. I work, I come home, I make sure she eats somethin’ other than pancakes, and I pass out by nine. Not real excitin’.”

You grinned. “You sound like a good dad.”

That stopped him. He blinked, mouth opening like he didn’t quite know what to do with the words. “You ain’t—uh—you’re not scared off?”

“By a good dad?” you teased. “No. I think that’s actually kind of attractive.”

His ears went a little pink. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s a first.”

After that, the tension broke.

You asked him about his work—how long he’d been building houses—and his face lit up when he talked about it. He told you about learning carpentry, working with his brother Tommy. You told him about your job, about the people you worked with, the work politics he’d probably hate.

And then somehow the conversation drifted back to Sarah.

“She’s wild,” Joel said, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Got more attitude than I do. Last week she told Tommy he was ‘too old’ to play hide and seek.”

You laughed, and he grinned wider, encouraged.

“She’s obsessed with dinosaurs right now. Keeps askin’ me if there’s any still walkin’ ‘round Texas. I told her, no, but she says maybe there’s one hidin’ in the Hill Country.”

“She sounds smart.”

“Too damn smart, sometimes.” He took a sip of water, then added in a quieter voice, “Her mama—well. She ain’t ‘round. So I’m jus’ tryin’ to figure it out best I can.”

You didn’t press. You just nodded, the silence that followed soft.

Between courses, you caught him watching you once or twice—quick, flickering glances that he pretended didn’t happen when you met his eyes. He asked if your food was good, made a few jokes about the size of the portions, grumbled when the waiter brought him a fancy small plate that “wouldn’t fill a bird.”

It was nice. Simple.

By the time the check came, you felt lighter. The awkwardness from the start had melted into something easy, something warm. You tried to grab for your wallet, but Joel was faster, already sliding his card onto the tray.

“Joel—”

“Nope.”

“C’mon, at least let me—”

“Darlin’, don’t even try.”

You stared at him, fighting a smile. “Darlin’?”

He froze, caught off guard by his own mouth. “Oh. Uh—slipped out. Sorry.”

You laughed. “Don’t be.”

He looked down at his plate, hiding a grin.

When you stepped outside, the night was cool and damp. Streetlights hummed overhead, and the air smelled like rain waiting to happen. Joel walked beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, close enough that your sleeve brushed his once or twice.

At your front door, he stopped.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “I had a lotta fun tonight. Really did.”

“Me too.”

He shifted, eyes darting between you and the porch light. “If you wanna… maybe—I don’t know—keep goin’. Not tonight, I mean—well, maybe tonight, but not like that—jus’… I mean, if you wanna see me ‘gain.”

You tried, you really did, but the laugh bubbled out anyway again. He went red to the ears.

“Sorry,” you said between breaths. “You’re just—”

“Terrible at this?”

“Adorable,” you corrected.

“Ain’t heard that one ‘fore.”

You stepped closer, your voice quieter. “Then I guess you were overdue.”

And before he could come up with another flustered thing to say, you leaned up and kissed him.

It was gentle, brief, testing. His breath hitched, the soft scratch of his stubble grazing your chin. But then he kissed you back, slow and certain.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling without meaning to.

“You wanna come inside?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He hesitated, mouth curving into something between a grin and a question. “Sarah’s with Tommy.”

You blinked, and shook your head at your mind. “Right. So you should probably—”

“I’ll jus’ pay him more,” he said quickly, like it was the easiest decision in the world.

That made you laugh. “You sure?”

He looked at you, really looked at you, eyes soft and steady. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

You stepped back, opened the door. He followed you in.

The click of the lock behind you sounded louder than it should have. The rain started to fall outside, soft against the windows.

And that, was the start of it all.

┈┈・ ☣・┈┈

Lights wind around the lampposts, glowing gold through the frost, and you swear the whole town smells faintly of cinnamon and pine.

The crowds gathered around the tree—families, couples, kids running around with half-eaten cookies and sticky fingers. The fire pit crackles, throwing warmth into the cold night. You stand beside Tommy, watching Maria up on the platform giving a short speech about community, about making it through another winter together.

Tommy’s got Benji in his arms. The kid’s nodding off, head tucked under his chin, thumb hanging loose from his mouth. His curls are sticking up in every direction.

You lean a little closer, smile softly. “He’s about two minutes from a faceplant.”

Tommy grins, voice low so he doesn’t wake the boy. “Yeah, he’s a fighter though. Ain’t givin’ in easy.”

Benji stirs, blinking up at you with heavy-lidded eyes. You offer your arms without thinking. “Want me to take him?”

Tommy looks between you and the sleepy kid, then chuckles. “Hey, bud, wanna go over to Aunt, huh?”

Aunt. You’re not even sure he realizes he said it until your throat tightens. You just nod, arms open, and Benji reaches for you without hesitation.

He’s warm and smells like sugar. His little hand curls into your jacket as his head droops against your shoulder. You sway a little, rocking him out of habit you thought you’d forgotten.

Tommy watches, something soft flickering in his expression. “You always were good with kids,” he says.

You smile, brushing a curl from Benji’s forehead. “Guess it’s like riding a bike.”

“Yeah,” Tommy murmurs. “One hell of a bike.”

You don’t respond. Your eyes trace the curve of Benji’s lashes, the faint freckles under his eyes. He’s got that same Miller look—those brown eyes, that furrow even when he’s half-asleep. You’ve seen it in Tommy. In Joel. In Sarah.

Your chest tightens. You look away before Tommy can see the wet shine starting in your eyes.

Maria’s speech winds down, her voice softening into a smile. The crowd claps. Maria steps off the platform, her eyes finding Tommy and Benji immediately.

“There’s my boys,” she says, coming over.

She holds her arms out for Benji. He mumbles something sleepy, reaching one hand back toward you before his head falls against Maria’s shoulder.

“Out cold,” she whispers, smiling.

You nod, hands feeling strangely empty once he’s gone.

The music starts again—a few people strumming guitars, someone singing off-key but earnest. Around you, people start exchanging small, wrapped gifts. You’d almost forgotten you brought yours.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the little parcel. “This is for Benji.”

Tommy takes it, grinning as he peels back the paper. Inside is a tiny carved horse, the wood polished smooth, the details careful—each line of the mane precise. You spent weeks finding it, trading with an older man in the workshop who’d carved it by hand.

“Look at this,” Tommy says, awe threading through his voice. “You serious? You got this for him?”

You shrug, a little bashful. “He’s obsessed with the ones you keep in the barn. Figured he needed one he can keep in his pocket.”

Maria smiles, kissing her son’s temple. “He’s gonna love it.”

You hand her two more small bundles—one for each of them. A new leather glove set for Tommy, stitched tight and warm. A scarf for Maria, deep green, softer as anything you’ve felt in years.

Tommy whistles low. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

They glance at each other. That wordless kind of look. Then Maria reaches behind her coat and pulls out a square, neatly wrapped in cloth.

“This one’s from us.”

“You didn’t—”

“Jus’ open it,” he says, voice low.

The paper rustles softly. You fold it back, careful with the corners. Then your breath catches.

It’s a photo.

A real, glossy photo in a simple wooden frame. The edges yellowed with age but the image clear.

You and Joel—both asleep, tangled up on a sunlit porch. His arm draped across your waist. Your head resting against his chest. Sarah’s in the background, hands on her hips, grinning at the camera like she’s in on a secret. And in the far corner, barely visible in the reflection, a familiar shadow—Tommy, holding the camera.

Your throat closes.

You trace the edge of the frame with your thumb. “Tommy… how—”

“After the outbreak,” he says quietly, staring into the fire instead of at you. “First couple years. Went back to Austin. Most of it was gone, but the photo box was still there. Been keepin’ it safe.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears blur the image in your hands. You blink fast, but it doesn’t stop the ache building in your chest.

“I thought they were all gone,” you whisper.

Tommy shrugs, smiling a little.

You step forward and hug him. Tight. Your arms around his shoulders, the photo pressed between you so you don’t drop it. He hesitates, then holds you back just as firmly.

Maria watches with a soft smile, Benji sleeping peacefully against her.

You pull back eventually, eyes red, voice rough. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Tommy’s face is all soft lines. “Go eat. You look like you’ll fall into the fire otherwise.” He grins and gestures toward the Tipsy Bison like he’s offering you heaven on a platter.

It smells like cinnamon and cheap liquor and something toasted that turns your stomach into guilty wanting. You thread through people, keeping the picture safe against your ribs. The crowd moves slow; laughter spills from somewhere, and someone is playing the guitar off-key and everyone loves it anyway.

A man steps in front of you—too close, his breath warm with old-cologne regret. He’s around your age, maybe a decade younger if you squint, wearing a patched jacket and confidence like it’s a badge.

“You lookin’ lonely,” he says, grin crooked. “Mind if I—”

“I’m not,” you say. Your smile is small and final. You tuck the word away and step to the side to keep the crowd moving. You make it to the bar, and order your drink. It comes quickly.

He doesn’t take the hint, following you. “Come on, lighten up. I’ve got a bottle with your name on it.”

“Not interested,” you say, firmer. The drink in your hand clinks. You can feel the edges of the photo under your palm like a talisman.

He laughs like you’re the joke. “Someone’s touchy. You look like you could use a good time.”

“Or maybe you could use a lesson,” you say. “Either way, back off.”

People nearby glance. A woman in a knitted hat gives you a sympathetic look; a boy laughs and points. The man’s jaw tightens. He takes a step closer until his fingers brush your arm.

“Don’t,” you say. Loud enough now. Heads turn.

He bends, leans in. “I said—”

You lift the cup and pour. The liquor arcs, wet and immediate, over his face. His hair plastered flat, his mouth opens in surprise, then anger.

“Jesus—” he spits, hand flying to his face. His laugh is gone. He wipes at his eyes, fury hot and immediate.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap. “Don’t touch any woman who doesn’t want it. Fuck off asshole.”

He glares at you, anger thick enough to taste.

The he moves.

Your body reacts before your brain: the shove, the pressure of a palm against his chest to put distance between you and the hand that hovered too long. Something clamps down on your neck—hard—and cold fingers braided through your hair. Pain flares hot along your scalp as he pulls. Instinct roars, everything narrowing to the shape of the man’s face.

You twist, ready to break his nose, but you doesn’t get the chance.

A blur of motion—then the man’s body jerks sideways. He hits the ground hard, air leaving him in a grunt.

You stumble away from the sudden relief of pressure on your head. You cradle it, and look over your shoulder with harsh breaths.

Joel’s there.

Not the quiet Joel. Not the ‘coffee in the morning’ Joel. Not the Joel who sleeps in your bed, holding you tight. This is something else. A version of him pulled straight out of the man you met at the gas station—feral and unfiltered. His chest heaves once before he moves again, towering over the man.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”

The words tear out of him, raw, louder than the music, louder than the people shouting. And then he’s on him.

Fists. Over and over. Flesh hitting flesh, the sound thick and wet. Someone screams his name.

Joel doesn’t hear. He’s somewhere else: lost to the sound of his own heartbeat, to the cruelty of a world that took too much from him and dared to reach for you.

“Joel!” you shout, pushing through the people trying to pull him off. “Joel, stop!”

He doesn’t.

You grab his shoulder, hard, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket.

That gets him. His fist hangs midair, knuckles split, breath ragged. He turns. His eyes—they’re wild. Like he doesn’t even recognize where he is.

Then he sees you.

The rage drains fast, leaving him pale. His hands fall. He looks down at the man beneath him, half-conscious, face bleeding into the floor. The silence that follows is brutal. Everyone’s staring. No one moves.

Joel’s chest rises and falls, too fast. Then he stands, his hands—bloodied and shaking—on your face.

“Hey. Hey, look at me. You okay?” His voice cracks halfway through, the old, broken edge of it cutting through everything else. His thumbs brush your cheeks, leaving streaks of red. “He hurt you? Tell me if he did.”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. You’re fine. You were fine. You always were.

He growls something at your lack of words, looking around the crowd before tucking you against his side and his hand steady at your back. You can hear the crowd murmuring, whispers darting like fish through water.

Exiting the Tipsy Bison, you spot Tommy’s face through the haze—brows drawn, mouth tight. Maria’s beside him, arms crossed, listening to someone whisper in her ear. Her expression doesn’t change.

You hold your photo tighter. You stare straight ahead, past the people, past the lights.

The fear comes slow.

Maybe Joel did love you once. Maybe he still did. But you can’t stop thinking about what love costs now. What it demands.

He doesn’t speak until you’re well past the town square, the noise fading behind you. The snow crunches under your boots, slow and steady, the kind of silence that feels heavier than shouting.

Then you pull away.

“Stop,” you say.

He does, immediately. Turns to you in the middle of the empty street, breath clouding in the cold. Snow gathers in his beard, catches on his lashes. He looks older like this—softer really, though the blood on his hands hasn’t dried yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “If I scared you. I didn’t mean to. I’m—so sorry, darlin’.”

You shake your head, words shaking with your breath. “No. It’s not that. I just—” You press a hand to your chest. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His brow furrows. “Can’t do what?”

“This,” you say. You motion between you, your voice thin. “You. Me. The way you—look at me like I’m still…” You stop, shaking your head. “Like we’re still the same people.”

He steps closer, hand half-raised, hesitant. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“You scare me, Joel.”

The words hang there, suspended. You can see the way they hit him, like a punch he doesn’t block.

He blinks. “What?”

“You scare me,” you repeat, quieter now. “Not because of what you did. But because you think you owe it to me. Like I’m still yours.”

“You are mine.”

You close your eyes. The snow’s starting to fall harder, catching on your lashes. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

He shakes his head, steps forward again, pleading. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I jus’—he touched you, and I saw red. I couldn’t—hell, I ain’t proud of it, but I’d do it ‘gain if it meant—”

“Joel.” You interrupt, firm. “Just stop.”

He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open like the air left him.

You take a step back. Then another. “You keep saying you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’re still justifying it. You think it’s love, but it’s not. It’s fear. It’s control. You think if you hold on tight enough, you won’t lose me again.”

His chest rises and falls, ragged. “You don’t understand—”

“You were my husband,” you say, your voice shaking now. “You were the best thing I had. And then the world ended, and I lost you. I learned to live without you. To fight. To protect myself. And now—now you’re back, and I don’t know how to breathe with you around, yet at the same time I can’t. You smother me, Joel.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to smother you, I’m tryin’ to keep you alive.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive,” you fire back. “I already did that for twenty years without you.”

He takes a step closer, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to not care ‘bout you. You understand? I don’t know how to turn that off. I’ve already lost everythin’ once, I can’t—”

“But you aren’t my husband anymore.”

He stops cold.

The snow falls thicker now, lazy flakes settling in his hair, catching in his lashes. His breath comes out uneven, fogging the air between you. He looks at you like he’s trying to recognize a face in a dream—one that keeps slipping away every time he blinks.

“No.”

“Joel—”

“No.” He shakes his head hard, eyes wide, something wild behind them. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t do that to me.”

You step forward, voice soft. “Joel, listen to me—”

“You don’t get to just say that like it’s some Goddamn fact. Like it ain’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand down his face, the motion trembling. “Y’think I can jus’ stop bein’ your husband ‘cause the world went to shit?”

You feel your throat close. “That’s not what I—”

“‘Cause I never stopped.” His voice cracks, raw and broken. “Not for one second. Every day, I—” He presses a fist against his chest, like he’s trying to hold something in. “I woke up, and I thought of you. I went to sleep thinkin’ of you. When I saw—when I saw Ellie—I thought, ‘you’d like her,’ because I still—still thought about what you’d like.”

“Joel…”

He’s breathing hard now, his voice shaking. “Y’think I don’t know what I am? What I’ve done? Y’think I don’t hate myself every time I look in the mirror? But I never—” He stops. His jaw clenches, and then, in a shaky motion, he reaches for the zipper of his coat.

“Don’t—stop—”

But he’s already pulling it open, shoving the heavy fabric aside. His fingers dig under his flannel, and when something comes out, something holding on a thin chain.

The moonlight catches it. A dull glint of gold. A wedding band, pressed against his chest like a second heartbeat.

You go still.

Your throat burns, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t wear it for twenty-somethin’ years, carried it ‘round in my pocket,” he says hoarsely. His eyes glisten, fixed on yours. “Couldn’t. Didn’t feel right. But when I found you ‘gain, when I—when I saw you—” His hand trembles as he grips the ring. “I started wearin’ it ‘gain.”

You stare at him, lips parting, chest heaving with too many emotions at once.

“I thought of you every day,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Beat myself bloody over losin’ you and Sarah. Over not savin’ you. And now you stand here and tell me I ain’t your husband.” His voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”

You want to speak. You want to tell him that this isn’t fair. But when you open your mouth, nothing comes out.

Because your hands are already moving.

You reach up, fingers shaking, fumbling at your collar. The chain catches against your skin as you pull it free, and the air leaves your lungs when you pull our your own glint of gold.

Joel’s breath stutters. He takes a half step forward, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he gets too close. His lips part, trembling.

“You… you didn’t have it, when you left. How did you—”

“I couldn’t let it go.”

He makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and suddenly he’s moving.

The distance between you collapses in a heartbeat. His arms are around you before you can breathe, before you can think, and then you’re both crashing together like you’ve been pulled by the same gravity. His mouth finds yours, desperate, broken, and you respond just as fiercely, clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding you upright.

The picture slips from your hand, falling face-down into the snow. You don’t even notice.

You taste salt—tears, his or yours, you can’t tell. His hands are in your hair, on your back, clutching, trembling. Yours are pressed to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your palms, the metal of the ring chain warm against your fingers.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the freezing air.

“Please,” he mutters against your lips, his voice trembling like the rest of him. “Don’t—don’t go.”

“No,” you whisper back, voice rough, almost lost in the wind. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He chokes again, pulling the picture from the snow with shaking hands. His eyes go wide and hollow for a second, taking in what it is, before the sound escapes him—low, guttural, broken.

“C’mon,” he says hoarsely, tugging you toward him. “Let’s go… home.”

“Okay.”

He pulls you in close again as he guides you down the snow-lined street toward home. Rancher Street comes into view, quiet and empty, the glow of porch lights soft against the dark.

Inside, the house smells faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet. You see light spilling from the garage; Ellie’s there.

Joel sets the picture frame down gently on the entry table, reverent almost, before his attention snaps back to you. He steps forward, pressing you harshly against him again. A kiss, long and desperate, his hands clutching at your arms, your shoulders, like he’s relearning your weight against his.

You reach to his side, and he lets out a sharp wince against your lips. He curses softly, half-grunt, half-groan. “Joel—” you start, moving to check, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t care. Keep goin’,” he insists.

He leans in again, brushing against your lips, but you step back, firm. “No. Joel, c’mon. Sit.”

He huffs, muttering, but follows your gesture, settling onto the couch where you point. You rush to the kitchen, retrieving the small medical kit you know is there. When you return, he’s already watching you, breathing a little faster, eyes shadowed with something between exhaustion and longing.

“Take it off,” you instruct softly.

He frowns but complies without argument, peeling off the heavy winter coat, then the flannel, then the shirt beneath. Now bare to the waist, he’s different. The chest beneath your hands is broad, scarred, marked by years you don’t need to ask about. Hair dusts his shoulders and chest. His wedding band glints at the center, catching the firelight.

Your fingers move to the red mark forming along his ribs. You hiss softly, careful, cleaning and pressing gently. He leans into you, eyes closed, letting the quiet comfort of your care anchor him.

“You need to be careful. You aren’t young anymore, can’t heal at the same rate. We can only hope that it just stays a bruise and not something really bad.”

He doesn’t answer with words, just tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. Then, without thinking, his hand brushes a strand of hair back from your face.

You feel it deep in your chest. The brush of his fingers lingers longer than necessary, a gentle weight that makes your pulse catch.

You can tell he’s unsure what to say, and for once, it’s the same for you. Just the storm, the couch, the soft clink of mugs.

Joel’s thumb traces along your jaw, quiet, careful. He’s watching you, and it makes your chest ache.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you finally whisper, voice soft, almost swallowed by the roar of the snow.

You shift closer, letting your forehead rest against his. There’s something in the way he exhales, a tension you’ve both been holding for months, released in the brush of skin to skin.

There’s a beat of silence, and then another. Neither of you moves. The room shrinks until it’s just you, him, and the heat simmering between your bodies.

You finally tilt your head up, catching his eyes.

Both of you know what the other wants. Words aren’t needed in a relationship like yours and Joel’s.

“I… are you sure?” you still check. “It might be too much. And your side might be—”

“Darlin’.”

“Yes?”

He leans up to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Stop talkin’.”

You smile just a fraction. He drags you down to be on the couch with him. Then, slower than you expect compared to before, he lowers his head, lips brushing yours—soft, tentative.

Your body responds instantly. Your hands roam from his back to your chest. He moans softly, lips parting, teeth grazing, tongues brushing, and you taste him like you’d dreamed of for countless nights.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, his grip firm on your waist, his body pressing into yours.

The kiss turns into a tug-of-war, pull and counter-pull, lips and hands claiming, taking, giving in equal measure.

In the midst of it, you find yourself on his lap, heart pounding. It’s been years since you’ve experienced anything like this, and your body recalls only fragments.

Your cheeks flush, and you give him a shy, light peck on the lips.

Joel pauses briefly, pulling back just enough to study your face with concern and intensity. “Hey… are you ‘kay?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m fine,” you reply, slightly breathless, hands resting on his shoulders. “It’s just… been a while.”

His lips curve into a small, crooked smile. “You’re ain’t alone in that.”

Relief washes over you, comforting you like a warm blanket.

Joel’s hands steady your hips, guiding you as you press against him. Your hips move together, a desperate rhythm. The couch creaks faintly beneath you, but neither of you notices.

Your hands slide up to his neck, fingers threading into the hair at his nape, and he lets out a low, shuddering breath. His eyes darken, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, almost to himself, his voice rough with awe. “Look at you.”

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but there’s no room for embarrassment. The rhythm slows, and he leans back and before you can process it, he’s easing you off his lap, guiding you to lie back.

He kneels between your legs, his movements unhurried. His fingers find the hem of your jacket and shirt, and he pauses, looking to you for permission. You nod, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His hands move to your jeans next, unbuttoning them. You lift your hips, helping him slide them off, leaving you in just your panties and bra.

Joel sits back on his heels, his eyes raking over you. He huffs out a breath, a low sound that’s half awe, half restraint. His fingers trace a slow path over the fabric covering your slit, and you both shiver at the contact.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One thing I forgot was how pretty you looked in these. How fuckin’… soft.”

You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and his expression shifts to something almost pleading.

“Touch yourself. Wanna see.”

You hesitate for a moment, but his gaze is patient, urging you on without pressure. Slowly, you slide your fingers down, pulling your panties to the side. You touch yourself, tentative at first, moving through slick, then with more confidence as you feel his eyes on you.

Joel groans, a deep, guttural sound. His hand moves to the front of his jeans, unzipping them but not pulling them down, just enough to let his bulge sit heavy in his boxers. You swallow hard, your eyes flicking to the outline of him, your fingers faltering.

“Keep goin’,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Need somethin’ pretty to watch. My cock… it don’t work the same no more, but you—” He breaks off, his hand palming himself through the fabric. “You’re doin’ so good.”

His words sink into you, warm and safe, fueling the fire. You circle quicker, your fingers finding a rhythm, and Joel’s breath grows uneven.

He shifts, pulling his boxers down just enough to free himself, his soft cock in his hand as he begins to stroke slowly. The sight makes your breath hitch, and you reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. Your skin prickles under his gaze, and a flicker of insecurity creeps in.

“I’m… sorry,” you mumble, eyes dropping. “My body’s not what it used to be.”

Joel’s hand stills, and a low growl rumbles from his chest. “Get that the fuck outta your head,” he says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “I ain’t a catch, darlin’ no more. Look at me—gray hairs, creaky knees. But you? You’re still everythin’.”

You moan softly, emboldened, and slip a finger through your folds, the stretch drawing a shudder through your body. His gaze darkens, his strokes growing firmer as his cock hardens, springing up against his soft belly.

Without warning, Joel leans forward, his hands finding your waist. “C’mere,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him, and promptly bent down to put you over his shoulder with a grunt.

You gasp, your center of gravity thrown off.

“Joel, don’t show off!” you say, swatting at his back.

He chuckles low, and gives your ass a smack as he climbs the stairs. “Don’t matter if I’m sixty or thirty-six, darlin’. I’m makin’ sure you don’t lift a damn finger.”

The world tilts back to normal as he sets you down on his bed with a huff. He steps back, eyes raking over you, then lies back on the bed, his hand brushing his lips as he looks over at you.

“Sit,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

Your cheeks flush, and you hesitate, glancing down at yourself. “I’m… I’m too heavy,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

“’Gain with this? Sit, darlin’. I ain’t askin’.” His hand reaches for yours, and the certainty in his voice pulls you past your hesitation.

You slip your soaked panties off and move to hover over his face, your thighs framing his head, your own gaze drawn to his hardened cock, now fully erect and resting against his stomach. Joel’s hands grip your hips, and with a low growl, he pulls you down, his tongue finding you with familiar skill that makes you gasp.

The heat of his mouth, the way he works you, makes you wetter than you thought possible.

Your eyes drift to his cock, and you lean forward, your breath catching as you take in the sight of him. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the ridges, and Joel groans against you, “Keep touchin’ me.” he mumbles into you, his voice muffled.

You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his tongue. “You’re so good,” you whisper, barely aware of the words spilling out. “Joel, I—”

His hands guide your hips, urging you to move faster, and you comply, grinding harder against his mouth as your hand works him in tandem. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and before you can shy away, you lean forward further, taking him into your mouth, and Joel’s hips buck slightly, a choked groan escaping him.

You hum around him, the vibration drawing another groan from deep in his chest. Pre cum fills your mouth, and you kitten lick at the tip. You can feel Joel’s thighs tense around your head, his groans against your pussy groaning.

The rhythm between you grows frantic, you sucking deep with hollow cheeks, his tongue entering and exiting.

“Joel—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to speak. “I’m close—oh fuck—shit, shit, shit!”

He doesn’t respond with words, but his tongue moves with renewed purpose, pushing you closer to the edge. The tension in your core snaps, and you come undone, a wave of pleasure crashing through you as you cry out, your body trembling against his mouth.

You ride it out, hips moving instinctively, chasing every last pulse of sensation until your breath steadies and you slump forward.

Joel’s hands are gentle now, easing you off him as he shifts beneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your side with a swift, the sudden change making your head spin. You laugh, breathless and a little indignant.

“Joel, you gotta stop manhandling me like that.

He chuckles, his eyes glinting with mischief, his cock pressed flush against your ass. “What, you don’t like it?” he teases, leaning over shoulder, his hand braced on your side. “Thought you’d be used to me by now.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Joel’s gaze locks on yours, and he moves closer, notching himself against your sopping core. This feels different—different to all the touching and kissing and sweet gestures. Like the years apart have carved out a space that only this moment can fill. .

You turn your head, looking over your shoulder, and the sight of him—his weathered face, the gray in his stubble, the liver spots on his face, the unguarded emotion in his eyes—hits you like nothing before. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and your voice trembles as you speak.

“I’ve missed you.”

He groans like you stabbed him.

“...I love you.”

He lets out a sound that’s half pleasure, half pain, and pushes into you slowly, filling you with a tenderness. “I love you too,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, cracking slightly on the words. “Always have. Always fuckin’ will.”

Your lips meet over your shoulder, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but neither of you cares. It’s love, pouring into every messy press of lips, every shared breath.

His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you as he moves, slow and deep, each thrust a reclamation of what you’ve both lost.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, and you feel the tremor in his grip. “Missed you so damn much,” he murmurs, like a secret meant just for you. “Thought I’d never get this ‘gain.”

“Me too,” you whisper, your voice thick with tears. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know if we’d ever—”

“Don’t think all that,” he cuts in softly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

You nod, and let the moment carry you. His movements grow steadier, more purposeful, and you match him, like when things were simpler, when it was just you and him against the world.

His hand slides up your side, resting over your heart, and you feel its frantic beat under his palm, mirroring his own. Eventually, his hand holds your ring, holding so tight your worried it might snap off, but all you can focus on is the pleasure and the cold sting of his own ring against your back.

You feel the tension coiling in your core, and Joel’s movements falter slightly, his own release building. “Your close…” he simply notes, his lips brushing your ear.

“Yes…” you breathe, your voice trembling. “You?”

“Fuck, yeah,” he mutters, a faint chuckle in his voice, but it’s laced with something else. “Together, alright? Stay with me.”

His hand moves to your cheek, turning your face so he can look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes undoes you. You move together, faster now, chasing the edge together.

You cry out, your body trembling as the pleasure overtakes you, and Joel groans, deep and guttural, his grip tightening as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cum fills you warm and sticky.

Your bodies shudder together. You’re both gasping, clinging to each other, the intensity leaving you both raw and exposed.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, staying tangled together, his arms wrapped around you, your fingers still laced with his. The silence is comforting, a space where words aren’t needed.

Joel shifts slightly, his breath still uneven, and reaches for his handkerchief on the nightstand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, his voice soft but steady. He gently wipes the sweat from your skin, his hands careful and deliberate. You lean into his touch, your body relaxing under his care.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into the lines of his face.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “You?”

“I’m good.” His thumb lingers on your cheek, and for a moment, the world feels soft, safe, just the two of you.

His eyes search yours, and then, something sparks behind them.

He sits up with a sudden burst of energy, slipping out of you gently. “Sit with me.” He gestures to the edge of the bed, his voice gentle but insistent. Your dazed, but you still follow him, pulling the covers with you. You wrap yourself and Joel underneath the sheet, pressed flush against each other.

No words are traded, no noise, nothing but feelings.

Joel’s hand moves to the chain around his neck. He tugs it, snapping it free. He holds your gaze, then reaches for your neck. You swallow hard, your heart pounding, but you nod, giving him permission. He tugs, and the chain breaks with a quiet snap, falling away.

He unspools the rings from their respective chains, tossing the broken metal over his shoulder without a second glance. He stares at them, his eyes glistening, and you feel your own throat tighten.

“What are you doing.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Are you going to make me guess?”

Mwah!

“Joel…”

Mwah!

You giggled this time, voice caught somewhere between exasperation and a smile. “Joel.”

Mwah! Mwah!

“Oh my God! You’re gonna ruin my hair!”

He didn’t stop. He kissed you once more—loudly, obnoxiously—right on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you so tight you could barely fight him off.

“Joel, what are you doing with our rings?”

He looks down at them, tracing the gold edge.

Then he began to speak, low and raw.

“I loved you ‘fore everythin’, y’know?”

“I know baby.”

“I loved you in every sunrise I saw without you, every quiet night I spent thinkin’ of you. I loved you through fear, through anger, through losin’ myself trying to find you ‘gain. And I… I still love you. Always have, always will.”

Tears spring to your eyes, and you hide your face against his shoulder.

“I never stopped,” you whisper. “Not once.”

“I know darlin’.”

His hand lifts yours, and together you trade rings—his for yours, yours for his—as a silent acknowledgment of every scar, every loss, every year separated.

“I vow,” he continues, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it, “To keep findin’ you. To stand with you through the shit, through hell. Ain’t ever let you feel alone, not ‘gain. You are my heart, my home, my life.

He swallowed.

“My wife.”

You reach for his hands, steadying them in yours. “And I vow… I vow to love you. To stay by you side, never let something come in between us again. I will walk with you, always.”

You smiled wider than you have in years.

“My husband.”

The rings slip onto fingers that know each other so intimately.

You pull each other close, pressing foreheads together. And then, finally, lips meet—slow, then urgent, sure. A kiss that stitches together all the lost time.

And you knew—this was how it was always meant to be.

Ah yes, tragic lovers. My favorite hehe

Tag list (just for this fic):

@spookychaossuit, @joeldjarin

˚.⋆𓂃𓊝 / / all work and designs are owned and copyrighted by @followyourfleart (©2023-2026). all rights reserved.

[lady-djarin]

actually bawling my eyes out wtf

[littledes1re]

Hi!! I adore your writing❤️❤️ I see ur requests are open so I was wondering if youd be interested in writing something where Joel fucks the attitude out of reader?? Maybe she’s angry and stubborn for some reason and then she feels better afterward.

Bratty

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, slight fluff, slight mean!joel, bratty!reader, dom/sub vibes, possessive!joel, unspecified age gap, pinv, unprotected sex, clit rubbing, slight overstimulation, rough sex, jealous!reader, no outbreak

You'd been stewing for three days.

Three days since you accidentally saw Joel's truck pull into Tommy's driveway at two in the morning. Three days since you then watched some pretty woman with long hair and a laugh loud enough to wake the neighbours, climb out of the passenger seat, while resting her hand on his shoulder like she had the right to touch him. 

Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly. 

The thought made you want to break something.

So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right? 

He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes. 

"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.

Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"

"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?" 

He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down. 

Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."

"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"

Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"

"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."

"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper. 

"It ain't your concern." 

"It is my concern when—" and louder again. 

"Enough." 

He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down. 

Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.

"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."

"Don't you dare—"

"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."

The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.

"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."

The words landed like a bucket of cold water.

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"

You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment. 

"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering. 

"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"

"But you didn't tell me."

"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."

"I'm not a cat." You pouted. 

"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"

Now what.

You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid. 

And still so, so fucking wound up.

"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.

"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.

"I don't know what I am."

"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."

"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."

Suddenly he turned you. 

The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.

"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."

You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days. 

Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent. 

"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.

"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.

"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.

"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."

He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.

Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.

"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."

Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. 

The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.

"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.

"You—Joel—only you—"

"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."

Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him. 

But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.

"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."

He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands. 

Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt. 

"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"

"Please what?"

"Don't stop—need you—"

He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you. 

Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.

"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."

You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you. 

Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely. 

He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you. 

After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.

"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"

You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."

Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."

ME DOING REQUESTS FINALLY???? 🫪🫪

Taglist: @vickie5446 @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @afyreinjuly @shivispunk @kyloispunk @marisemonteiroo @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @blueberryfruittart @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @millersweetheart @wildthyng @armandispunk @chick66i @bratty-spicee @am1a-niigo @hopelessromantic727 @styleslfreak @psclcain @susieqorion24 @rxsemarinusx @jandtmillersgirl @fertilise-me @mitskilover88 @lostboys1987girl @begginforthread @pinkangelglitterdusttt @facethepascal @ddiana111 @twilightblogss @cheeseizts @pedrosgirl03 @swimmingnightcolor @gabfromgreedycity @bartzabel4 @blueflowerstranger @madnessofadaydreamer @sadie6sinks6slut @hopelessromantic727 @miramindlesslywriting

[ashleyfilm]

[lady-djarin]

🫠

[thykingdoncome]

his best girl

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | masterlist | ao3

rabbot x reader, park x reader, shen x reader, ellis x reader, langdon x reader

summary: You're Robby's favorite reward. When his staff earns it, he doesn't hesitate to offer you up. A month is a long time for you and for those around you to go without.

|| smut MDNI 18+, free use kink, cuckholding, a lot goin on in this chapter, overwhelmed!reader, fingering, mentions of spanking, flirting, groping (consensual), the men of the ED are handsssyyy!, lil moment where we might run into some dub con (reader wants but knows she cant have), praise kink, cuck!robby, dom!robby, jack watches, cockwarming, kissing, riding, orgasm denial (yeah, still), m!masturbation, lil glimpse of posessive!jack abbot, non canonical timeline || a/n: lots of different things going on in this chapter. If you start to feel overwhelmed, thats the point :) also, like... im sorry if its terribly edited. plz lmk of any mistakes! wc: 15k sorry I never stfu

A month was a long time.

For the first few weeks you mostly stayed home for your own sanity.

Robby left you to your own devices rather than dragging you through the halls and chaos of the emergency department. And you knew it was for the better this way. Away from temptation, from complicated feelings. You got to focus on him—your connection, and the rebuild.

When he'd come home exhausted and worn from a shift with new grayer hairs and deeper creases carved beside his eyes, you'd greet him with an eagerness that embarrassed you sometimes. He sought you out the same way you did him—needing to be close, needing to clear your minds and just touch and kiss and give. And take.

You felt a little like you were starting to go crazy from the lack of release. Dysregulated, maybe. Because it wasn’t like Robby had stopped touching you altogether. No, he still came home and made you feel wanted. Still kissed you until your thoughts went fuzzy, still got his hands on you whenever he could, still fucked you deep into the mattress just how you liked. But it was everything after that started to get to you—the being brought right up to that heightened edge only to be left there over and over, your body not understanding why it never got to finish.

Even your own thoughts began to betray you. You’d be standing at the sink with your hands in warm dishwater, staring down at a plate you’d already scrubbed clean, thinking about him coming up behind you and bending you over the counter. You’d be folding laundry and suddenly lose the thread of what you were doing, a pair of his boxers in your hands from the dryer, your mind filling in some awful, humiliating little fantasy about getting stuck in there and him finding you, taking advantage of the position. The kind of crazy shit that college boys usually searched on porn sites. And it only made the mess between your legs pulse worse, ache worse, until you were hot and flustered and taking cold showers halfway through the day just to reset yourself.

And still, the line was always in the same place. Every single time you thought Robby might finally give in, might finally give you the relief you begged for, he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d leave you twisted up with frustration, blinking back tears while he held you against his chest and brushed your hair out of your face, telling you it was for your own good.

And you had agreed—at least for the first week.

By the second, you were counting days.

By the third, you were becoming a genuine menace.

The second he walked through the front door, you were on him. You’d hear his keys hit the bowl by the entryway, the sound of his shoes being toed off, and you’d already be making your way across the house. Some evenings he barely got a chance to set down his bag before you were climbing all over him, hands in his hair, mouth on his, pressing yourself against him with no patience left in you at all. Other nights he’d drop onto the couch with an exhausted sigh and find you halfway onto your knees before he’d even gotten comfortable.

And Robby knew. He had to know how crazy it was making you. Some little devil on your shoulder told you he was enjoying it, enjoying you being so insatiable, so needy for him all the time, following him from room to room, touching him whenever he got close enough, getting short with him when he made you wait.

Because that had started happening too. The attitude.

The little huffs of annoyance you'd never made before when he spoke to you, the muttered comments under your breath, the way you’d roll your eyes before you could stop yourself and then freeze because you knew he’d seen it.

He'd taken you over his knee so many times in the past few weeks, your bum was almost always sore. And, of course, it only made you wetter too. His voice would drop into that low, hoarse place it got when he slipped into his natural place with you, telling you to count, telling you to take it, telling you that pretty girls still needed to use their manners. Your face would be buried in the couch cushion, holding back your moans as you did as he said. And even when he'd slide his fingers into your sopping folds when he was done, that part still felt like punishment too. How sensitive you'd become, how needy and desperate it all made you.

Sometimes you wondered if he'd keep the torture going past the one-month mark, if he'd decide he was having entirely too much fun watching you unravel. But you trusted him, and he never played games with that trust. You knew you'd get your release soon.

Because you missed everyone. And he knew you missed them. He'd sometimes be deep inside you, sawing his hips so that his swelling cock kissed your cervix, his lips on your ear, his arms wrapped tight around you and he'd ask who you missed most. Was it Park and his big dick down your throat? Did you miss Langdon's sweet kisses? He knew your favorite things about his residents—about the staff. So he'd pluck at them like strings, asking you questions that made your eyes roll back as he drove his cock in and out of you.

And yes. Yes, you missed all of it. How Frank's kissing alone would turn you into a puddle, his mouth so pillowy and tasting like Red Bull. And Brendon. How sweet he was, how somehow he managed to make you feel cared for and desired at the same time. How there seemed to ve a version of him only reserved for you, one that always knew exactly what you needed to shut your brain off and make the rest of the world disapear for a little while.

You missed Jack too. Though you often shoved that thought far, far away.

But other than the sex, you just missed them. The others, too. Mateo, Shen— who hadn't seen in a while. You missed your friends. Dana, Samira, Trinity and Mel.

Maybe that's what you needed. A night just with friends. A girl's night out.

So you texted them. A group chat made up of residents, interns and med students. Mel, Trinity, Joy, Victoria, Samira, Parker. Even Dana and Emma.

And that's how you ended up here at Space Bar, with a colorful cocktail in your hand and pink and green and purple back lights flooding the bar with music thrumming through the speakers.

"What the hell kinda place have you dragged us to?" Ellis shouted over the music beside you at the bar as she pulled up a stool. When you looked over, her skin reflected the multicolored glow of lights, her pretty almond eyes on you. You watched as she tried to school her expression into something flat and deadpanned, but the twitch of her lips and the amusement in her gaze gave her away.

"Good to see you too, Parker," you teased, knocking your shoulder against hers. "And it's a cocktail lounge. V needs to get a taste for real drinks, not just the shit beers at Bob's on karaoke nights."

To your right, Victoria smiled, rolling those big brown doe eyes at you from beside Joy and Emma.

A handful of them had actually managed to get the night off, all of you packed shoulder to shoulder at the corner of the colorful bar. You listened while stories bounced back and forth about recent impossible patients, insane cases they saw, the attendings giving them shit. Whatever fresh disasters had happened in the weeks you were away from it all.

"Trinnnn—" you groaned when you spotted Santos coming from the door with someone trailing behind her, "I said it was a girl's night!"

She pouted back, throwing her head back onto her neck as she replied, "He's like a lost puppy—follows me everywhere, I swear."

Dennis came walking up, sheepishly standing away from the group, "I can…uh, go home."

"No, no, don't be silly," you said, smiling and grabbing his wrist to tug him closer, "How's Amy and the baby?"

He blushed, a deep red staining his cheeks, "She's good. Theo too."

You saw Trinity roll her eyes beside you as she flagged down the bartender and ordered them drinks.

"So, where's Yoyo tonight?" you asked.

She didn't answer, but shot a look at Dennis, who looked at you a little apologetically and said: "Touchy subject."

"No, no!" Trinity exclaimed, "It's cool! I actually like being her little squeeze toy on lonely nights!"

Her elbows hit the bar with a thunk, and she thanked the bartender for the drinks, handing one to Dennis, and then added when she saw the two of you grimacing at each other: "Please stop with that loooook. It's fine. Really."

It was a little quiet for a moment, awkward, uncertain. You wished you'd never asked.

"So when are you gonna tell us the reason you've been gone for a while?" Ellis asked beside you. You were grateful for a change in subject, but when every set of eyes flit up to your face, it made your skin burn hot.

"I've just been home, hanging out." you explained.

Ellis's brows shot up, a mock frown tugging her lips downwards, "No reason for the absence?"

"I just—I was taking a break."

"From…?"

"From the little reverse harem you got going on with Robby, right?" Trinity asked, the annoyed look long gone, now replaced with a shit eating smirk as she sipped her lime green drink.

You nearly choked on your own beverage, looking at her with wide eyes.

"Guys—" Mel cut in, two hands wrapped around her sprite, "I don't think it's really our business—"

"Wait, you and Robby…?" Emma asked shyly, her mouth open, the pieces of her hair that hung around her face swinging as she looked around the group.

"Duh," Joy said dryly, "Where have you been, Em?"

"Oh my god…" you groaned, your stomach flipping.

"What?" Trinity quipped, "we're all just wondering about your little Twilight love triangle—the Ddward Jacob of it all. Will she, won't she with Abbot…Spill, girl."

You agonized with a long sigh, "Trin…"

"So just guys?" Ellis asked beside you. Your eyes found hers again, a funny look in them as she sipped from her drink.

"So far…yeah…" you muttered, not even trying to discern what that look meant.

"So it's true about you and Langdon?" Mel asked, eyes wide behind her glasses. "I've learned to not listen to the rumor mill but—"

"Wait wait wait—so Robby shares you?" Dennis cut in, big blue farmer boy eyes widening. "With who?"

"I don't know really know if I'm feel comfortable telling you guys—"

"Mateo?" Victoria blurted. Several heads immediately turned toward her.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"V!" Joy laughed, the neon lights of the bar reflecting in her glasses as she shook her head in deep amusement and pity.

The heat in your face climbed straight into your ears, you could only stare into your drink, stirring it around. The bright pink color suddenly looked very unappetizing as your stomach churned.

But then Joy's head stopped shaking, and she was looking at you differently now, as if your silence was answer enough.

"Oh my God," she breathed, eyes widening.

"Okay, wow," Dennis laughed nervously.

"That's a yes." Trinity chuckled. "I mean, I'll admit Mateo does have great hair."

You refused to look any of them in the eyes, your throat tightening up as heat blazed across your face and down your neck.

"Woah, what happened here, Pittlings?" you heard a familiar voice from behind you, a set of hands steadying your shoulders. Dana. You let out a breath you were holding tight in your lungs.

She squeezed once before looking around the group, and when you looked up, you saw her eyebrows climbing higher with every face she passed over.

"Why's everybody look like they're waitin' for sentencing?" she asked. "I leave you's alone for five minutes and suddenly it looks like somebody confessed to a murder."

"Sorry, D. Just trying to get to the bottom of some very interesting dynamics," Trinity said with a smile.

"Oh, I'm sure they're very interesting. And also probably none of your business." she said, eyeing the others.

A few groans went up around the table.

"Mm-hmm." She pointed at them. "The amount of nosy packed into one corner of this bar oughta be studied."

"You'd wanna know too!"

"I absolutely do not," Dana snapped without missing a beat. "I know enough already, more than I need to about all of yous."

That earned a laugh from around the bar, everyone's tension easing a little.

"Now," she said, standing up straighter, "Benji's home with the kids and I get one night out a week. So who wants a shot?"

"I'll go…put some music on the juke box." you said, sliding from your chair in humiliation.

You walked across the bar to the touchscreen jukebox slowly. It wasn't a far walk, but it felt long. You counted every uneven step, the ground feeling like it might as well open up beneath you and let you fall into the earth. You wouldn't mind. You tried to collect yourself with deep breaths, reminding yourself that it wasn't really a secret—what you and Robby were. But still. You didn't expect the subject to be pounced on you like that with your friends, your sex life being mapped out like a differential.

 As you stood in front of the glowing screen, you scrolled aimlessly through the song list, though none of the names really processed as they passed beneath your fingertips. The music still thrummed through the speakers, vibrating up through your toes. You could still hear the group talking and laughing from across the bar, and your hands began to sweat a little, wondering if they were still talking about you or—

"Hey."

You startled, looking up to see Ellis. She leaned up against the bright neon jukebox, the violet and blue lights catching along her cheekbones, her pillowy lips, the heavy hood of her eyes. They looked softer than usual, blurred a little by alcohol, her mouth pulled into a small frown.

"Hi," you replied.

"I'm sorry about… that. I should've known better around Jealous little Javadi."

You shrugged, "It's fine."

"And Santos, too. Girl's got awful bedside manner."

"I said it's fine."

Ellis clicked her tongue and tilted her head, trying to catch your gaze when you looked back at the screen. "Look at me."

You did.

She studied your face for a long moment, and you found yourself doing the same. Her expression tightened slightly as she looked you over. Her big almond eyes moved across your face, lingering here and there before she stepped a little closer.

"I'm sorry." she said again, but with more earnestness. "Dana was right, I was being nosy. I should've minded my business, should've asked in a different way."

She was leaning close enough now that you could smell her perfume, her body wash, or maybe it was just her. Shea butter and coconut, something warm underneath that had you leaning toward her before you even realized you were doing it, trying to place it.

"You're a good girl, you know." she continued, and your stomach gave a strange little twist at the casual way she said the pet name. As if she knew.

"Thanks." you murmured, feeling the heat creep back up your neck. You meant to look away from her, to break whatever spell had pulled between you as she studied you closer, but you just… couldn't. Something was off, and it was making your belly flip a little as the two of you stared at one another.

"So how does it work?" she asked.

"How does what work?"

"You and Robby."

She turned a little so she was leaning in fully, as if creating a wall between you and the rest of the room.

You gnawed at your lip, your fingers absently scrolling through the songs. You tried to focus on the screen again, but your eyes kept drifting back to hers.

"You can tell me," she murmured, her lips parting slightly. "I can keep a secret."

"I know."

Your brain kept lagging a little on how close she'd gotten, on how open her features were as she looked at you. She didn't bother hiding anything, her hair pulled back, her eyes searching yours, her lips a little parted. It had your lungs struggling to catch a full breath.

"Usually, um, the…well, Robby will…"

What was wrong with you? Why couldn't you form a full sentence?

Her lips pulled into a little quirk of a smile, as if she knew why entirely. "What will Robby do, hm?"

You took in a deep breath, "Sometimes he lets me pick, sometimes it's more like… a reward system. For… whoever…"

"Oh?"

You nodded, "Like when…" god, your face was so hot, your thighs pushing together without realizing, "When Frank did the cervical reduction a couple months ago… he um, came to see me after."

Ellis's eyes had gone very heavy now, and you watched how they dropped from your eyes to your mouth. "And?"

"Well, he and I—" you swallowed thickly.

"Oi!" you heard from across the bar.

Both of you sprung back from one another.

Dana was calling from across the bar, both hands raised in the air.

"You two doin' shots or what!?"

The next day, you were fucking tired.

Not physically. Well, okay, maybe physically too. A little hungover and very dehydrated, but mostly tired in the particular way that came from having too many thoughts bouncing around your skull with nowhere to go.

Last night had turned out to be fun, eventually. Once everyone got the memo that you and their attending's sex life was not a topic for public discussion, thanks largely to Dana and Ellis glaring people into submission whenever the conversation started drifting back in that direction. You'd stayed out late, came home tipsier than you'd expected, and fell right into Robby's orbit when you'd returned. He'd been up waiting for you, reading over charts with his readers low on his nose, a mug of coffee gone cold beside him. One look at him and whatever resolve you'd had about going straight to bed had evaporated. It hadn't taken long before he was gathering your hair into his fist while you eagerly worked your lips down his cock.

But this morning, you were just exhausted. Robby had headed to the Pitt for his early start on his bike, the weather a beautiful late-summer cloudless sky. But you just couldn't take any more long days stuck in the house like this.

So you headed for the pool.

Robby didn't live in an HOA community because it was fancy or for the oversized houses. He lived in one for the sheer convenience of it. A clubhouse with a gym, lawnmowers that were on a regular schedule, snow shoveling taken care of. And the poolhouse was beautifully kept, just a short walk down the block past neatly trimmed hedges and identical mailboxes, and you headed there with nothing but a towel, a coverup, and a book tucked beneath your arm. Your sunglasses kept the glare from your eyes as you pushed through the gate and made your way across the concrete deck before dropping onto an empty lounger.

It was quiet for a weekend morning, and you were grateful. For a while, you did absolutely nothing. You stretched out beneath the sun, letting the warmth sink into your skin while you worked your way through a few chapters, occasionally looking up whenever someone splashed into the water or the gate clicked open. Eventually the heat became too much, and you wandered down the concrete steps into the shallow end, sighing as the cool water climbed your ankles, your calves, your thighs. You floated around for a bit without much purpose, letting your thoughts drift peacefully in and out of your head, the cold water soothing.

By the time you climbed back out, your hair damp around your shoulders, you felt marginally more human.

While you sat up and lathered on more sunscreen, you saw a family enjoying the pool on other side, a woman in the water with her children while a man lay stretched out on a lounger nearby.

Looking at you.

You stared back, recognizing him, your stomach doing a little excited jump.

You smiled to yourself, snapping the bottle of your lotion closed and standing up. You didn't bother with the cover up, or the towel.

"Good morning, John," you said as you approached, stepping beneath the shade of his umbrella.

He looked up at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes full of mirth.

"Hey, hot stuff."

You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. John Shen and his family lived in the same community as Robby, just a few streets down. A friendly face you didn't get to see often, but it was always a treat when you did. Shen had a way about him that made people instantly comfortable. Cool without trying to be, calm to the point that some people thought he cared about absolutely nothing. Somehow, he never seemed stressed, even at work. While everyone else in the ED ran themselves ragged, Shen drifted through the day with an easy smile and a shrug. And an iced coffee.

Shen held out his hand, and you stepped in a little closer. His palm settled against the sensitive skin on back of your calf, the contact making your blood surge a little.

"Did you come from the hospital? Or did you have off?" you asked, hyper aware of how his fingers caressed your skin.

He nodded, "Came from work just a couple hours ago, figured I'd come down and enjoy the nice day while they last. Swear I can feel the chill of autumn creeping in."

"Don't tease me." you said, "I, for one, can't wait."

"Of course you can't, crazy woman." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth while his hand ran up, cupping behind your knee. "You always say that, then spend all winter complaining you're cold."

You laughed, shaking your head. Your gaze landed on his wife and children in the pool.

"How's Gwen?" you asked.

 All three of them were splashing around together, their laughter carrying across the water. She glanced over, spotted you standing with her husband, and immediately smiled before lifting a hand. Shen and his wife had an interesting relationship, one that allowed both of them to have their cake and eat it too, so to speak. He told you the first time he'd come into the exam room that his wife didn't mind if he occasionally saw you while he worked, and he didn't mind if she had her own time with one of the other dermatologists at her practice.

You waved back. When you looked down again, Shen's hand had found its way to the back of your thigh.

"We're good," he said. "Kids look like they're trying to drown her, but she's good."

You smiled down at him wider.

"Where've you been?" he asked then, looking up at you.

"Home, mostly." you said, your teeth digging into your bottom lip.

"Mm." he hummed, thumb brushing against the top of your thigh, close to the crease of your leg. "Robby said you're taking a break."

The thought of Robby apparently discussing your month long restrictions with the rest of the residents and attendings sent a strange little flutter through your stomach. Despite how ridiculous, your thighs pressed together automatically.

A smile appeared on Shen's face almost immediately as he glanced down between your legs, noticing the shift. His hand slid up higher, until it just brushed the hem of your bathing suit. "Miss you, it's been a while."

Your hand suddenly shot out, having to grip his bare shoulder to hold yourself up as his hand slid up to cup your bum, the tips of his fingers sliding just under the damp fabric of your suit. He squeezed the sensitive flesh in his hand, making you gasp and your knees wobble.

"Do you miss me, hot stuff?"

You nodded, pressing your lips together firmly.

"Cat got your tongue, huh?" he teased, his fingers pressing a little firmer. He had such a nice smile, charming and coy as he felt you up. He barely reacted to how sensitive you were to his wandering hand, but when your eyes dropped to his lap, you saw exactly how he felt. His swim trunks had gone noticeably tighter, a bulge stretching the fabric that made your mouth water.

"Y-yes," you managed, trying very, very hard not to let out the moan that threatened to escape when he slid his prodding fingers along the seam of your lower lips. "Miss y-you too."

"I'm sure you do," he cooed. "Can feel just how bad."

Your fingers dug into his shoulder harder, your teeth latched into your bottom lip as you let your eyes close a little when his middle finger pushed just so at your entrance.

"Too bad you're grounded. I can think of so many fun things we could be doing right now, hot stuff."and then his smile brightened in wattage, and he was pulling his hand away. "S'just a shame, isn't it?"

"Johnnnnn," you whined, stamping your foot before playfully smacking his shoulder. "You tease—"

He chuckled at that, bringing his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean as his shoulders shook, already glancing back down at the paperwork in his hands.

"As tempting as you are, hot stuff, I'm not trying to get my ass kicked by Robinavitch. Now go be a good girl and say hi to Gwen."

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself as you turned and headed toward the pool. You heard his voice call out behind you:

"Hate to see you go, love to watch you—"

You crouched by the water, scooping up a handful and splashing it directly at him.

Robby: have to stay long. do you want to come in

The text from Robby had your stomach tightening immediately as you read it from your spot on the lounge chair a little while later, both of Shen's kids planted beside you and chatting your ear off about their summer holiday plans for Disney World. You nodded along dutifully as they argued over which park was best, but your attention snagged on the screen in your hand the second his name appeared.

You: im at the pool right now

A speech bubble appeared and disappeared while you waited, your toes curling against the warm plastic fabric stretched across the chair. You tried to focus on what Mia was telling you about Epcot, but your attention was already wandering. It always did when it came to Robby.

Then, another text from Robby: leave the suit on. come in.

"I'm sorry, you guys, I gotta go," you said, pushing yourself upright.

Both kids immediately started protesting while you laughed and bent down to hug them goodbye.

"Seriously, John, if you ever need a sitter." you said as you stretched your arms around him.

"Careful," Shen called after you as you turned to embrace his wife. "You keep saying that and we're actually gonna start taking you up on it."

Both he and his wife thanked you and hugged you goodbye, and a few minutes later you were gathering up your things and heading out.You didn’t even bother going back home or changing, knowing full well Robby loved you in your little skimpy swim suits and cover ups—sometimes more than a lacy lingerie set.

An hour later, you were walking into the ED, the AC blasting hard enough to raise goosebumps along your arms. You rubbed your hands over them as you crossed through the entrance, waving hello to Lupe at the desk. She buzzed you through without issue, and you tossed quick greetings toward Ahmad and Mike as you passed.

In the chaos of the emergency department, something felt off immediately. Though, it seemed to be dying down. Voices carried in as they shouted over one another, people burst in and out of doors while the phone rang. Monitors chirped, ranging from steady and level to chaotic fits of panic. You caught a glimpse of Samira disappearing into a trauma room with Langdon behind her with Mel and Whitaker on their heels.

Dana intercepted you before you made it halfway to the charge station.

"Hey, angel. I'm sorry. Did Robby call you in?" She hooked an arm around you and immediately started steering you toward the back hall. "As happy I am to see you, it's a bit of a mess right now."

"What happened? Is everyone okay?"

"Incident at Kennywood. Rollercoaster."

"Oh, god."

Dana grimaced while squeezing your shoulder. "Yeah."

As she turned you down a hall, she added: ""Listen, I'll stick you in a room for now. Things are settlin' down, but it could still be a while before he gets free."

"Yeah, yeah of course, D." you said.

You'd barely made it around the charge station before somebody called Dana's name from across the department.

"Shit."

"Go," you said immediately. "I'm good. I'll find my way."

"North five, angel." Dana said, pointing your way ahead. You nodded, and started walking.

Every room seem occupied the further back you went, stretchers lining the walls and IV poles clustered near doorways. It wasn't as bad as some disasters you'd heard of—Pitt Fest for one—but still. It looked rushed, blood still on the floor of an empty trauma bay. Every room seemed to hold a different injury. Teenagers with broken bones and lacerations. Parents hovering anxiously beside hospital beds. A little girl clutching a stuffed rabbit while a nurse wrapped gauze around her arm.

The emergency department always had a strange feeling to it. Grief and relief lived side by side here. In one room somebody cried. In the next, a family laughed so hard you could hear it through the curtain. It made your chest ache a little harder the further you got.

"Hey, you."

You turned at the breathless voice and found Langdon hurrying toward you, already tearing off the disposable surgical cover he'd thrown on for trauma.

"Hey. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah—" He ran a hand through his hair before letting out a tired breath. "Well, no, actually, not really. But it will be."

"That's good." you said, and you were surprised to see him still following you as you kept walking. "Frank, go check on your patients, I'm good—"

"You know, I missed seeing you around here, baby."

The words stopped you—the pet name specifically had your tummy twisting a little—and Langdon guided you toward an empty strip of wall tucked away from the main traffic of the department, just enough privacy to steal a conversation.

"Don't tell me you've been neglecting your patients over a withheld reward again, Frankie."

His dimple appeared first, deepening into one cheek before the rest of the smile caught up, still a little breathless, shaking his head down at you. "No, never."

You smiled back up at him. It felt almost normal again, like it hadn't been over three weeks of you being kept away.

"Robby said you uh…"

"Yeah." you murmured, your smile slipping.

"Takin' a break from all of us then?" he asked, something amused in his pretty blue eyes.

"Just for now." you said, a little teasing lilt in your voice. "Don't worry, I'll be back soon."

"You're back now." he said, tilting his head down at you. "Does that mean…?"

You shook your head.

"Okay," he said easily, with a sort of half nod, his eyes never leaving yours. "Okay, I'll back off then. Good to see you though, baby."

Something in your chest pinched. Maybe it was because you'd spent the last month mostly at home. Maybe it was because seeing everyone again had reminded you how much of your life existed inside these walls. Or maybe you just really had missed him. Whatever the reason, you didn't let him get far before you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his middle.

"Miss you too, Frankie." you murmured into him, "always."

His arms settled around your shoulders almost immediately, pulling you in while his cheek pressed lightly against the top of your head. You felt the vibration of a chuckle thrum through him before he was gently pushing you away, "Careful, I'll start thinking you have favorites."

"Maybe I do." you grinned up at him, your eyes a little hazier than before, your skin warmer as you felt his long, lean body against yours. God, you really did miss him. The flirty, the easy affection. This was all familiar to slip back into with him.

"Don't make me want to kiss you," he murmured, squeezing you against him again. "I could get in big trouble."

A laugh threatened at the back of your throat. "Yes you could," you said softly.

You stood there with your neck craned back, looking up at him beneath hooded eyes while his blue gaze wandered across your face. His dimple deepened when he smiled. He looked exhausted. Hair slightly disheveled, scrubs wrinkled. There was dried blood on one sleeve he'd probably forgotten about hours ago. Still so pretty. So Frank.

For one second, you thought he might actually give in as his head bent down lower, his eyes dropping to your waiting mouth. But then—

"Langdon! We need you in trauma two!" Perlah shouted down the hall. Langdon glanced up, blinking back to reality, and slowly let you go.

 "I'll see you around, baby. Be good!" he called as he started backing away.

"Bye," you murmured. You lifted a hand in a lazy wave, watching him disappear down the hallway long after he'd stopped looking back.

You felt a little thrown off course from your run in with him, your blood taking a moment to run smoothly, your heart settling. The cool air that rushed into your chest made your chest squeeze, your nipples under the thin bathing suit harden. You inhaled deeply but found it hard to catch a full breath. Fuck, you were screwed if you didn't find an empty room.

Finally, you turned on your heel, north five back in your sights.

But then—

"Bunny?"

You looked to your right and found Brendon Park stepping off the elevator.

Tall was almost an inadequate word for him. Even from halfway across the hallway, he seemed to take up space effortlessly, broad shoulders filling the opening as the elevator doors slid open. The second he spotted you, his attention locked on completely. His gaze swept over you from head to toe, taking in the swimsuit cover-up, the sandals, the just dried hair, and whatever conclusion he reached made something tense in his face.

His long strides carried him toward you quickly.

"Hey—" you started, and he was bending down before you could say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

"How are you? What're you doing here? Were you at the theme park?"

"What?" you asked, still trying to catch up with the speed of the interaction before glancing down at yourself. Right. You could almost look like you came from a theme park. "Oh. No, no— I'm okay. I just came from home."

The relief that crossed his face was immediate, his shoulders dropping slightly, some tension leaving him as he glanced around the department. He sent a glare to a passing doctor you didn't recognize before turning his attention right back to you.

He stepped forward into you.

You stepped back.

His brow furrowed slightly, concern still written all over his face as he looked you over again, checking for something you'd somehow forgotten to mention. The movement felt almost unconscious on both your parts. Brendon kept drifting closer, drawn in by equal parts worry and affection, and you kept retreating beneath the weight of that honed gaze, your brain already struggling to keep up.

He did it again, and again, until your hips pressed into the sharp edge of a table, a little gasp coming from your mouth as he loomed over you closer still.

“Brendon—” you said, and as he leaned down again to try to catch your lips again, you turned quickly so your back was to his chest instead. It didn’t help. If anything, it only made you more aware of how much space he took up, the broad width of him filling in behind you, his shoulders so expansive they cut off the hallway on either side. He'd always been big, big enough to overwhelm, but usually it was so easy to forget because he was so careful with you. His touch was gentle, his voice gentler. Today though—he felt too big for his own good. All that focus of his predatory stare had your heart in your throat. Maybe because you knew how easily you'd give in. It had been so long, after all.

With your back turned, hips pressing into the empty desk, you closed your eyes. The wood edge dug into your skin as he crowded closer. You shivered when you felt his strong nose brush through your hair as he bent his head, tracing slow along your neck and around the shell of your ear, inhaling.

"What's goin' on with you, bunny?" he murmured. "You're trembling."

You gasped when his lips pressed against the tender skin behind your ear, your back arching before you even realized it. Heat pooled hard, throbbing painfully between your legs, your thighs tightening together for some kind of relief while you gnawed at your bottom lip hard enough to hurt.

"N-nothing's wrong," you tried to say, but it came out thin and desperate. "I—we—I can't umm…"

It was too much, too overwhelming. Too many people touching you when you weren't allowed to do anything about it.

"Can't what, bunny?" he said softly, voice so low it sent heat down your spine, his nose tracing the shell of your ear now. "Can't just talk, hm?"

You shook your head a little. His mouth started trailing down your neck, making goosebumps rise over your skin, your nipples beneath your bathing suit top pebbling even harder and your knees wobbling.

"But I've missed you, bunny."

The words went straight in your stomach, heat coiling, core fluttering. You sighed shakily, and then he stepped even closer, and you felt him—hard beneath his cotton scrubs, pressing into the curve of your lower back.

"Oh, fuck," you whispered. "Brendon, I really can't—"

"You don't have to do anything, Bunny," he whispered back, though his kisses had already turned hungrier, firmer against your skin as they went down your neck onto your shoulder. "How've you been, hm?"

"Mmm... I've been... okay..." Your thoughts were starting to slide apart, softening so quickly you couldn't quite hold onto them.

"You smell so good," he muttered, completely ignoring your answer. "Smell a little like desperation. Robby been takin' care of you, sweet girl? Been so long since I've seen you."

Your breath stuttered. "I've been..." You forced yourself to inhale deep, trying to get oxygen back into your brain while he pressed his hips slowly against you from behind. The pressure made your core ache harder. You caught yourself trying to lean away from him just to think straight. "I've been grounded."

You felt the sharp burst of breath against your neck, almost a laugh.

"Grounded, huh?" His teeth scraped lightly against the crest of your shoulder. "What's that like?"

Your face burned. You wondered if Robby hadn't told him, or if he was just pushing all the right buttons. "No, um..." You swallowed hard. "I'm not allowed to… finish. Or be shared."

Brendon went still for half a second.

Then, finally understanding, he leaned harder into you with a low growl that sounded punched out of him.

"Is that right?" he said, and you could tell his teeth were bared, shark-like, before you even spared a glance over your shoulder. "Robby doesn't want his best girl feelin' good anymore?"

"No, it's not—not that—"

Your words broke apart when his hands slid around your hips. Big hands—warm and heavy. His fingers rubbed slowly into your skin just above the waistband of your shorts and it felt so good your stomach tightened painfully around it. You could already feel how wet you'd gotten, slick heat pooling fast between your thighs, you could've sworn you felt it starting to run down your leg.

His hands didn’t stay still for long, and fuck, they felt so good. Your mouth opened in a quiet gasp when they dragged up your front, over your stomach, beneath the loose fabric of your cover-up, his palms broad enough to make you feel held and handled at the same time. He slipped a hand of them under one the little flimsy triangles that covered your breasts, and your lungs caught. His own breath was heavy in your ear, hot and uneven against your skin, the outline of his cock pressing insistent against your back while his fingers wandered and squeezed at you.

You could hardly keep up with your mind or your body,

Your thoughts catching on how you were not supposed to be doing this, on the rules, on the fact that this was Brendon Park with his hands under your clothes, while your body arched back into him anyway, little gasps and whimpers slipping out before you could swallow them. Because it had been so long. Because it had been torturous, missing these big hands on you, missing the thick heat of him pressing into you, the way he touched you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks.

And then, his hands continued their wandering back down your stomach. And then, to your horror and complete and utter pleasure, one of his hands slipped beneath the elastic of your waistband.

"Brendon—"

"Let me check on you, bunny," he whispered, breath heavier now. "Just wanna make sure you're okay. I've missed you."

His palm slid lower beneath the lining of your bathing suit until it settled heavy against your pubic bone, and then his fingers, thick and rough with callouses, dipped carefully into the soaked seam between your legs.

"Fuckkkkk," he exhaled, like the word got dragged right out of his chest with a moan.

Your hands flew to the desk, palms flattening against scattered papers while your head dropped forward in defeat. You were grateful no one was passing by behind you, that the hallway somehow had been deserted the past few minutes. You didn't want to imagine what this looked like.

"Oh my god," you whimpered.

He was barely touching you. And yet, just the pads of two fingers circling slow through the slickness of your folds and the teasing around your clit was enough to make your brain turn to mush and your legs so weak so you could hardly stay standing.

"You're so wet I bet my cock would slide right in this pussy," he muttered, voice strained and wrecked despite the filth of his words, his hips dragging against your lower back harder in a grinding motion.

Park's fingers slid further, cupping your wet mound and prodding your entrance, his palm creating pressure for your clit, and the sharp pulse of pleasure nearly made you cry out. You had to bite into your lip hard to keep yourself from moaning at the contact, the constant ache you'd been left with cracked apart into sparks that shot all the way up your spine.

"Oh god, Brendon—"

You spread your legs obediently when his knee nudged between them.

"You don't have tell Robby, baby," he breathed against your neck. "Let me take care of you."

But hearing Robby's name again snapped through the haze hard enough to make your stomach twist.

 You stood upright so fast you felt dizzy from it. You grabbed Brendon's wrist and pulled his hand from your shorts, turning around to face him with your chest heaving. Despite how equally desperate he had seemed, he pulled away easily at your insistence.

"Brendon," you started, struggling to catch your breath, "I can't, I'm sorry."

He stared down at you, eyes blown dark with arousal, chest rising hard beneath the fabric stretched over his shoulders. You could still feel his thick length in the tent of his scrubs against your belly, could still see his mouth swollen from kissing at your skin. You held onto his thick hand for a moment in between the two of you to stop him. It glistened with arousal along his two fingers.

And just when you opened your mouth to explain, you heard a voice from the end of the hallway.

"Well, hello."

You turned, and your stomach nearly fell to the floor.

Black t-shirt stretched across heavy muscle. Graying curls mussed at the front. Narrowed hazel eyes fixed on Park, his jaw set so hard beneath the shadow of stubble his muscle twitched.

"Abbot." Brendon said curtly, not moving from where he stood with his chest up against yours, his eyes honed in like a predator's.

Jack walked forward, until he was only a couple paces from you. His gaze bounced around your face, then up to Brendon's. There was a faint curve to his mouth, something cheeky and almost amused, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"All okay, sweetheart?" Jack asked when his eyes found you again.

You nodded, suddenly very aware of how close Park was, of warm skin, his heart hammering in his chest up against yours. The way neither of your bodies hadn’t quite calmed down. You could only imagine what this looked like—your mouth parted and heaving, Park's chest pressed up against you.

 "I was gonna grab coffee from Dunkin'." Jack said, "You wanna come?'

You looked between him and Brendon then, uncertain.

"We were having a discussion, Abbot." Brendon then said sternly.

Jack smiled, a charming dimple creasing one of his cheeks, though there was still something in his gaze—something intense and sharp that you'd never seen before. "And I'm sure it was very enlightening."

There was a stiffness to the both of them now, even as Jack shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands in his cargo pockets. The way Brendon wouldn't move, the way Jack's smile twitched when he looked between the two of you.

"C'mon, sweetheart," Jack offered, pulling one hand from his pocket and beckoning you.

Park's arm immediately slid around your middle, pulling you against him even harder. You looked up at him, suddenly the intensity of his nickname rang true— he looked scary, serious, his face darkening as he looked over at the attending.

"She's fine, Abbot, we were just talking."

When you glanced at Jack, all amusement fell from his face.

"Brendon," you murmured, sighing and looking back up at him.

You lifted your hands up into his chest, sliding them up until your fingers gently pressed into his face, turning it towards you. You saw him soften immediately as his eyes landed back on you.

You rose up onto your toes and kissed him softly on the mouth. You could feel his arm tighten even more against you as he breathed you in, his shoulders dropping. When you finally drew back, his mouth followed yours until you fell back onto your heels.

"Not today, okay?" you murmured, wiping some of the chap stick from his top lip, "I need to sort a few things out first. But I promise, you'll be the first to know when things are back to normal."

He sighed, and threw a mean glare at Jack once more before loosening his grip, though his hands stayed on you, guiding you down.

And finally, when he turned away, it was not without lingering his hands on you for as long as possible—his hands slid down your arms, holding the tips of your fingers as he said, "See you around, Bunny. Be good."

You smiled as you watched him go.

And then, turning around with a long exhale, you looked at Jack.

You'd never seen him look like that before.

There was no smile waiting for you or easy charm, no teasing remark halfway from his mouth. Instead, his brows were set low over his eyes, his jaw still tight like he was close to cracking a molar. He stared down the hall where Park had vanished, his gaze fixed on the empty stretch of tile and fluorescent light with an expression you'd never seen on his face. Mean. You didn't think you'd ever seen Jack Abbot look mean before.

"Jack?"

He shook his head and inhaled sharply, gnawing at the inside of his lip like he was trying to stop himself from saying something he knew he shouldn't. When his eyes landed on you, you watched them travel over your face, down your form, and back up again before he jerked his head toward the main ED.

"C'mon."

When you reached him, his hand settled lightly against your back, guiding you a few steps away from the flow of people moving through the department, toward the wall where a computer on wheels sat parked with its screen dimmed and a Esme was organizing a linen cart.

"I—um—I'm supposed to go meet Robby."

Jack paused. He looked down at you for a second, and suddenly you were far too aware of how close he was standing, of the heat of him even through scrubs, of how the space between you wasn’t really space at all. God. You hated this. You hated how seeing him still did this to you, how your heart immediately started acting up, how three weeks apparently hadn’t been enough time for your mind or your body to understand what you'd done was wrong. That you shouldn't want it again.

"Robby's in a trauma," he said.

"Yeah, I'm..." You swallowed. "I'm gonna go wait for him in North Five."

"Okay."

"Okay..."

You started to turn away.

The whole interaction felt wrong. Just wrong. Three weeks ago you'd been tangled up in each other in a way neither of you had planned for, and now it felt like neither of you knew what to say, how to say it. How to be in each other's presence and not think about it.

"Hey."

You’d only gotten an arm’s length away before it stopped you, and when you turned back, he was still standing exactly where you’d left him, his shoulders squared, his jaw set. He let out a slow breath through his nose and took a few steps closer, one hand settling on his hip while he looked you over.

"Are you okay?"

"Are you?" you asked, your voice maybe a little too defensive.

His head tipped back slightly, eyes never leaving your face. You worried for a moment that he'd give himself trismus with how much he was clenching the muscles of his jaw. He seemed to be weighing the answer, deciding how much of it he wanted to give you. "Been better."

"Yeah, same." you sighed.

Jack looked at you a little closer now, and it made your breath shorten. You wished he wasn't so handsome. You wished being this close didn't remind you of a month ago in the back of his truck, memories of your face in his chest with tears in your eyes, him kissing you, both of you crossing a line you even though you knew better. You wished you could forget how easy it felt with him too.

"You seem…" he began. "Was Park being—?"

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I’m just feeling really… I don’t know.” You sighed again, your hands coming up to your face, palms pressing against your cheeks, trying to steady yourself, but the overwhelm kept building anyway, tight in your throat and at the base of your neck, your heartbeat too fast and too loud. “It’s fine.”

“Some of us have been… a little restless, I guess,” he said, voice low, his head dipping as he looked at you, his gaze staying on your face in a way that felt careful instead of hungry. “Three weeks is a long time.”

"Yeah," you huffed sarcastically, "You're tellin' me."

He looked at you a little funny.

"I gotta go but… I'm fine. I guess. Yeah. Thanks…um… Jack. I'll see you."

"Okay, sweetheart. See you."

Luckily you didn't have to sit alone in your thoughts for long.

Robby found you in north five soon enough, and even though he looked exhausted—even though the crease between his brows was deep and feathered and his eyes had that look of a long, awful day full of cases he'd remember for life—he still smiled when he saw you.

"Hi, honey," he sighed, and opened his arms for you to fall into.

You went to him, your hands sliding up around the back of his neck, rising to your tiptoes so you could tuck your face into his chest, and he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in him for hours. His arms wrapped around you and held you, swaying a little back and forth in place, his weight shifting in the muffled quiet of the exam room.

For some reason, some sixth sense, some thing that had been learned after all your time with him, you knew this was what he needed. He was particular about touch outside of this—he didn't accept hugs from most, or even a high five. He kept his praise quick and detached with his staff typically with a simple thumbs up or fist bump (though, you knew there was one person other than you who was the exception to that). But with you… it was like you were the only touch that was safe for him to fall into.

And though you craved touch, not even just from him but from everyone you knew—a hug with a friend, a hand on the small of the back, a bumping of shoulders in comradery, and the explicit kind too— there was something deeply sentimental about the touch from Robby's hands. When the two of you fell into each other, it formed a nucleus from the outside world. Nothing else existed now that he was here and holding you. The noise of the day outside the four walls of the exam room simply paused.

You felt his nose sink into your hair, inhaling, "How are you."

"M'okay," you murmured. "You?"

"Yeah." he said softly.

You squeezed him a little tighter.

After a moment, you said: "Robby?"

"Yeah, honey?" he asked.

"I feel like I'm going a little crazy."

He pulled away, only enough so he was still holding you in his arms but able to look down at you and study your face. His brows pulled together for a long moment while he did, assessing for anything really wrong. You felt his thumbs rubbing back and forth over the sheer fabric of your cover up.

"How so?"

You shut your eyes, breathing deeply, trying to collect yourself. You weren't sure why, but you felt almost like you wanted to cry. When you opened them again, Robby's eyes were still focused on you, his expression full of careful attention.

"I feel like I've barely been here an hour and I'm just so—" you shook your head, releasing your hands from his neck to cover your eyes, pressing your fingertips deeply into the sockets. Bright galaxies burst across your vision, and you inhaled again, steadying the whirring of your brain as you tried to think of the right words. "Everyone is being so sweet, trying to take care of me—"

"—take care of you?"

"—but I just feel so fucking overwhelmed, and I don't know how to tell them that I can't—"

"—they should already know to leave you alone—"

"I just want to go home, but I also really don't—because I miss everyone—but still—" you snapped, "I just want to stop feeling so fucking crazy."

"Okay, breathe, please—" he said, his hands sliding from your back to your shoulders, soothing up and down on your skin.

You opened your eyes again, letting your hands drop, sucking in a shaky breath and looking up at him.

"First of all," he said, his voice low and soothing, "I'm sorry I called you to come in on such a crazy day. I… I selfishly thought of having you here, wanting you after all this bullshit and I didn't think about the others seeing you."

"Well, they saw me." You shrugged. "I even ran into John at the pool with his family."

Robby tilted his head, "Did Shen—?"

You shook your head, "We just said hi, that's all. He said he didn't want to get in trouble. Langdon said so too."

Robby nodded, "Good, good."

"But I miss them." you murmured, your eyes wide and watery up at Robby.

"I know, honey."

"And…" you hesitated, but knew it was better to just tell him. "I feel like you're getting such a good fucking deal out of the past few weeks and I'm not. I feel fucking crazy, Michael."

He sighed, squeezing your arms a little tighter, his face with an expression of knowing that you don't want to hear. "Do you know why we've been doing this the past few weeks? Denying you?"

You let your head fall back on your neck with a little groan, "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I went behind your back, I crossed a boundary. And it's fine, I understand—I just didn't think my body would be so fucking wound tight like this—"

"Okay, I hear you, c'mere," Robby cooed immediately, gently guiding both of you to the hospital bed in the center of the room.

You went without thinking about it, shuffling across the mattress until he could pull you into him. It dipped beneath your combined weight as he settled you on his lap, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while the other came up to cradle the back of your head. You let yourself sink against him completely, legs falling open around the large breadth of his body—hips to hips, chest to chest, your face tucked into the side of his neck where his skin was warm from a long day. His fingers slipped into your hair automatically, fingertips scratching lightly against your scalp while the steady rise and fall of his breathing moved beneath your cheek.

"Okay," he murmured, pressing his mouth briefly to your temple. "Tell me more."

"No, because—" Your voice caught unexpectedly. The burn seared in your throat even worse than before, your eyes prickling, your chin wobbling in a way that only made you more frustrated.

"It's so stupid." You swallowed hard. "You're here saving fucking lives and actually doing something, and I'm sitting here complaining because people..." A humorless laugh escaped you. "People like me too much."

The laugh that left him was soft, so fond that it made you want to hide your face even further. "Oh, honey."

You pushed your lips together to keep yourself from really beginning to weep, croaking out: "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you."

"I know." you admitted, inhaling a deep, shaky breath.

His hand continued moving through your hair, smoothing it back from your face before trailing down your spine in slow strokes.

"I understand what you're saying," he said gently. "But let's not compare apples to oranges, okay? Somebody else's problems don't make yours disappear. If something's upsetting you, it's upsetting you. I want you to tell me these things."

You let out a long breath into his shoulder, your body settling a little heavier against him, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, something you could focus on. His fingers kept moving, combing through the strands at the nape of your neck. For a few minutes, it was just this. His arms around you, your tears drying, your breath coming back to you.

He felt you begin to relax against him and then, his voice gentle and a little raspy: "I have an idea. I know you've been a little pent up, huh? Feeling a little overwhelmed?"

He had a certain way to his voice, a lilt that could always lull you into feeling comforted and yet completely wrapped around his finger. There was a gentleness to him, a softness, a patience. So much so that even without the special set up— the shampoo and the body wash and perfume or even braid in your hair—it had a funny way of making your brain turn to mush when he sounded like that.

You nodded.

"Can you come up a little for me, honey?"

You could do just about anything when he spoke to you like that.

His hands slid beneath your thighs and guided you higher against him, pulling you closer so your chest was up against his clavicle, your nose brushing up into his hair. You breathed him in automatically, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with hospital and the lingering traces of a shift that had gone on far too long. Beneath you, you felt him shifting, heard the quiet rustle of fabric and the metallic sound of a zipper being tugged down.

The realization of what he was doing sent a fresh wave of heat through you. You began to whine a little at the feeling of it. Of him, against your thigh, his member warm and throbbing.

God, you felt so fucking desperate.

"Think this'll help us both relax a little, hm?" he murmured against your arm.

You nodded feverishly, and his mouth brushed your shoulder with a soft kiss in answer while his hands worked patiently. He helped you out of your cover up and your shorts, untying your bathing suit bottoms since your coordination seemed to have abandoned you entirely. You lifted your hips when he needed you to, shifted your legs where he guided them, letting him take care of the details while your forehead rested against the pillow.

"Aw, honey," he cooed, "you're soaked."

You whined a little more, petulant and impatient for him.

"Okay, okay," he soothed, "I know." And as he brought you back down into his lap, inhaling with a hiss through his teeth, the blunt head of his length pressed at your entrance. "Nice deep breath for me, honey."

You did as bid, and then, on your long sighing exhale, he pushed into you completely. Robby let out a low, strained groan that dragged up from his chest, his head tipping back against the thin pillows as his grip tightened at you. Your mouth opened in a gasp around his neck, a mewling whine falling from your lips.

"Ohhh…" you sighed, wriggling your hips a little to get him even deeper.

"Sh, sh, no moving—" he croaked lazily, his hands going to your hips to still you. "Just stay like that."

Your mouth, opened and wanton, found the side of his neck again, kissing and dragging, wet and searching, your tongue pressing along the line of his carotid while your teeth caught lightly at the skin there. He tasted like sweat, like his aftershave, his skin sensitive and thin around his beard. He hummed appreciatively at the feeling.

"Okay, now tell me what's goin on," he finally said once the two of you settled in. He didn't move his hips, but you could feel the involuntary twitching of his cock inside you every now and then. You were wet enough that it spread everywhere, slick between your thighs, warm where it gathered and slipped down over his balls that fit snug against you and dampening the sheets beneath. It made you ache for movement, for more, your walls clenching around him in want, but you held still, your hands gripping at him instead.

You let out a gurgled sound, your lips swollen and tongue still laving at his neck.

"What, are you suddenly too cock drunk to have a conversation, honey?" he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

"Feels… sooo… mmm…" you hummed, the words trailing off as your legs tightened around his on the bed without thinking, the shift pressing you down on him, forcing him deeper. The reaction was immediate—both of you letting out a louder sound this time, your breath catching while his grip snapped tighter, his hands closing hard under your ass, fingers digging in deep enough to sting.

"No. Moving." he gritted out.

"Yes, Robby," you sighed obediently, the name slipping out soft against his skin.

He hummed pleasantly again.

"Tell me what…" you started, but your voice drifted, your mouth still pressed to his neck as your thoughts slipped, the feeling of him filling you pulling your focus under again, your body tightening around him in small, needy pulses you couldn’t quite control. "...What happened with your day."

You felt a little boneless on top of him, your kisses becoming slower, more gentle, until you were only pressing your lips into his beard. He let out a long breath, his hands easing their grip, sliding up your back, then back down in slow passes, smoothing over your skin.

"There was a bad incident at Kennywood."

"Dana told me," you murmured, your eyes blinking open a little, your voice quieter now as you listened, trying to stay with him.

He nodded against the pillow, his jaw shifting under your cheek. "It’s always… the worst when…" He paused, breath catching slightly, like he had to push the rest out. "When it’s kids."

You nodded, understanding.

"I don't wanna talk about my day," he suddenly said, though his voice was still low and gentle, "I wanna hear about yours."

You shook your head, closing your eyes again. You moved a little on the bed.

"Stop squirming so much, honey, I know what you're up to—"

You smiled into his neck. But then you heard his pager go off.

He groaned under you, his head tipping back as he reached blindly toward the bedside table, fingers fumbling for it before bringing it up to his ear. "Robinavitch, I'm busy—oh—hey."

You resumed your soft, leisurely kisses to his neck, praying he wasn't being called out into the fray again. He felt so warm, so good here. You felt so full and content, your mind still hazy and soft, lips swollen and warm against his skin.

"Yeah, hang on—" He pulled the pager away from his ear, turning his head so his mouth brushed against your hair. "Honey—"

"Mm?" you hummed, your lips still moving against his throat.

"It's Jack."

That snapped the rubberband of your brain back to yourself, eyes opening immediately, your head lifting back and your body going still on top of him.

"It's okay, it's okay—" Robby soothed quickly, one hand coming up to steady you where you’d pulled back. He shook his head a little, his expression holding. "He wants to know if he can come check on you. He said you had a hell of a day."

Your brows pulled together as you looked down at him, your hands planted on his chest, the feeling of him connected to you more heightened as you sat back on top of him.

"And… you’re…okay with that?"

His jaw tightened a little, the muscle jumping beneath his beard, but it didn’t settle into anything sharp this time. Something else passed through his face instead, quieter, held in check. "Yeah, it's okay."

You stared at him for another moment, unmoving.

"I promise," he added, his thumb brushing once along your hip. "But if you don’t want him to come in, it can just be me and you."

You worried your lip between your teeth, your gaze dropping briefly to the pager still in his hand, then back to him. There was a small, stretched pause before he lifted it again and brought it up to your ear instead.

You watched him the whole time, and he only nodded when it touched your skin. You didn't take the phone from him, only let him hold it up to you.

"Jack?" you murmured.

"Hi, sweetheart."

His voice was soothing through the device, rough and hoarse and sultry—Robby's lips twitched, not naive to the feeling of your body reacting to the sound of it. You pictured him just as you saw him a little while ago, though in your minds eye, his face had softened, his shoulders were dropped, that intense look long gone.

"Hi," you whispered, "Are you coming in to say hi?"

"Only if you want me to."

Your eyes flicked back to Robby, searching again, and he gave you another small nod, steady this time.

"Okay."

Robby took the pager back, bringing it to his ear again, his gaze not leaving your face. "North five," he said. "Don’t let anyone follow you in."

There was a beat, a quiet exchange on the other end you couldn’t hear, and then Robby lowered the pager, setting it back onto the bedside table without looking away from you.

"C'mere." he said, pulling you into him once again.

You went easily, folding into his chest, your arms tucking in between you where there was barely space, your cheek settling against him. A million questions ran through your head, but they felt quieted by Robby's arms around you, his lips at the top of your head. The way you couldn't help but notice his length swelling more inside of you.

Only a few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Robby reached for the hospital blanket without moving you too much, dragging it up and over your back, tucking it around your hips with one hand while the other stayed firm around you.

"Yeah," he called.

The door opened, and with it came a brief rush of noise from the floor—voices, monitors beeping somewhere down the hall, the squeak of shoes—before it cut off again as the door clicked shut.

"Hey," came Jack’s voice from across the room.

You lifted your head slightly from where it had been tucked into Robby’s neck, turning just enough to look over your shoulder. Jack stood near the door in his the same clothes, black t-shirt pulled tight across his chest and arms, cargos sitting low on his hips, his stethoscope looped around his neck, badge clipped at his belt.

Robby looked at him without expression, merely acknowledging him, before his attention dropped back to you. "I’m gonna let him come say hi, okay?"

You nodded against him. You didn’t see it, but you felt the shift in Robby as he looked up, giving Jack a small nod, a subtle tilt of his head that brought him closer.

Jack’s steps weren’t loud, and you felt him before you saw him, the space beside the bed changing, his presence close enough that you didn’t have to turn to know he was there. His hand came to your back, so broad and warm, and calloused even through your sheer cover up, moving slowly over your shoulder blades, back and forth in an easy rhythm.

"You doing better now, sweetheart?" he murmured.

"Mhm," you hummed.

"D'you tell Robby about your day?"

You shook your head. There was a pause that hung for a second, quiet but noticeable as the two of them looked at each other over you.

"Do you want me to tell Robby?"

You hesitated, your fingers shifting where they rested against Robby's chest, and then you nodded again. You didn’t have it in you to say much—your mouth parted like you might, but the words didn’t come, your focus slipping instead. Your body stayed tuned to both of them, fully aware of Jack there now, of the shift he brought into the space, but you didn’t let the nerves of a changing dynamic pull you away from that soft space in your mind you'd found only moments before. Your eyes moved between them briefly, a little slower, a little softer, before dropping again, your lashes lowering as you settled against Robby.

"S’okay, honey," he said beneath you, his hand coming up to smooth your hair back, tucking a piece behind your ear. "We can talk about it in a little. I wanna show Jack how good of a girl you are first. Is that okay?"

You tightened your hold again. You felt quieted, pacified by Robby's comforting hold, your brain still a little fuzzy despite the other presence in the room.

"She okay?" Jack asked.

"Oh, yeah," Robby answered knowingly, his voice low, that same rough gentleness in it as his hand drifted down your back again. "She gets a little overwhelmed sometimes. This helps." He glanced up at Jack. "Go grab the stool, I’ll show you."

You heard Jack move, the roll of the stool’s wheels against the floor, the faint creak as he settled onto it somewhere beside the bed, though you couldn’t see exactly where. You glanced back anyway, just enough to catch him watching you, a small smile pulling at his mouth when he caught your gaze.

"I’m gonna talk to Jack now, okay, honey?" Robby murmured close to your ear, his lips brushing your hair as he spoke. "If you have anything to add, you can. Don’t worry about being shy."

Your thoughts felt even slower now as your focus narrowed down to the way your body sat on his, your legs still spread around his hips, the stretch of him inside you constant and full. When he pulled the blanket back, the air hit your skin, cool against the warmth you'd created, and it made everything feel heightened for a second before it settled back into that same hazy heat. Beneath you, you felt him react again, a slow swell, a small pulse that made your stomach draw tight.

Jack swore under his breath when the blanket dropped, and you watched him through heavy lids as his gaze lowered, fixed between you and Robby, on the place where you were joined.

"She's a good girl, brother." Robby said seriously.

"Yeah," Jack said, the edge in his voice gone quieter, more focused. "Yeah, she is."

"Jack." Robby’s tone shifted when he said it—flat, deliberate. There was a pause as he waited until Jack looked at him fully before continuing. "I want you to understand what you’re asking for."

Jack's jaw tightened a little at that, his expression a little more serious.

"This isn't just fucking around for fun." Robby said with a tightness to him, carefully stern. "It's a dynamic that only works because what’s underneath it is solid. Because at the end of the day, this what actually matters."

Jack didn't say anything.

"Her and I work because we want the same things," Robby went on. "Trust, for one. There’s no wondering where the line is, no second-guessing it. And when something crosses it—" his eyes flicked to you for half a second, then back, "—we deal with it."

Jack's lips pursed. You squirmed a little in Robby's hold, but he went on anyway.

"There are rules her and I both follow. She knows she can trust me, and, though it may look different to the outside, she has all the control here."

"Even if you give the okay?" Jack asked, more direct now.

Robby nodded, "The only way this works is with her okay. She is the one letting me make that call. She gives it all to me, and tells me when she wants things or doesn't. She's a good girl because she willingly hands me the responsibility to take care of her, to know her best, to understand and let her be exactly who she is without question."

You weren’t sure why, but again, your throat began to tighten. You closed your eyes, pressing your face into Robby’s neck, disappearing there. It was strange, hearing them talk about you like that, like you weren’t right there between them—but it didn’t feel bad. If anything, it settled somewhere deeper, somewhere steady and comforting. You'd never heard Robby explain your dynamic to anyone, it was just something that came to be between you, something that both of you understood and needed. Even through hours of conversation, of open talks of wants and needs and dreams and desires, you'd never heard it put like this before.

"Do you remember, a few years ago, when…"

"When you planned that ego-death trip to Head Smashed In?" Jack said, a quiet amused note to his answer.

Robby nodded slightly beneath you. You’d heard about that before, it was right before you knew him, before any of this.

"I don’t think…" he started, his hand moving slow up your back, then settling there firmly again. "I don’t think I could’ve come back from that and been where I am now without this. Without her."

Your grip on Robby tightened. His arms came around you a little tighter too.

"I’m telling you all this, Jack," he went on, his voice steady again, "because if you want in, you need to understand it’s not just about getting your rocks off—"

"—I never said that was—"

"I know. But you also need to understand its not about stealing her from me, either." Robby cut in, the words heavy, as if said through bared teeth. It made you squirm again in his hold, your body clenching down and him twitching inside of you, the place between you so wet and sensitive and swollen it made your hips begin to tingle.

But then Robby’s words finally clicked in your head, and you lifted your face from his neck, pulling back just enough to look between them. "Wait—"

"I’m not looking to steal anything," Jack went on, shaking his head, his voice rougher now, less smooth than usual. "I want— fuck…" He broke off, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing over his mouth before he dropped it and leaned forward, elbows braced on the bed, his head dipping for a second.

You shifted again, sitting up a little more, your chest pulling away from Robby’s as you reached for Jack, your hand sliding into his hair without thinking. He reacted right away, his hand coming up to hold yours there, pressing it lightly against his head, still not looking up, his grip steady like he didn’t want you to pull away.

But when he did, the look on his face almost made you cry in earnest. There was so much there—a yearning, a loss, a sadness. And yet, so much want it made your chest feel like it cracked in two.

"You're… joining us?" you asked softly.

He took the hand you had in his hair and brought it down, guiding it to his face until your palm cupped his cheek, the rough shadow of his beard dragging lightly against your skin.

"Is that something you’d like to try?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, your thumb moving along the edge of his cheekbone before you could stop yourself. And when you did, he turned his face fully into your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm, his lips warm, lingering as his eyes stayed on yours before they slid back to Robby.

"I saw Park cornering her today," he said, the words coming out a little tighter, "It made me feel insane. How do you… how does that part work?"

Robby let out a small breath through his nose, something almost amused under it, even as his hand stayed firm at your side.

"I mean, right now, it pisses me off," he said plainly. "Because he's supposed to know better. They're supposed to ask first." Robby said. There was a dry edge to it, an annoyance even as his cock jumped inside of you. Then his attention came back to you. "What did he do, honey?"

You gnawed on your lip, and Jack rolled the stool so you could see them both at once. He sat on Robby’s right, angled toward the bed, his forearms braced on his thighs as he looked up at you. And from that angle, being split over Robby's member that was pulsing and swelling, feeling both of their eyes on you, it had your stomach clenching.

"Oooh—" Robby choked slightly, his hands tightening at your hips to hold you still, his grip still firm as he felt the change in you. "What is it?"

You smiled a little, reaching forward now for Jack, your fingers carding through the top of his graying hair, pushing it back. "I like this view."

Both of them chuckled a bit at that. But Robby's hands tightened on your hips again, "Tell me about Dr. Park, honey. It's time we talk about it now."

You let your hand fall from Jack’s curls, both of your palms coming to rest flat against Robby’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing under your touch.

"He… um…" You glanced at Jack, then back to Robby, your fingers curling a little in Robby's shirt. "We ran into each other in the hall, and he was worried I was at Kennywood too. But then he—." Your face went warm. "He said he missed me, he starting touching me—" You swallowed, eyes dropping for a second. "I think I just got overwhelmed."

"Do you miss him too?"

You bit your lip hard enough it hurt, your eyes dropping for a second before you went on. "Yes. But... I don’t know if it’s just because it’s been so long."

Robby nodded once, not interrupting, just watching you.

Jack hadn’t moved, his gaze fixed on you.

"He… he tried to—um—finger me—"

The word caught on the way out of your mouth, your voice hitching as Robby’s hips jerked up under you sharply. The movement made you gasp, your body tightening, your hands pressing harder into his chest.

Jack’s eyes flicked between you both, trying to take it all in—the dynamic, the shift of the room moment by moment.

"I didn’t let him," you rushed on, your voice thinner now. "He touched me and I was—I was getting so close too fast, but I couldn’t—I knew you’d be mad. That I was grounded."

"Grounded?" Jack asked, his brow pulling slightly.

You nodded. He looked to Robby, and Robby answered without looking away from you.

"After your little run-in," he said, calm, measured, "we adjusted things for a few weeks. Other than the no sharing, she's not allowed to finish."

"Fuck." Jack whispered.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first. It was small, almost unconscious—your hips shifting against him, a slow, shallow rock that dragged him deeper each time. It built gently, the light press of your clit against the thatch of hairs at the base of him creating a delicious friction. Your body leaned into it before your mind caught up, your breath starting to change as it settled into a rhythm. Robby didn't seem to want to stop you this time, he just let you gently rock back and forth.

"How did it feel, honey?" he croaked, his eyes changed to a narrowed, hungry gaze as he watched you. "Having Park's fingers on you after so long?"

"Felt so good," you whispered, "too good."

"Fuck." Jack said again, but this time, it was hoarse with a thick arousal. "When I saw…" he went on, swallowing thickly. Your eyes flickered to him.

"I only saw you after the fact, but his fingers were—they were wet and I didn't realize—" Jack's hand was on his lap, tightening around the inside of his thigh. You licked your lips, rocking your hips harder against Robby now.

"I kissed him too, Robby—I'm sorry—" you moaned out louder now, pressing down harder, chasing that friction now as Robby's hands pushed you down onto him further, his lip beginning to curl back.

"I wanted to punch him." Jack growled.

You gasped, mewling at the feeling now, Robby's cock punching deeper inside you as he dipped his hips and pushed back in.

"Seeing you up against Park like that, all pushed into him—fuck—" Jack groaned, tightening his hand on his cargo pants where you could see a little stain of precome through his pants. "Robby, brother—pull down her—"

He didn't even have to finish the sentence before Robby was reaching up and yanking the little triangles of your bathing suit aside, your breasts falling, nipples peaking at the cold air. The fabric cut into your skin around the globes, so they were more pressed together as your mouth hung open, watching both of them through heavy lids. Jack groaned in what almost sounded like pain as his hand tightened around his growing bulge.

"Take it out—" Robby commanded to the attending, "Do it—"

Jack didn't hesitate, He unzipped his cargos, pushed them down to just the mid thigh, and pulled his thick cock out.

"I see what you meant, honey—" Robby quipped with a breathless little smile as he punched up into you again. "When you said he felt big—"

Jack let his head fall back onto his neck a little, but his lips quirked into a breathless little smile, "You two—you two gossiping about me?"

You nodded, "I told him you felt so big inside me, Jack, how good it— your cock—oh god," you mewled.

Your features pinched together at the feeling of tightening in your spine, hips beginning to cramp.

"No, no, no—honey—don't you fucking dare—" Robby demanded, his teeth bared up at you.

"What?" Jack whimpered. You watched his wide grip wrap around his throbbing shaft, the glistening bead of arousal growing at the reddened tip. He used it, sliding the slick with his thumb over the head of his cock while he watched you bounce on Robby.

"She wants to come—" Robby said, though it was mean, a groan, a chastising.

"Fuck it, let her—"

"No—" Robby growled.

"Pleaseeeeeeeee…" you mewled, tears beginning to blur your eyes so you could hardly see Jack, how his jaw unhinged and his body slumping over as he fisted his cock faster.

"No." Robby barked, even as his thrusts became uneven. "Hold it."

Your face pulled into a wailing grimace, the pain in your belly, your spine, of holding it back.

"Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe—" Jack soothed, coming back to himself a little, his voice hoarse and desperate and yet soothing, "easier if you don't tighten up so much, just breathe through the feeling, it's just a wave—"

You did as he said, pulling in a deep breath, trying to force your hips to settle, to loosen, and Robby’s eyes widened as he watched you. Then he was groaning low, pushing you down onto himself with one last thrust. Oh, fuck, that’s so good— he moaned, his voice breaking as you felt him fill you with long ropes of thick, hot, spend, your thighs starting to shake from it.

You heaved in long, slow breaths as you whined from the denial, your eyes locked on Jack as he worked himself faster, his mouth parted, breath coming rougher. But instead of folding in on himself, he shifted, pushing his knees wider, leaning back in the chair just enough to hold himself there, his body straining. The noises he made were shallow, deep, a desperate string of curses, of your name.

"Come, Jack, please—please come for me—" you begged, your voice catching as your hips started to move again over Robby.

"God, doesn’t she beg so fucking pretty?" Robby said, breathless, his hands coming up to push your breasts together in his broad hands.

"Yes, God yes, oh fuck—oh fuck—look at me, sweetheart, that's it, look at me when I—" Jack moaned, but the words cut off into a long, strained groan, his brows pulling tight as he came, thick spurts hitting your thigh and his hand, his fist working himself through the overwhelming euphoria.

All three of you were full of breath for a long moment, your hips still tight with the loss of any relief. But you sighed dreamily still, drawing your finger through the milky come along your thigh. Both of them watched you in silence as you lifted it, your lips closing around your fingertip, sucking the salty spend clean. You pulled it out with a small pop, glancing between them with a faint, sheepish smile at the way they were staring.

"Jesus," Robby huffed.

"Yeah." Jack responded.

And then, like it caught up to them all at once, Jack pushed up from the stool, grabbing a few paper towels, wiping his hand off quickly before tucking himself back into his cargo pants. He zipped up, turned back, and stepped in closer again, holding out the towels just as you started to lift yourself from Robby’s lap.

"Thank you," you said softly, taking them.

He didn’t step away. If anything, he closed the space, his hand coming to your elbow, steadying you as you shifted, your legs still a little unsteady. Behind you, Robby moved too, rolling off the bed, one hand still at your side. For a second, both of them had their hands on you at once: close, warm, grounding as you settled back down onto the bed, the paper towels tucked beneath you.

As you sat there, feeling the slow, sticky release from between your legs, you looked up at them. They were looking at each other now, something silent passing between them. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"So…" you began.

Both of them looked at you from either side of the bed.

"Is this like… going to be normal? How is this going to work?"

Robby sighed, looking at his fellow attending. Both of them still were wordless as they watched each other, as if sizing the other up even after your shared moment.

"Oh, I know," you said, softer now. Your hands came up, one to each of them—Robby back in his black hoodie, the fabric worn and soft under your palm, and Jack’s bare arm, warm under your fingers. They both looked down at you then, both of them a little quieter, a little more open than you were used to seeing. You looked back at Jack.

"Why don't you come for dinner?" you said. "Maybe next week?" Your eyes flicked to Robby. "Would that be okay?"

Robby made a sort of frown, thinking.

But it was Jack who spoke first, "That sounds great, sweetheart."

"And for now, let’s just… go on as normal. Think about what we actually want. We can just… take it slow."

Jack tipped his head down a little, a small smile pulling at his mouth. "That sounds nice." He came closer to you, brushing a kiss to your temple, but you caught him before he could pull away, your hand coming up to his face, your fingers settling along his jaw, holding him there.

When you glanced back to Robby, you saw he was smirking now, watching the two of you with a renewed light ignited behind his eyes.

You looked back at Jack once again, and your focus dropped to his lips.

"I think I deserve a real kiss goodbye," you said softly. "Don’t you think, Robby?"

Robby let out a quiet laugh, folding his arms across his chest. "I think you do. She was such a good girl, after all, Abbot."

Jack huffed a breath of a laugh, his mouth twitching before he leaned in the rest of the way.

"Anything for our best girl." he said, before pressing his lips to yours.

end note (so not to have spoilers): so much love and adoration for my friend court (@pearlessance) !!!! thank you for letting me pluck the idea of split custody from your beautiful brain!

thank you so much for reading!!!

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🏷️ @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @kittymeowmeow17, @viviandarkbloom11, @kneelforloki, @kitkatrina, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @anthropsych, @shawnysimp, @1-800-bobcut, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing comment below if you'd like to be added!

[lady-djarin]

holy fuck dude i’m gonna combust

[bluetimeombre]

Take care of you

synopsis jack really wants to take care of you, you're really not used to that feeling, but when an accident has you in harms way and rattles jack more than you, you have little choice but to accept how he feels about you. (I want to take care of you- it's rotten work- not to me, not if its you) type.

warnings, fluff and angst but with a happy ending. guns. insecure reader. reader is described with hair long enough to braid. insecure reader. angst with happy ending . younger reader though not a massive plot point. miscommunication/misunderstanding

authorsnote uncle pee-paw i'm growing very fond of you. sometimes i get so in my head about how things preform on tumblr and i completely forget that fanfic is so self indulgent so as long as i'm happy with it but i'm so happy with the love these pitt fics are getting they really do mean a lot

Pitt masterlist. Jack Abbot fic!

“ You need a ride? ”

When you'd called Jack to tell him you were going to be late into your night shift because the buses you relied so heavily on to get you to and from work weren't running due to some strikes or something, you really were only calling to let him know you'd be late. Not to subtly ask for him to give you a ride.

“No- no. I just didn't want you to think I was not turning up, I'll be there.”

“ What's your address again? ”

“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.

Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.

“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.

Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”

“ Your address. ”

“How do you have my address?”

He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”

Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.

“Right, yes. You should delete that.”

“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”

There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.

Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.

It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.

He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.

You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.

There was nothing wrong with his affection.

You just didn't know what to do with it.

The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.

Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.

You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).

His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.

“Hi,” you greeted.

You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.

Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”

You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”

“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”

There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.

“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”

Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”

Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.

“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.

“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”

“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.

Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”

It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.

“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.

“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”

Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.

Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”

“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.

“It's on my way,” he shrugged.

“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.

You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.

“Just take the lift.”

“Thank you.”

“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.

You groaned.

There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.

Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.

“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”

She smirked. “Nice of him.”

“I've told him not to do it again.”

“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”

He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.

“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.

“That he is.”

“You deserve someone like him.”

You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.

And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.

You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”

“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Night.”

You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.

“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.

“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”

He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”

“I listen to your advice-”

He levelled his gaze onto yours.

“- I try to.”

His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”

You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.

Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”

He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.

Your silence was an answer.

“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”

He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.

“Will we?”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”

You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.

You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.

“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.

This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.

“No, I guess I didn't.”

“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.

“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Helping you.”

“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”

Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.

Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.

You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.

Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.

“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.

Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”

You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.

Though you hadn't technically asked.

“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.

“Nothing more important right now.”

Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.

Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.

“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.

Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”

His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”

You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.

Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.

He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.

“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.

The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.

The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.

“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.

“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.

“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.

You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”

“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”

The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.

“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.

That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.

There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.

Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.

Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.

But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.

“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.

“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.

“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”

Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”

“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.

“I like running fast,” she said.

Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.

You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”

You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.

So you supposed there was a double meaning.

Jack's gaze was heavy.

“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.

“Rude,” Jack mumbled.

It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.

The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.

“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.

You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.

“Why not singing?” asked the girl.

“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked

You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”

Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.

Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.

A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.

Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”

“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.

“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”

The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”

Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.

Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.

You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.

“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.

“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.

“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.

You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”

Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”

“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”

Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.

You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.

It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.

“You cooking for me now?”

Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”

You took a careful spoon.

Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.

“You like it?”

“It tastes... kind of...”

“Healthy?”

You looked at him, feigned aghast.

Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”

“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.

“I like to take care of you.”

He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.

“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.

“Why what?” he asked.

Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.

You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.

Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.

“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”

At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”

You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.

Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”

“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”

“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”

You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”

“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”

Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.

So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.

“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.

Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”

His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.

You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.

“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”

“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”

Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”

“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.

“But-”

“- a minute!”

You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”

“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”

You waited.

There was nothing.

Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.

One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.

“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”

Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.

The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.

You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.

There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.

“I need you, GSW to the chest!”

The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.

It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.

“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”

The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.

“Three... two... one- move!”

All together you lifted her over.

There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.

You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.

Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.

“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.

Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.

Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.

“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.

Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.

“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.

“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.

“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”

You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.

“Clear!”

The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.

You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.

“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.

“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.

Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”

Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”

Two units were hooked up.

“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”

It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.

“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”

“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.

Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”

Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”

You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.

Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.

“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.

“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”

“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”

Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”

It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.

Five minutes later she was stable.

Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.

But there was life.

And that was the most rewarding part of the job.

“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”

“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.

Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.

Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”

You stared at him.

It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.

Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.

Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.

You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.

Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.

As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.

“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”

You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.

The doors to the trauma room pushed open.

A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.

“Is she alive?” she asked.

Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.

“Do you know her?” you asked.

“She's my sister.”

“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”

You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.

Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.

“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.

Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.

Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.

“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”

“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”

Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.

Everyone ducked.

People screamed.

Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.

Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.

They came from behind him.

From the room he'd just left.

“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.

Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”

You.

“No!”

The two of them took off toward the room.

A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.

She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.

“Gun!” someone screamed.

Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.

There were three shots.

He knew three shots were enough to kill.

Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”

The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”

“Oh god-”

“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.

You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?

It was already gone.

“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.

The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.

Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.

The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.

“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.

There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.

Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”

Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”

Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.

“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”

“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.

There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.

When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.

Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”

You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.

He heard retching as the door closed.

Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.

“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”

He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.

The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.

One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.

Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.

Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.

Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.

What kind of doctor did that?

The cowardly type- you.

“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.

Jack.

His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.

“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”

You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.

He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”

If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.

You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”

You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.

Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”

You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”

“Yeah.... it always does.”

You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.

This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.

“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”

“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”

“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”

You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”

“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”

Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.

“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”

It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.

“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”

He sniffed.

“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?

He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”

His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.

Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.

Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.

“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”

I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.

“I'm sorry.”

His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”

“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”

“- you weren't horrible, no-”

“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”

“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”

“- I don't know why you put up with me-”

“- well, it helps that I love you-”

If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.

You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.

“What?” you asked.

Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”

Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.

“Oh.”

“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”

It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.

“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.

Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.

You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”

He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”

You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”

Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”

Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.

And feel the love you did.

[lady-djarin]

fucking roller coaster of emotions damn

[annsfics]

♡ rabbot sm!au ♡

[lady-djarin]

🫪🫪🫪

[thefrogdalorian]

i know parents tend to be proud of their children no matter what... but Din saying 'good job buddy' to Grogu after he had completely ignored all of Din's instructions and instead just pressed the buttons which fired missiles was wild

very interesting approach the parenting... Din can excuse Grogu disobeying him and firing weapons but he draws the line at eating cookies before dinner...

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[imanutcase-10]

Then bring me luck

[thirddeadlysin]

the day after I posted this last time I was notified that I was selected for a really cool mentorship gig and got an unrelated glowing review at work

[icantbearsedtothinkofone]

Hey Potato, cure my -ing cold so I can have a good time while away.

[dduane]

Here's the potato. Make what use of it you will. :)

[cangelala]

God I need this so bad for my Midterm so please let this work again for me.

[skwangmbyul]

I could use some luck

[lanadelreysghost]

in waiting on college acceptance letters. PLEASE GOLD POTATO.

[honey-on-your-tongue]

I figure there's no harm in trying lol

[filmetcs]

obvious

summary: Jack doesn't feel "jealous" after watching you complain about another first date gone wrong.

pairings: younger resident!reader x jack abbot

contains: jealous, possessive and borderline toxic jack (if you squint?), fluff, medical inaccuracies, lots of flirting + romantic/sexual tension, dennis catching strays (im sorry king i had to sacrifice you as a plot device) 

word count: 2.5k

notes: JEALOUS AND POSSESSIVE JACK ABBOT RAHHHHHHH!!!!! not the best thing ive ever written but idgaf . also a little Yes, Chef easter egg towards the end :3

Jack Abbot is many things. a military veteran turned swat physician and an adrenaline junkie to name a few things. another thing about Jack Abbot is that he is not a possessive, jealous man. at least that's what he tries to convince himself when he sees you come into work early with a full face of makeup, a short skirt and a pretty blouse,

“Woah! Where’d you come from?” Lena exclaims. you walk over and throw your arms over the desk, leaning down till your forehead hits the surface,

“I just came back from the worst fucking date of my life, like I genuinely think I’m done with boys and dating.” you lift yourself back up to face Lena. you don’t notice Jack standing nearby looking up at the board, pretending to look for a patient,

“And get this, Lena, not only is he late, but all he did was talk about himself. Like I actually don’t think I said anything about myself until the bill came.” 

“Did he at least pay?” Lena asks. you groan and put your head back onto the desk. “And you didn’t walk out?” you shake your head, still face down on the surface,

“No! Please remind me to never waste my time on a stupid date before my shift.”

Jack raises his eyebrows in curiosity as he eavesdrops in on the conversation. Lena turns her head towards Jack, finally noticing that he’s been lingering around for longer than he should, 

“Doctor Abbot, did you need something?” 

“Nope. All good.” Jack walks away once he’s been caught. 

Jack doesn’ t get jealous, especially not over his younger resident’s dating life. he thinks you could do much better though, rather than wasting your time over stupid, immature boys. if it were him, he would be sure to pick you up a few minutes early with a bouquet of your favourite flowers, wine and dine you at some expensive spot, then if everything goes right, he’d kiss you sweetly as he dropped you home. it’s not something he thinks about often though, except maybe on his drive home after seeing you for over 12 hours and sometimes right before he falls asleep. there was also that time he thought about it when he saw a bouquet of pink flowers at the grocery store; he knew you’d love them. other than that though, he’s never really thought about it,

“You good?” Doctor Ellis snaps Jack out of his daydream. 

“Yeah, go ahead and page the OR again and let’s move her up as soon as a bed opens.” Jack says. the night shift has barely started and Ellis can tell he’s off his game tonight. she doesn’t try to pry and lets Jack excuse himself from the conversation. he takes a deep breath as he pulls the rubber gloves off, throwing them out. Jack enters the break room to grab another coffee when he suddenly hears,

“Seriously? I love that movie!” you say excitedly nearby in north one.

“Yeah? Here lemme show you.” a male voice replies. Jack puts his mug down and decides to stroll past to check on you. he was overdue for a quick check up on all his residents anyways. he walks over to north one to see you leaning over to look at the phone of your patient. you’re practically cheek to cheek with him, smiling in awe of whatever he’s showing you. Jack lets out a fake cough, breaking up the moment.

“Doctor Abbot, sorry. This is Joshua Harris, he’s got a left fibula fracture, currently waiting on x-rays to come back,” Jack nods, waiting for a further explanation on what he walked in on. “Joshua works in the film industry and was just showing me a picture of him and Harrison Ford!” your patient turns his phone to show Jack. 

“Wow…” Jack tries to come off as interested but anyone can tell he really couldn’t care less, “You mind if I steal her for a minute?” you stand up to follow your attending out but Joshua is quick to intervene,

“Maybe, we could see that new Harrison Ford movie sometime? I’ll have a lot of time now that I’ve got this thing on.” he says gesturing to the boot you put on his leg. you exchange a glance with Jack and awkwardly laugh, “Oh sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were…” Josh waits for one of you to complete his sentence. neither you or Jack say anything. you stare at each other waiting for the other to define what this is. he could easily shut down the accusation by saying that he was your attending, but Jack lets the idea of you two dating linger in the air,

“Sorry, I legally can’t accept since you’re my patient. Plus I’m just not really looking for anything anyways.” your words come out in an awkward tone, desperate for the conversation to end.

you consider Jack as your coworker, your boss practically, but you always fantasized that there could be something more between the two of you. there was no denying that he is incredibly handsome and that you’ve always had a little crush on him, but who didn’t? Jack puts his hand on the small of your back as he guides you out of the room and back into the break room,

“Everything okay? Is this about my GSW victim in South 18?” Jack picks up his previously discarded coffee mug and takes a casual sip,

“She’s fine, she just went up to surgery. You just didn’t need that conversation.” Jack says nonchalantly as if he’s not boiling with jealousy. your eyebrows raise, 

“I’m perfectly capable of handling my patients if that’s what you’re implying.” Jack takes a small step forward. it’s small but enough to make your breath shallow, enough to make you avoid eye contact with him. 

“I know you’re capable. More than anything, anyone here.” Jack says lowly, “I just think if you’re gonna go out with someone that it should be with someone who isn’t gonna waste your time.” your eyes finally look up to his, realizing that he overheard your conversation with Lena. 

“Do private conversations not exist in this hospital?” you say as your heartbeat quickens. You swear Jack can hear it as it thumps hard against your chest. 

“Not when they involve my favourite resident.” Jack is quick to answer. 

“Oh, so I’m your favourite?” the sudden praise brings back a bit of confidence in you. “So, if I’m your favourite then you’d know what’s best for me right?” Jack tilts his head up slightly, smirk slowly growing on his face. Doctor Shen casually walks into the break room, stopping in his tracks when he sees you both,

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope. Was just grabbing a coffee.” you say taking Jack’s coffee mug from his hands. you take a small sip of his coffee, keeping eye contact with him. 

“Alright…” Shen says throwing his Dunkin’ cup in the garbage. he leaves quickly hearing his name come from a nearby room. you put the mug back on the counter,

“Well, if you’ll excuse me Doctor Abbot, I have a patient with a broken leg waiting on me to push some painkillers.” you say walking back out towards north one. 

Jack walks around the ER with pride after his encounter with you. damn right he knows what’s best for you. it’s selfish of him to be greedy with your attention, but he didn’t care. he felt like you were his, even if it wasn’t explicitly said yet. you’re charting your latest patient’s info when Doctor Ellis rolls her chair next to you,

“Hey, so what’s up with you and Abbot?” your eyes keep focused on the screen ahead,

“What do you mean?”

“I mean like, why is he being so….” Parker can’t find the words to describe whatever the hell has been going on tonight. you look over at her as she tilts her head quickly, pointing towards Jack’s direction. you follow Parker’s tiling head to see Jack already staring right at you. he smiles at you before continuing his conversation with one of the nurses.heat floods your cheeks suddenly as you look back down at your screen quickly. 

“Shen thinks you guys are fucking.”

“What!” you say louder than expected, grabbing the attention of Jack and surrounding patients. you dip your head back down making yourself small, “We are not… fucking.” you whisper. 

“Might as well be with the way he’s been looking at you. Seriously, he looks like he wants to eat you alive.” she stands up, grabbing a tablet and walks away to her next patient. 

he looks like he wants to eat you alive replays in your head a few times. you gnaw on your lip at the thought, oblivious to the sight of Jack approaching behind you. he bends down and looks over your shoulder reading your charts,

“31-year old male complaining of lower right abdominal pain, diagnosis appendicitis, patient admitted to surgery,” Jack mumbles close to your ear. 

“Very good.” Jack stands back up straight as you spin your chair around to face him,

“You’ve been very distracting tonight.” you say pointing at him. 

“Just doing my job.” your eyes widen in disbelief at his response. despite being annoyed at him, he thinks he might die if he looks at your big, doe eyes for any longer.

“If doing your job includes being on my ass tonight, Abbot, I would say you’re doing great at it.” you say spinning back around to face the screen. Jack pulls up a chair sitting close to you. 

“Didn’t I tell you that you were my favourite earlier?” he says.

“If being your favourite means you’re looking over my shoulder for every patient and chart, I don’t wanna be.” you say with your focus still locked on your charts. 

“Way too late for that.” Jack mumbles. you stop typing to meet his satisfied smile.

“Incoming trauma, cardiac arrest, 5 minutes out!” Lena calls from the desk. Jack stands up and heads towards the ambulance bay.

𝜗ৎ

you’re dragging your feet when the morning shift starts to roll in. the regret of getting up early for that date yesterday is really taking a toll on your body and you’re ready to head home,

“For someone who just worked 12 hours, you look great!” Doctor Whittaker starts as you walk together to your patient. 

“Really? Thanks, I had an awful date right before my shift. Never doing that again.” Dennis lets out a small empathetic laugh.

“Dating or getting up early before your shift?” he asks. 

“Both.” Dennis laughs a bit harder at your response. 

“If you ever wanna talk about it, we could get coffee? Bond over bad first dates or something.”

from a distance, Jack watches your face change from casual into a surprised expression at Whittaker. he turns to Santos who’s also observing,

“What’s going on over there?” 

“Huckleberry’s asking her out. I think he’s had a little crush on her for a while since Amy dumped his ass.” Santos replies amused at the sight. you’ve gotta be kidding me Jack thinks. 

“Do you think she’s gonna say yes?” he asks. Santos shrugs,

“What’s it to you anyways, Abbot?” he rolls his eyes at the comment. to Trinity, it’s just Jack trying to pry and gossip, when in reality, he’s spent all night showing you that you deserve better and Jack was better. sure, maybe Dennis was closer in age to you, but Jack knows he can’t take care of you the way he can. before he can think, his legs start walking towards you and Dennis. he’s so blinded by jealously that he doesn’t even realize his body is in autopilot,

“Dennis, I think you’re great, but I don't think-” Dennis jumps as a pair of hands grab his shoulders,

“Whittaker! I've got a special patient to introduce you to. You're with me.” Jack's grip tightens on Dennis and pulls him away from you. you stare and watch as Jack takes him away towards the ambulance bay. your eyes lock with Trinity’s from afar, staring at each other in confusion. Trinity shrugs and carries on with her rounds. 

slowly, you’re starting to puzzle the pieces together. all the sudden flirting, fleeting touches, always showing up right in the middle of an awkward disaster, Jack was jealous. he wanted your attention all to himself and you liked it. you enjoyed watching him have his way and not letting anyone stop him. doubt crosses your mind for a split second, there's also a possibility you could be wrong about all of this. surely he’s just been looking out for you tonight and all the alleged flirting was you mistaking it for something more than just kindness. 

whatever, you’d have to deal with it tomorrow night.

Jack is finally free from the last handoff of the night. his leg is sore, head pounding, and all he wants is to see you one last time before he heads out for the day. he circles the ER one last time and doesn’t see you anywhere. Jack swears he just saw you at the workstation desk a second ago, did you leave without saying bye?

“She left a few minutes ago.” Santos says as she passes by with an amused expression. Jack glares at her, too exhausted to ask why she knew who he was looking for. Jack knows that he’ll see you tomorrow night but he was hoping to see you before you left so he could savor the way you looked at him for a bit longer. 

the elevator dings to the top floor of the parking lot. the sun is just about fully risen and the soft sunrays peek through the clouds. as Jack walks down the lot, he sees you putting your bags in the trunk of your car, letting out a deep sigh as you shut it,

“Was looking for you.” you spin around hearing his familiar voice.

“You were?” Jack nods in response. he doesn’t want to leave. he’s exactly where he wants to be, even after being in the ER for twelve hours. you give Jack a tired smile as you both stand silently, lingering in each other's presence,

“I’m gonna head home in a minute, but here's what I think should happen,” Jack starts. there’s a bit of raspiness to his voice that catches your attention.

“On Friday, I’m gonna pick you up a little before seven and I’m taking you to North and Vine.” you tilt your head, brows furrowing in confusion,

“I’m working Friday.”

“You’re not anymore, and neither am I. I’ll take care of it.” Jack is quick to respond, like he was expecting your reaction. a smile slowly forms on your face,

“Was a little jealousy all it took for you to ask me out?” you say with aching cheeks. 

“I don’t get jealous.” Jack replies with an unamused expression. your smile still big, finally proving your jealousy theory,

“Right… I’ll see you Friday night, Jack.” you lean up to press your lips to his cheek lightly, finally breaking his straight face. 

oh, you were gonna be the death of him. 

[lady-djarin]

i need that man on a leash for me

[glazztablegirl]

Joel Miller Summer is here!

[afterdarkbydel]

Worth Seeing

Part One: For Me

Jack Abbot xWife! Reader

Summary: You book a boudoir shoot for yourself. Not for Jack. Not because you need him to think you’re beautiful. Not because you need proof that he wants you. For you. Jack is thrilled because you’re excited, but he tries very hard to be cool about it. He is supportive. Respectful. Only mildly concerned that you are trying to kill him. But when the photos come back, and he sees you the way you finally let yourself be seen, Jack has a very hard time keeping his reaction contained. Especially when he gets to the photo of you in white sheets, wearing his dog tags, looking up at the camera like you finally believed what he has been trying to tell you for years.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, boudoir photography, body confidence themes, sexual themes, Jack being deeply attracted to his wife, dog tags used in an intimate/emotional way, emotional vulnerability, body image feelings, reader feeling nervous but empowered, Jack being supportive/soft/obsessed, swearing, lots of married intimacy.

Author's Note: This one is really special to me. I wanted this fic to be sexy, obviously, because hello. Jack Abbot, seeing his wife’s boudoir photos? We were never going to survive that politely. But more than that, I wanted this to mean something. This was inspired by my own boudoir experience. I was nervous going into it, and my photographer was absolutely incredible. She hyped me up, made me feel safe, talked about how empowering the experience could be, and helped me see myself in a way I honestly don’t think I had before. It wasn’t just about taking sexy photos. It was about feeling confident, beautiful, powerful, and present in my own body. That is what I wanted you to feel when you read this. The shoot is for her. Jack loves the photos, yes. He is attracted to her, yes. He loses his mind a little, obviously. But what matters most is that she did something brave for herself. She let herself be seen. And when Jack looks at the photos, he does not just see her body. He sees the light on her skin, the look in her eyes, the little smiles he knows because he loves her. He sees her seeing herself.

This is a sister fic in spirit to Source Material — sexy, funny, emotional, and very married.

Xoxo, Del

MDNI 18+

Jack knew the look on your face. Not the exact cause of it yet, but the category.

You were trying to be casual.

Which meant, immediately, that nothing about this was casual.

You were standing in the kitchen with your hip against the counter, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea you had not taken a single sip from. The dishwasher hummed quietly behind you. Rain tapped against the window above the sink, soft and steady, turning the glass dark. Jack had changed out of his work clothes twenty minutes ago, but he was in a black T-shirt with his sweatpants loose at his hips, and his hair damp from the shower.

He was rinsing his coffee mug when you cleared your throat. Not dramatically. Not even loudly. But enough.

Jack looked over his shoulder. You smiled at him. Too quickly.

His eyes narrowed.

“What?” you asked.

Jack turned off the faucet. “Nothing.”

“You’re looking at me.” You said.

Jack gave you a pointed look, “I do that.”

“Not like that.” You replied, waving your hand vaguely toward him.

He set the mug in the drying rack and turned to face you, leaning back against the sink with his arms folded loosely over his chest. “Like what?”

You took a sip of tea to avoid answering. It was too hot. You regretted it immediately.

Jack’s mouth curved. “Smooth,” he said.

You lowered the mug. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.” He replied.

You narrowed your eyes, “You were about to.”

“I was observing.” Jack shrugged.

“That’s worse.”

His smile widened by a fraction. “Usually.”

You looked down into your tea, watching steam curl up between your hands. The words were right there. Not bad words. Not scary words, exactly. Just words that felt bigger than you had expected now that Jack was standing in front of you with his attention on you, steady and warm and impossible to hide from.

You had been excited all day. Nervous too. But excited.

You had opened the photographer’s booking confirmation three times just to look at it. You had reread the prep email twice. You had imagined the studio, the outfits, the soft light, the camera, the strange and terrifying possibility of seeing yourself in a way you had never quite managed before.

And then Jack had come home, kissed your temple, complained about someone mislabeling leftovers in the break room, and suddenly the thing you had been excited about felt fragile in your chest.

Like saying it out loud might change it.

Jack’s expression softened. “There it is,” he said.

Your eyes lifted. “There what is?”

“The thing you’re trying to decide whether to tell me.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug. “I’m not doing that.”

“Okay,” Jack said simply.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You believe me?”

“No.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself.

Jack pushed away from the sink and crossed to the island, stopping on the opposite side so he was near you but not crowding you. He knew how to do that. Give space without feeling far away. It was deeply inconvenient.

“I booked something today,” you said.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Something.”

You nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“That was an extremely suspicious something,” Jack said evenly.

You frown, “It’s not suspicious.”

“No?” he quirks a brow.

“No.” You looked back into your tea. “It’s not a big deal.”

Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he said, very gently, “Baby.”

You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.

You sighed, “You said baby like that.”

“Like what?” He asked.

“Like you know me.” You grumbled, deeply inconvenienced.

His mouth twitched. “Terrible habit.”

You opened your eyes and found him watching you with that expression you hated and loved in equal measure. Amused. Patient. Seeing too much.

“You only say it’s not a big deal when it is, in fact, a big deal,” he said.

Your reply comes quickly, “It’s not.”

“Okay.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Letting me lie to you politely.” You point an accusatory finger at him.

Jack nodded once. “I’m a generous husband.”

“You’re an annoying husband.” You corrected.

“Also true.”

Your laugh came easier that time. Some of the tightness in your chest loosened with it.

Jack noticed. He leaned his forearms on the island, gaze still on your face. “You want to tell me?”

You stared at your mug for one more second. Then you took a breath. “I booked a boudoir shoot.”

Jack went still. Not upset. Not confused. Just still. Like his brain had received the words and needed one additional second to decide what kind of husband he needed to be first.

Then he nodded once. “Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Okay.”

You throw your hands up, “That’s all I get?”

His mouth twitched, but he held it back. “For now.”

“For now?”

He nodded, “I’m controlling my reaction until I know why you booked it.”

Your chest did something strange. Softened and tightened at the same time. “You’re controlling your reaction.”

He nodded again, “Trying to.”

“How’s that going?” You ask, unable to stop your smile.

“Poorly.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Jack’s mouth curved, pleased he had gotten you there.

“I am enthusiastically supportive,” he said. “I’m just trying to be cool about it.”

Your eyes narrowed at him, “You’re being weirdly calm.”

“I’m aware.” He replied.

You looked him up and down. “You look like you’re doing math.”

“I am.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of math?”

“The kind where I calculate how excited I’m allowed to be before you tell me whether this is exciting or terrifying.”

That did something to you. Something small and soft and stupidly emotional. Because that was Jack. Not uninterested. Not dismissive. Not making it about himself. Waiting to know what you needed him to be.

You looked down and ran your thumb along the handle of your mug. “Both, maybe.”

Jack’s expression gentled. “Yeah?”

“I’ve thought about it for a while.” You say your voice quieter.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

You inhaled a breath, “I’ve followed this photographer for months. She does these really beautiful shoots, and she talks a lot about body confidence and feeling safe and taking up space in your own body.” You exhaled, a little shaky. “All the comments are always women saying they were nervous and then they left feeling powerful, and I just…”

Jack did not interrupt. You glanced up at him. He was listening the way he always did when he knew something mattered. Completely.

“I wanted to do something for myself,” you said.

There. That was the part.

Jack’s face changed. The humor did not disappear exactly. It gentled.

“For yourself,” he said.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He stayed quiet, giving you room.

“It’s not because I need you to think I’m sexy,” you said.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he still did not interrupt.

You continued, “I mean, obviously, I like that you do.”

His mouth curved.

“But that’s not why I booked it.”

Jack pushed away from the island and came around to your side, stopping in front of you close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. Not so close that you felt trapped.

“Good,” he said.

You looked up. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His voice softened. “That’s better.”

Your throat tightened. “Better?”

He nodded once. “If you want to do something that makes you feel confident in your own body, I love that.”

The words were simple. That was why they hit.

You looked down quickly.

Jack’s fingers brushed the side of your mug, not taking it from you, just touching where your hands were wrapped around the ceramic.

“Are you excited?” he asked.

You nodded. “Nervous.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Jack said gently.

Your mouth twitched. He waited. You let yourself breathe.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m excited.”

Jack’s smile appeared slowly. Not restrained this time. Real. “Then I’m excited.”

Your chest warmed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes moved over your face, careful but warmer now. “Very.”

“There it is,” you said.

Jack huffed a quiet laugh and glanced away for half a second, like he was trying to keep the rest of himself in check. Then he looked back at you.

“Now that I know we’re excited,” he said, “I do have one question.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “One?”

“For now,” Jack replied.

You waved your hand towards him, “Okay. Shoot.”

His expression went very serious. “Are you trying to kill me?”

The laugh burst out of you, immediate and relieved.

Jack pointed at you. “No, I’m serious. I need to know if this is premeditated.”

“It’s not for you.” You said, smiling.

“I understand that.” His eyes stayed warm on yours. “That does not answer the murder question.”

You laughed again, softer this time.

Jack leaned one hip against the counter beside you, trying and failing to look casual.

“I am thrilled for you,” he said. “And also personally concerned for my long-term survival.”

You rolled your eyes, “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a man with eyes.” Jack corrected.

You smiled. “There he is.”

“I held out as long as I could,” Jack said, raising his hands innocently.

You shook your head, still smiling into your tea. The nerves had not disappeared entirely. But they had changed shape. They were not sharp anymore. They were warm. Manageable.

Almost giddy.

Jack watched your smile like he had been waiting for it.

“When is it?” he asked.

“Two weeks.” You answered.

His eyebrows lifted. “Soon.”

“Yeah.” You said with a nod.

Jack looked at you, “You picked outfits?”

“Some.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened with interest before he visibly forced his face back into something neutral.

You pointed at him. “I saw that.”

“I didn’t say anything.” He defended.

You glared. “You thought something.”

“I think many things,” Jack said, aiming for innocence and failing miserably.

“About the outfits.” You prompted.

Jack looked at you for a beat. Then he nodded once. “Yes.”

You laughed.

His smile flickered, but he kept his voice careful. “Do you want help?”

“With outfits?”

“Or not help,” he said quickly. “I can also be far away from the outfits. In another room. Possibly another state.”

You smiled. “I might want help packing.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Okay.”

“But you don’t get to choose everything.” You added.

“Everything,” he repeated.

You nodded firmly. “You heard me.”

His mouth curved. “That implies I get to choose something.”

“You may have opinions.” You replied.

Jack grinned. “I have several.”

“Shocking.” You said sarcastically.

He leaned closer, just enough that his voice lowered. “I’ll keep most of them to myself.”

“Most?” You asked, brows raised.

Jack shrugged, “I’m still me.”

Your pulse jumped. Jack saw it. His expression softened with something quietly pleased before he eased back again, careful not to push. That was the thing about him. The reason you had wanted to tell him, even when it made you nervous. Jack could tease you until you laughed, then pull back the second the room needed tenderness. He could want you without making you feel like his wanting was a demand. He could look at you like that and still leave you room to choose.

You set your mug down on the counter.

“There’s one thing I was thinking about bringing,” you said.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “Okay.”

You continued, “It’s yours.”

His expression shifted. Curious now. “Mine?”

“Maybe.”

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

You shook your head, “No.”

“That was too quick.”

You smiled, but your fingers curled against the counter.

Jack noticed the nerves come back before you said another word.

His voice gentled. “What is it?”

You looked up at him. “Your dog tags.”

Jack went still. This time was different. Not funny. Not controlled. Just still.

His eyes searched your face. “My dog tags?”

You nodded softly, “Only if that’s okay.”

He did not answer immediately.

You rushed on before the quiet could grow too big.

“I know they mean something. I don’t want to just use them as a prop or anything. I just thought…” You looked down, embarrassed in a new way now. “I don’t know. They make me feel brave.”

Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.

You felt it before he even moved.

He reached for your hand, carefully uncurling your fingers from the edge of the counter. His thumb swept once over your knuckles.

“They make you feel brave?” he asked.

You nodded.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Then take them.”

Your throat tightened. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” The word was immediate. Certain.

Jack glanced toward the stairs, where your bedroom was. You knew the tags were kept in the small wooden tray on his dresser. He looked back at you. “Do you want them now?”

You blinked. “Now?”

His mouth curved faintly. “So you don’t spend the next two weeks wondering if I meant it.”

Your eyes burned a little. “That’s annoying.”

“What is?” He asked.

“You knowing me.”

He smiled. “Terrible habit.”

Then he kissed your forehead and left the kitchen. You stood there alone for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of him moving up the stairs and through the bedroom. The faint shift of something being picked up. The soft fall of his footsteps returning. When Jack came back, the dog tags were in his hand. The chain pooled in his palm, silver catching the kitchen light.

He stopped in front of you. For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he lifted the chain slightly. “Turn around.”

Your breath caught. “Jack.”

“Only if you want.” He added gently.

You did.

So you turned.

Jack stepped close behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. He slipped the chain carefully over your head, his fingers brushing your neck as he settled it against your skin.

The tags landed at the center of your chest, cool and solid through the thin fabric of your shirt.

You touched them with two fingers.

Jack’s hands rested lightly on your shoulders. Not holding you there. Just there.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah.”

His mouth brushed the side of your head. “There,” he said softly.

You turned back around, the tags shifting against your chest. Jack looked at them. Then at your face. His expression was quiet now. Not teasing.

Not even thrilled, though you knew he was.

Something softer than that.

You touched the tags again. “How do I look?”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, he seemed to consider the question more seriously than you had meant it. Then his thumb brushed the chain where it rested against your shirt.

“Like yourself,” he said.

Your chest pulled tight. “That’s vague.”

“No.” His voice stayed low. “It’s not.”

The kitchen went quiet around you. Rain at the window. Dishwasher humming. Jack standing close enough that you could feel his breath when he exhaled.

You looked down at the tags, then back up at him. “I’m really doing this.”

His mouth curved, small and proud.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

You smiled. Nervous still. Excited still. But braver now, with the weight of his dog tags warm against your chest and his hand curled carefully around yours.

Jack squeezed your fingers once. “For you,” he said.

You swallowed. “It is for me.”

“I know.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s why I want you to have them.”

The night before the shoot, you packed your bag three times.

Not because you had forgotten anything.

Because packing involved your hands.

The first time, you had laid everything out on the bed in neat little sections: black lace, soft robe, bodysuit, a pair of heels you had bought with more confidence than you currently possessed, one of Jack’s white button-downs folded carefully beside the pile, and the small velvet pouch where his dog tags rested.

The second time, you had decided the robe should be folded differently.

The third time, you had taken everything out and started again because the zipper on the bag had caught on the lace, and apparentl,y that meant the entire system was compromised.

Jack stood in the bedroom doorway for the first five minutes and said nothing.

Which was how you knew he had noticed everything.

You picked up the black robe again and smoothed it over your lap.

Jack’s voice came from the doorway. “Is the robe improving?”

You looked up. “What?”

He nodded toward your hands. “Every time you fold it, you look disappointed in its performance.”

You glanced down at the robe in your hands.

It looked the same as it had the first two times.

You folded it anyway. “I’m fine.”

Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “That sentence is becoming one of your least convincing.”

You set the robe on the bed. “I am packing.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “You packed twenty minutes ago.”

You picked the robe back up. “I am refining.”

Jack nodded once. “Of course.”

You gave him a look. “Don’t sound like that.”

He lifted his brows. “Like what?”

You gestured vaguely with the robe. “Like you think I’m spiraling.”

Jack’s eyes moved over the bed, the open bag, the outfits, and the robe currently being folded with surgical intensity.

Then he looked back at you. “I think you’re refining.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was patronizing.”

His expression stayed mild. “It was supportive.”

You pointed the robe at him. “It was both.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Marriage is about multitasking.”

Despite yourself, you laughed.

Jack’s expression softened in that quiet, pleased way he got when he managed to pull you out of your head.

Then he pushed away from the doorway and came farther into the room.

He had changed into sweatpants and a faded PTMC T-shirt, his hair still a little damp from the shower. His prosthetic made its familiar, quiet sound against the floor as he crossed toward the bed, and the ordinary comfort of it settled something low in your chest.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands loose at his sides.

Not reaching. Not touching the outfits. Not inserting himself into the process.

Just there.

Jack asked, “Do you want reassurance, distraction, or practical help?”

You blinked. “Those are my options?”

He nodded. “For now.”

You looked at the half-packed bag. “What if I want all three?”

Jack’s face stayed serious. “Then I’ll multitask.”

Your throat tightened for absolutely no reason. Or maybe for every reason. You looked down at the robe again, your fingers worrying the edge of the fabric.

You said, “I still want to do it.”

Jack’s expression softened. “I know.”

You swallowed. “I’m just nervous.”

Jack kept his voice gentle. “I know that too.”

You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Are you always this annoying?”

He nodded. “Consistently.”

You set the robe into the bag, then immediately took it back out.

Jack watched it happen. His eyebrows lifted.

You pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Jack held up one hand. “I didn’t.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You were going to.”

He dropped his hand. “I was thinking.”

You folded the robe again. “Loudly.”

His mouth twitched.

You looked back down at the bed. The outfits had looked exciting when you put them together. Pretty. Bold. Maybe even a little powerful. Now, under the warm bedroom light, with tomorrow sitting closer than it had all week, they looked like evidence of nerve you were not fully convinced you had.

You asked, “What if I look awkward?”

Jack did not answer too quickly. That made you look up. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, leaving the pile of clothing between you like neutral territory.

Jack said, “You might.”

Your mouth fell open. “Jack.”

He looked at you steadily. “What?”

You stared at him. “That’s your pep talk?”

Jack leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “It’s an honest one.”

You dropped the robe onto the bed. “It’s a terrible one.”

He shook his head. “No.”

You waited.

Jack’s voice softened. “You might feel awkward for the first few minutes. It’s new. New things feel awkward.”

You looked down at the black lace set on the bed. “That is not as comforting as you think it is.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “Awkward doesn’t mean wrong.”

Your fingers stilled.

He added, “It just means new.”

The room got quiet for a second. Rain tapped lightly against the bedroom window, soft and steady. The lamp on your nightstand threw a warm pool of light across the comforter, catching on the chain of his dog tags where the velvet pouch had fallen open.

You looked at them instead of him. “She said that, actually,” you said.

Jack followed your gaze to the pouch. “The photographer?”

You nodded. “In one of her prep emails.”

Jack’s attention returned to you. “Smart woman.”

You touched the edge of the pouch. “She said most people feel awkward for the first few minutes, and that’s normal.”

He nodded. “Good.”

You let out a small laugh. “She said she walks everyone through posing and facial expressions and what to do with their hands.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Also good.”

You looked at him. “Because apparently no one knows what to do with their hands.”

Jack tilted his head. “That tracks.”

You laughed softly. Then your eyes dropped back to the outfits.

You said, “She also said the point isn’t to look like someone else.”

Jack’s face changed slightly.

You looked back at him. “It’s to see yourself differently.”

His voice went quiet. “That sounds like exactly the right person.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

You looked back at the bed. “I hope so.”

Jack’s hand moved over the comforter, stopping near yours but not touching. “Do you want practical help now?”

You glanced at the pile. “Maybe.”

He sat up a little straighter. “Okay. What are we deciding?”

You picked up the black lace set.

Jack’s gaze flicked to it. Then away. Too fast.

You smiled for the first time in several minutes. “Interesting.”

Jack looked back at you with an admirably blank expression. “What?”

You lifted the lace slightly. “Your face just did something.”

He shook his head. “My face is innocent.”

You smiled wider. “Your face is a liar.”

Jack’s eyes dropped to the lace again. “My face is enthusiastically supportive.”

You held up the set. “So this one?”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Do you feel good in it?”

The question took you by surprise. Not because it was complicated. Because it was the right question.

You looked down at the lace in your hand. “I think so.”

Jack’s answer came easily. “Then yes.”

You smiled, a little helplessly. “That’s all?”

His gaze lifted to yours. “That’s all that matters.”

You looked at him for one beat too long. Then you folded the set carefully and put it in the bag. Jack watched you pick up the bodysuit next, something soft and dark and more structured. You held it against yourself, suddenly unsure.

You asked, “This one?”

Jack’s eyes moved over it, then up to your face. “Same question.”

You sighed. “You’re not going to give me shallow husband opinions?”

His mouth curved. “Oh, I have them.”

You laughed. “Do you?”

Jack nodded. “Many.”

You waited. “And?”

His smile warmed. “I’m choosing growth.”

You repeated, “Growth.”

Jack sat back. “I’m capable of it.”

You gave him a skeptical look.

He nodded toward the bodysuit. “Do you feel good in it?”

You looked at the fabric, thinking about the first time you tried it on. How you had stood in the bathroom and turned slightly toward the mirror. How you had not hated the way it fit. How you had maybe, for half a second, liked the shape of yourself in it.

You said, “Yeah. I do.”

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Then bring it.”

You folded it and set it beside the lace. Then you picked up Jack’s white button-down. The room changed. Not drastically. But enough.

Jack stilled. His eyes dropped to the shirt. Then to you.

“That’s mine,” he said.

You looked down at it. “I know.”

Jack’s voice lowered slightly. “For the shoot?”

You hugged the button-down lightly to your chest. “Maybe.”

His jaw shifted.

You smiled slowly. “You’re being cool about that?”

Jack answered immediately. “No.”

You laughed. “No?”

He looked at the shirt again. “I considered lying.”

You waited.

Jack looked back at you. “Decided against it.”

You rubbed your thumb over the cuff. “I thought it might be nice.”

His gaze moved from the shirt to your face. Jack said, “It will be.”

Your stomach flipped. He seemed to realize how his voice sounded, because he cleared his throat and looked down at the open bag.

Jack added, “Very supportive.”

You smiled. “Very controlled.”

He nodded gravely. “Heroic, honestly.”

You folded the shirt and placed it on top of the pile. Then your hand drifted to the velvet pouch. You had not meant to touch it. Your fingers found the chain anyway.

Jack noticed. His expression softened at the edges.

He asked, “Still taking them?”

You drew the dog tags out of the pouch and let the chain pool in your palm. Silver caught in the lamplight.

You said, “Yeah.”

Jack’s voice was quieter. “Good.”

You looked down at them. “I know the shoot is for me.”

He answered gently. “I know.”

You ran your thumb over the stamped metal. “And I don’t want it to feel like I’m making it about you.”

Jack’s response came immediately. “You’re not.”

The answer loosened your chest.

You let the tags slide against your palm. “They make me feel like I’m not going in alone.”

Jack went very still.

You glanced up quickly. “Not because I need you there. Just because…”

He waited.

You looked back at the tags. “They remind me of who I am when I’m with you.”

Jack’s voice softened. “And who is that?”

Your throat tightened. You said, “Braver.”

For a second, he did not move. Then he stood. You looked up as he came around the bed toward you.

Jack held out his hand. “Can I?”

You knew what he meant without him saying it. You nodded. Jack took the dog tags from your palm with careful fingers and stepped behind you. The bed dipped slightly as he settled close enough to reach around you. His hands came over your shoulders, warm and steady, and then the chain slipped over your head. The tags landed against your chest, cool through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt.

You touched them with two fingers. Jack’s hands settled lightly at your upper arms. Not holding. Just there. He looked at you in the mirror across from the bed. You looked at yourself, too. Not styled. Not posed. Not in lace or soft light or anything close to tomorrow. Just you, sitting on the edge of your bed in pajama shorts and an old T-shirt, hair a little messy, face bare, dog tags resting against your chest.

Your stomach fluttered.

Jack’s eyes met yours in the mirror. “There she is,” he said.

Your throat pulled tight. “Who?”

Jack’s thumbs moved once against your arms. “The woman going tomorrow.”

Your mouth trembled before it turned into a smile.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “She looks nervous.”

You looked at him through the mirror. “She does.”

“She can be nervous,” Jack said.

You swallowed. “She can?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

His gaze held yours in the reflection.

Jack said, “You don’t have to walk in there already believing all of it.”

Something in your chest ached. You asked, quieter than you meant to, “I don’t?”

Jack shook his head. “No.”

His hands stayed warm on your arms. “You just have to go,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s voice softened. “Let her help you see it.”

The room went quiet. You looked back at your own reflection. At the dog tags. The bag half-packed on the bed. At the lingerie, robe, and button-down, waiting beside you.

You were nervous. Still. Maybe more now that it was almost real. But you were also excited. And beneath both things was something new.

Something steadier.

Jack leaned down and kissed the side of your head.

He asked, “Do you want them in the bag or on you?”

You touched the tags. “Bag.”

Jack nodded. “Okay.”

He lifted the chain over your head with the same care he had used to put it on. Then he knelt beside the bed and tucked the tags back into the velvet pouch. You watched him place the pouch into the side pocket of your bag. Not thrown in. Not casual. Careful. Like it mattered because you had said it did.

Jack zipped the pocket closed. “There.”

You smiled. “Your tactical support?”

He stood. “Very official.”

You nodded. “Extremely.”

Jack looked down at the bag. Then at you.

“You’re really doing this,” he said.

Your chest warmed. “I’m really doing this.”

His mouth curved, small and proud. “Good.”

You picked up the robe again. Then you stopped when Jack gave you a look.

You asked, “What?”

Jack’s eyes dropped to the robe. “You’re folding it again.”

You looked at the fabric. “It looked wrong.”

“It’s a robe.”

You lifted your chin. “It can still look wrong.”

Jack crossed his arms. “Do you want a distraction now?”

You laughed. “From the robe?”

He nodded. “From the robe.”

You looked at the bag. “Maybe.”

Jack nodded toward it. “Zip it.”

You looked back at him. “Excuse me?”

His expression stayed calm. “Zip the bag.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That feels aggressive.”

Jack said, “It’s doctor’s orders.”

You pointed at him. “You’re not my doctor.”

He looked around the room. “I’m the only doctor in this bedroom.”

You stared at him. Jack stared back, calm and impossible. Then you zipped the bag. The sound felt weirdly final. Your nerves kicked once, sharp and bright.

Jack noticed immediately. He sat beside you again, close enough that your knees touched.

“Hey,” he said.

You looked at him. His hand found your waist, warm and grounding.

Jack said, “Proud of you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I haven’t done it yet.”

His thumb moved once over your waist. “You booked it. You packed the bag. You’re doing it scared.”

Your eyes burned.

Jack held your gaze. “That counts.”

You looked down quickly. His hand stayed where it was. Steady. Patient. You leaned sideways until your shoulder rested against his. Jack kissed the top of your head.

For a while, you sat there like that, staring at the packed bag at the foot of the bed.

Then you asked, “Are you going to be normal tomorrow?”

Jack considered that. “Define normal.”

You lifted your head. “Jack.”

His mouth curved. “I will be supportive from an appropriate distance.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And?”

Jack looked toward the bag. “And possibly pace.”

You blinked. “You’re going to pace?”

He answered calmly. “Privately.”

You stared at him. “That is not private if I know about it.”

Jack nodded once. “Then forget I said it.”

You laughed, and Jack’s mouth curved against your hair. The bag sat zipped at the end of the bed. The dog tags waited inside. Tomorrow still felt big. But beside you, Jack’s hand warm at your waist, it no longer felt impossible.

You said softly, “Thank you.”

Jack’s thumb moved once. “For what?”

You looked at the bag. Then at him. “For being excited with me.”

His face softened. Jack said, “I am.”

You smiled. “And for trying to be cool about it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m doing terribly.”

You nodded. “You are.”

His eyes warmed. “But you’re doing very well,” he said.

Your throat tightened. Jack leaned down and kissed you once, soft and certain. Then he glanced toward the zipped bag. His mouth curved.

“For the record,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

Jack’s expression turned solemn. “I’m still personally concerned for my survival.”

You laughed and shoved his shoulder. Jack caught your hand before you could pull it back, kissed your knuckles, and held on.

The studio smelled like coffee, linen spray, and something faintly floral. You were grateful for the coffee. It gave you something normal to focus on while your heart tried to climb out of your chest. The building itself was tucked into the second floor of a renovated brick storefront, the kind with creaky stairs and tall windows and old wood floors that had probably seen a hundred different lives before this one. Soft music played from somewhere near the back of the room. The afternoon light came in through sheer curtains, warm and pale, falling across a white bed, a velvet chair, and a small couch draped with a cream throw blanket.

It was beautiful.

That somehow made it worse.

Your bag felt heavier on your shoulder than it had when you left the house. Inside were the outfits you had packed and repacked, the robe Jack had finally made you stop folding, and the velvet pouch tucked safely into the side pocket. Jack’s dog tags. Your tactical support. You smiled faintly at the thought, then immediately inhaled like breathing was a task you had forgotten to practice.

A woman with warm eyes and a messy bun came around the corner holding two iced coffees.

Her smile widened when she saw you. “You made it.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Barely.”

She handed you one of the coffees. “That counts.”

Your fingers curled around the cup. “Does it?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded toward the studio. “Getting through the door is usually the hardest part.”

You looked around at the bed, the mirror, the clothing rack, the camera resting on a stool near the window. Your stomach flipped. The photographer saw it.  She set her coffee on a small table and turned back to you, calm and easy. “First rule.”

You looked at her. “There are rules?”

“One rule,” she said, holding up a finger. “You do not have to know what to do.”

You laughed because the relief was immediate and humiliating. “Great, because I absolutely do not.”

“That’s my job.” She gestured toward the changing area behind a screen. “Your job is to breathe and tell me if something feels weird.”

You nodded. “I can probably do that.”

“Probably is enough to start with.”

Your laugh came easier that time.

She smiled like she had been expecting it. “You’re going to feel awkward for the first five minutes.”

You tightened your hand around the coffee. “Excellent.”

“Everyone does,” she said. “And then your nervous system realizes nothing bad is happening.”

You looked at the bed again. “That would be nice.”

“It usually helps when people realize this isn’t about pretending to be someone else.” The photographer’s voice softened without becoming too serious. “We’re not here to fix you. We’re not here to make you smaller or different or unrecognizable.”

Something in your chest loosened.

She nodded toward the camera. “We’re here to let you see what’s already there.”

Jack’s voice came back to you so clearly it almost felt like he was in the room.

Let her help you see it.

You swallowed.

The photographer tilted her head. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Her mouth curved. “Nervous?”

“Very.”

“Good.” She picked up the garment bag from your shoulder and hung it on the rack. “Means you’re doing something brave.”

That made you laugh softly. “My husband said something like that.”

“He sounds smart.”

“He is.” You looked down at your coffee. “Annoyingly.”

The photographer grinned. “The worst kind.”

You relaxed by a fraction. Enough to follow her toward the changing screen. Enough to unzip the bag. Enough to start.

The first outfit was the bodysuit. It felt safe enough. Structured enough. Like an opening argument you could maybe survive. You changed behind the screen, tying the robe around yourself afterward and staring at your own bare feet against the rug for a second longer than necessary.

Then you stepped out.

The photographer looked up from adjusting the camera.

Her face lit. “Oh, yes.”

You froze. “Yes?”

She pointed gently toward the mirror. “Yes. That’s beautiful on you.”

You looked down at yourself. “I feel like I forgot how to stand.”

“That’s normal.”

“Great.”

She laughed and crossed to the window, adjusting the curtain so the light softened. “Come here. We’ll start easy.”

You obeyed, mostly because she sounded like a person who knew exactly what to do with nervous women in pretty lingerie.

The first pose felt awkward. Your shoulder was too high. Your hand felt strange against your thigh. Your face kept trying to do something and then forgetting what it was.

The photographer lowered her camera. “Drop your shoulders.”

You exhaled and tried.

She smiled behind the lens. “Good. Now breathe through your mouth a little.”

You did.

“Perfect,” she said. “Chin down just a tiny bit. Eyes past me, not at me.”

You shifted your gaze.

“There,” she said immediately. “Hold that.”

The shutter clicked. Once. Twice. Again.

You tried not to think too hard about it. Your fingers curled against your thigh.

The photographer noticed. “Shake out your hands.”

You laughed, embarrassed, and did it.

She pointed gently toward you. “See? That laugh. That was real.”

You looked at her. “The laugh?”

“The laugh.” She lifted the camera again. “Do that again.”

“I can’t just recreate a laugh on command.”

“You don’t have to.” Her grin turned mischievous. “You just have to stop apologizing with your shoulders.”

You blinked. Then laughed for real. The camera clicked again.

The photographer lowered it just enough to smile at you. “That one.”

Your stomach flipped. “That one?”

She turned the camera so you could see the small screen.

You braced yourself.

You did.

You prepared for the familiar list.

Your arm looked weird. Your stomach. Your face. Your angle. Your skin. Your everything.

But then you saw the photo.

And for almost three full seconds, you forgot to critique yourself.

You were sitting near the window, shoulders relaxed, head turned slightly, your mouth open around a laugh you had not meant to give the camera. The light curved over your cheek and collarbone. Your body looked soft and real and somehow stronger than you remembered it feeling. Your breath caught.

The photographer watched your face. “That’s you.”

You looked closer. “That’s me?”

“That is absolutely you.”

Your throat tightened.

The photographer’s voice gentled. “We’ll take a lot more, and you may like some better than others. That’s normal. But I want you to remember that one.”

You looked at her. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t have to become anything else for it.”

The words sat in your chest. Warm. A little frightening.

You nodded, not fully trusting your voice.

The next outfit was Jack’s shirt. You changed behind the screen and left the top few buttons undone because the photographer suggested it, then one more because you decided you wanted to.

That felt like a victory. Small. But yours.

When you stepped out, the photographer smiled before she even lifted the camera.

“That one means something.”

Your fingers brushed the cuff. “My husband’s.”

Her expression softened. “That explains the face.”

You looked up. “What face?”

“The one where you forgot to be nervous for a second.”

You felt heat move up your neck.

The photographer pointed to the bed. “Sit there. One knee up. Let the shirt fall off one shoulder if it wants to.”

You sat, trying not to overthink every inch of yourself.

She adjusted your sleeve gently, then stepped back. “Good. Look toward the window.”

You did. The camera clicked.

“Now back at me.”

You turned.

“Perfect,” she said. “That little smile. Keep it.”

Your mouth twitched. “I don’t know what smile I’m doing.”

“I do.” She took another shot. “And your husband probably does too.”

You laughed.

The shutter clicked. You were starting to understand what she meant. Not fully. But enough. The shoot did not become easy exactly. It became possible.

The black lace was harder. You stood behind the changing screen longer than you needed to after you put it on, looking at yourself in the small mirror propped against the wall.

It was not that you disliked it.

That was the problem.

You liked it.

You liked the shape of yourself in it. The dark lace against your skin. The way it made you feel a little braver than you had been ten minutes ago. The way you could imagine Jack’s face if he saw it and the way that thought did not make you want to hide.

It made you smile.

The photographer’s voice came from the other side of the screen. “You doing okay?”

You looked at your reflection one more time. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You touched the edge of the lace. “I think so.”

“That sounds promising.”

You stepped out.

The photographer went still for half a second.

Then she pointed at you, eyes bright. “That.”

You froze. “What?”

“That look.” She lifted the camera fast. “Don’t move.”

Your laugh caught halfway in your throat as the shutter clicked.

The photographer grinned behind the camera. “Yes. That is the one.”

“What did I do?” You asked.

“You looked at me like you knew.”

Your pulse jumped. “Knew what?”

“That you looked good.”

You laughed, but your cheeks warmed.

She lowered the camera slightly. “Don’t laugh it away.”

You stopped. Not fully. But enough.

She came closer, voice gentler now. “That’s the whole thing, right? Letting yourself know without immediately apologizing for it.”

The room went quiet around you.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

She nodded. “Then let’s take the picture before your brain talks you out of it.”

That made you laugh again. But this time, you did not shrink from it. You let her pose you near the velvet chair, then on the edge of the bed, then against the white sheets with the window light touching your skin. She told you where to put your hands, when to lift your chin, when to soften your mouth, when to look straight at her.

And slowly, impossibly, it started to feel less like pretending.

More like allowing.

There was one photo where she had you turn slightly away and look back over your shoulder.

You felt ridiculous for half a second.

Then she said, “Oh, that is unfair.”

You laughed. “Unfair?”

“Absolutely.” She checked the camera screen and shook her head. “Your husband is going to need a minute.”

The laugh that left you was startled and delighted.

Not because the shoot was for Jack.

It wasn’t.

But because you could picture him.

Trying to be respectful. Failing by inches.

You tucked that thought somewhere private and let it make you bolder.

Between outfits, the photographer handed you water and let you sit on the couch for a minute.

You pulled the robe around yourself, warm and a little breathless.

She sat on the edge of the velvet chair, camera resting in her lap. “How are we feeling?”

You considered lying. Then you smiled. “Better.”

Her face lit. “Good.”

You sighed, “I thought I’d feel silly the whole time.”

“Most women do.”

You looked at her. “Really?”

“Oh, absolutely.” She leaned back in the chair. “We’re taught to apologize for wanting to be seen, then we’re surprised when being seen feels vulnerable.”

Your fingers tightened around the water bottle.

She smiled softly. “But this isn’t about asking anyone for permission to be beautiful.”

The words landed somewhere deep.

She tapped the camera lightly. “It’s about giving yourself proof.”

You looked toward the bed. The white sheets. The soft light. The bag waiting near the changing screen. Your heart kicked.

“I brought something else,” you said.

The photographer’s expression warmed. “Yeah?”

You stood and crossed to the bag. Your fingers found the side pocket, then the velvet pouch inside it. When you returned, you held the pouch in both hands. The photographer did not rush you. You opened it carefully and let the dog tags slide into your palm. Silver against skin.

Cool and familiar.

The photographer’s face softened immediately. “Those are special.”

You nodded. “My husband’s.”

She looked from the tags to your face. “Do you want to wear them?”

“Yeah.” You ran your thumb over the stamped metal. “They make me feel brave.”

The photographer smiled. Not teasing. Not too sentimental. Just understanding.

“Then we’ll make sure the photo feels like that.”

Your throat tightened. “Okay.”

She led you to the bed.

The room felt quieter now.

Not heavy.

Focused.

She draped a white sheet over you carefully once you were lying down. The fabric was cool against your skin, light enough to feel delicate, substantial enough that you did not feel exposed in a way you had not chosen.

The dog tags rested against your chest. Your fingers curled around them automatically.

The photographer adjusted the edge of the sheet near your shoulder. “Good. Let your shoulders sink into the bed.”

You tried.

She smiled. “A little more. You’re safe.”

The words loosened something in you. Your body softened into the mattress.

“There,” she said. “Hold the tags for a second.”

You did. The chain slid over your fingers.

“Now let them fall.”

You opened your hand. The tags settled against your skin. Your breath caught.

The photographer’s voice stayed soft. “Look up at me.”

You looked toward the camera.

“Think of something that makes you feel safe,” she said.

You thought of Jack. Not his reaction. Not whether he would like the photos. Not even the look on his face when he saw the dog tags, though the thought brushed through you warm and quick. You thought of him kneeling beside your bag, tucking the velvet pouch into the side pocket like it mattered because you had said it did.

You thought of his thumb at your waist.

His voice in the bedroom.

You booked it. You packed the bag. You’re doing it scared.

That counts.

Your breath left you slowly. You looked up.

The photographer went quiet. The camera clicked once. Then again. Then several more times, but the silence between them felt different now. Soft. Reverent.

Finally, the photographer lowered the camera. “Oh,” she said.

Your heart kicked. “What?”

Her smile was quiet. “That’s the one.”

You swallowed. “Can I see?”

She came around the bed and tilted the camera screen toward you. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, careful to keep the sheet over you, and looked.

There you were.

Lying beneath white sheets, hair spread against the pillow, Jack’s dog tags resting against your skin.

Your eyes were bright.

That was the first thing you noticed.

Not your body.

Not the sheet.

Not the parts of yourself you had expected to inspect and measure and critique.

Your eyes.

They were bright in a way you did not remember making them.

Your mouth was softened around the smallest smile.

You looked happy.

You looked like you belonged to yourself.

For a second, you could not speak.

The photographer stood beside the bed and let you have the moment.

Then she said, very gently, “That’s you.”

Your throat tightened.

You nodded, but your eyes stayed on the screen. “Yeah,” you whispered.

And for the first time that morning, you believed her.

By the time the shoot ended, your body felt tired in strange places. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your nerves had not disappeared entirely, but they had become something else. Energy. Pride. A little disbelief. You changed back into your clothes behind the screen, fingers moving more slowly now. Before you tucked the dog tags back into the velvet pouch, you held them in your palm for a moment and smiled down at them.

Then you slipped the chain over your head instead. Just for the drive home. Just because you wanted the weight of them with you a little longer.

When you stepped out from behind the screen, the photographer noticed immediately.

Her mouth curved. “Keeping them on?”

You touched the tags beneath your shirt. “For a little while.”

“Good.”

You picked up your bag and looked around the studio one more time. The bed. The chair. The tall windows. The place where you had walked in nervous and awkward and sure you would not know what to do with your hands.

You looked back at the photographer. “Thank you.”

Her face softened. “How do you feel?”

You considered lying. You considered saying good, or fine, or better.

Then you thought of the photo. Your eyes. The tags. The white sheet.

The version of you who looked like she belonged to herself.

You smiled. “Proud,” you said.

The photographer’s smile widened. “Good,” she said. “That’s the point.”

Outside, the air felt cool against your face. You sat in your car for a full minute before starting it. Your bag rested on the passenger seat. The dog tags were warm beneath your shirt. Your hands were still shaking a little when you picked up your phone.

You opened Jack’s message thread. For a second, you just looked at his name.

Then you typed:

You:

I did it.

His reply came less than a minute later.

Jack:

Proud of you.

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt again. Then another message appeared.

Jack:

Also practicing heroic restraint and asking zero inappropriate follow-up questions.

You laughed alone in the car, the sound filling the small space and breaking the last sharp edge of nerves in your chest.

You typed back:

You:

Very mature of you.

Jack replied:

Jack:

Historic.

You were still smiling when another message came through.

Jack:

You okay?

Your thumb hovered over the screen. You looked down at yourself. At the shirt hiding the dog tags. At the bag on the passenger seat. At the version of you still bright behind your eyes.

Then you typed:

You:

Yeah. I feel good.

Jack’s answer came back almost immediately.

Jack:

Good.

Simple. Steady. Jack.

You set the phone down and started the car. As you backed out of the parking space, the photographer’s words stayed with you.

That’s you. For the first time in a long time, you thought maybe it was.

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24

[lady-djarin]

this was so fucking cute i cried😭

[coldfadingdeath]

"father. I have a bomb."

[bidotorg]