Ryland Grace/Reader | Teacher!Ryland x Teacher!Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~16k words
Tags: brat taming, soft dom ryland grace, oblivious ryland grace, slow burn, mutual pining, eight months of sexual tension, teachers au, pre-hail mary, co-workers to lovers, banter, humor, praise kink, dirty talk, edging, oral sex, biting, marking, the wallet condom is the entire fic, brenda was in the front row
Continued from [Part 1] - do read that first.
The weekend is a long time, and you have arrived at Monday with a plan. The plan lasts forty minutes.
[ cross posted on Ao3 ] [ fic masterlist here ]
The weekend is a long time.
The weekend is a thing that has, historically, taken approximately forty-eight hours, and the weekend you have just been through took, conservatively, six weeks. You spent it doing things. You went to the grocery store. You did laundry. You graded a stack of redox quizzes and you made notes for next week's lesson and you did not think about Ryland Grace at all, except for the fourteen hours of Saturday and the eleven hours of Sunday during which you thought about almost nothing else.
You replayed the meeting. You replayed it the way he must have replayed eight months in one night, you suspect, and yours took two days. You replayed the word lazy. You replayed the careful neutral face. You replayed him walking out without looking at you, and the small cold rush of oh, no, and you replayed it from every angle, and at no point did any of the angles get any better.
You have arrived at Monday with a plan.
The plan is: act normal. The plan is: do not give him anything. The plan is: he has made his point, and if you behave for a week he will go back to being the slightly flustered man in a cardigan who you used to be able to ruin with eye contact, and the equilibrium will be restored, and you will have learned a valuable lesson about hubris.
You are very committed to the plan. You believe in the plan. The plan is going to work.
The plan lasts forty minutes.
—
He comes into your classroom at 8:20.
You are at the lab benches, setting up for second period, which is a titration unit and which therefore requires you to be carrying a bottle of sodium hydroxide across the room when he opens the door. You do not drop the bottle. You consider it. You do not.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning."
He is wearing the cardigan. He is wearing, under the cardigan, a t-shirt you cannot fully see, and he has a coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other and he is standing in your doorway like he belongs there, which, technically, he does, because he is a colleague, and colleagues come into colleagues' classrooms, and you have to keep telling yourself this because your body is reacting to him being in here like he has come in to commit a crime.
"You got a second?"
"I'm setting up."
"I can see that. You got a second."
"Grace."
"Two seconds."
You put the sodium hydroxide down. Carefully. With both hands. He waits.
"What."
He holds up the folder. "Curriculum thing. Alvarez wants it by Wednesday. Thought you might have notes."
"You could have emailed."
"I could have."
He has not moved from the doorway. He is still holding the coffee. He is looking at you with the very mild, very patient, very neutral expression of a man delivering an administrative update, except that his eyes have not left your face since he came in, and a man delivering an administrative update would have looked at the folder at least once.
"Was there something else," you say.
"You said my teaching was lazy."
"Grace."
"I just want to make sure I understood what you meant."
"I was making a point."
"In a meeting."
"Yes."
"In front of the department."
"Yes, Grace, that is generally where meetings happen."
"Mm."
He takes a sip of his coffee. He does not look away. You have, in the last forty seconds, lost approximately three layers of skin and you are trying very hard not to show it.
"Do you still think it's lazy."
"I-"
"Because I went home and looked at the unit and I think you might be right."
"What."
"I think you might be right. I'm changing the unit. I'm doing the yeast thing."
"Grace."
"I just wanted to say that. In person. Since you said it in person."
He is, you realise, not letting you off the hook. He has come in here at 8:20 on a Monday morning to agree with you, and he has done it with the polite, neutral, conscientious face of a man closing a loop, and you cannot tell if you are being thanked or being punished or both, and the both is, you suspect, the answer.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay."
"Was there anything else."
"No."
"Okay."
He nods. He does not leave. He takes another sip of his coffee. He looks, very briefly and very deliberately, at the lab bench where you are standing, and then back at your face. He is, you realise, doing a thing. He is doing a thing that is so subtle that if you described it to anyone they would say you were imagining it, and if you described it to him he would say what thing, and you would have nothing to point at, because the thing is not a thing, the thing is a series of very small choices that add up to him standing in your classroom drinking coffee and looking at you and not leaving.
He is doing exactly what you used to do to him.
"You should go to your classroom," you say.
"Probably."
"First period's about to start."
"Mm."
"Stop."
"Stop what."
"Stop saying mm."
"You say mm."
"That's different."
"How."
You don't have an answer to how. You stand there with your mouth slightly open, and he watches you not answer, and the corner of his mouth does the millimetre thing, and he takes another sip of his coffee.
"Have a good first period," he says.
He turns. He goes. He pulls the door closed behind him with the quiet, considerate click of a man who has just left you in a chemistry lab holding nothing and staring at nothing and having to teach sixteen-year-olds about titration in eighteen minutes.
You sit down on the lab stool.
You sit down on the lab stool and you put your face in your hands and you laugh, which is the wrong reaction, which is the reaction of a person whose brain has fully come off the rails, and you laugh for approximately fifteen seconds and then you sit up and you finish setting up the titration and you do not, for the rest of the morning, allow yourself to think his name.
—
You make it until last period.
Last period is your prep. Last period he also has prep on Mondays, which is a piece of information you have, regrettably, retained, and which you are trying very hard to pretend you do not have. You stay in your classroom. You grade. You do not go to the staff room. You do not walk past his classroom. You do excellent, focused work for forty-five minutes and you feel virtuous and you feel mature and you feel like a person who has, finally, gotten a grip.
At 2:40 he knocks on your door.
You look up. He is in the doorway again, except this time he doesn't have a coffee, and he doesn't have a folder, and he doesn't have a reason. He is just there. He is leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets and he is looking at you with the same mild, neutral expression he had this morning, and you realise, with a kind of slow-motion clarity, that you are not going to make it through the rest of this conversation upright.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi."
"Are you busy."
"Yes."
"What are you doing."
"Grading."
"Grading what."
"Grace."
"I'm just asking."
"You're not just asking."
He smiles. Full smile this time. The one that crinkles his eyes.
"I'm just asking," he says again, gentler.
He comes into the room. He closes the door behind him. He walks over to your desk. He does not sit down in the student chair across from you. He sits on the edge of your desk, sideways, with one foot on the floor and one leg bent, and he looks down at you.
The teacher voice is bad. This is worse. This is the teacher voice with proximity.
"So," he says.
"So."
"You've been weird since the meeting."
"I've been weird."
"Mm-hm."
"You've been weird."
"Have I."
"Yes."
"How."
"Grace."
"How."
You stare at him. He waits. He is very, very good at waiting. You suspect, with a flash of belated insight, that he has been good at waiting this entire time and you simply never made him do it.
"You're being mean," you say.
"I'm being attentive."
"It's the same thing."
"It's really not."
He's looking down at you. His glasses are sliding down his nose, the way they always do, and this time he pushes them up himself, with one finger, slowly, and you watch him do it and you understand that he has done it slowly on purpose, and you understand that he has been waiting to do that since Tuesday in the supply closet, and you understand that you are, possibly, going to die in this chair.
He looks at you for a long second. The mild face does not change. His foot, the one on the floor, taps once against the leg of your desk.
"Stand up," he says.
It is a small instruction. It is delivered at low volume. It is delivered in the voice he uses on a student he wants to give a job to, come up to the board, hand out the worksheets, get the door for me, the easy reasonable teacher voice that you have heard him use a thousand times to a thousand sixteen-year-olds and that you have, you realise in real time, never had pointed at you.
You do not stand up.
You sit in your chair and you look up at him from your chair and you feel, very clearly, the moment he registers that you are not standing up, and the moment passes, and he is still looking at you, and he is waiting.
You should stand up.
You should stand up because standing up is the small reasonable thing he has asked for, and because complying with the small reasonable thing is the move that lets you keep your dignity, and because every cell in your body is currently telling you that not complying will be a catastrophe.
You open your mouth. You say it before your brain catches your mouth.
"Make me."
The room goes quiet.
It goes quiet in the way that a room goes quiet when you have just dropped a glass and have not yet heard it hit the floor. There is a one-second window in which you could take it back. You watch the window open and you watch the window close and you do not take it back, because the part of you that said it is the same part of you that said lazy, and that part of you is, evidently, in charge of the steering wheel and committed to driving off the cliff.
He does not move for a beat. He does not move for two.
Then, slowly, he gets off the desk.
He does not come around to your side of the desk. He does not reach for you. He does not touch you. He just stands up, at his full height, two feet from your chair, with his hands at his sides, and he is suddenly much taller than he is when he is sitting on furniture, and the height of him is taking up more of the room than it has any right to.
You stand up.
You stand up without deciding to. Your body has, ahead of your brain, calculated that remaining seated while he is standing over you like that is not a survivable position, and it has corrected for the imbalance, and you are now on your feet and six inches from him and you have to tip your chin up to keep the eye contact.
He has not done anything. He has not made you. You have made yourself. He is watching you have done it, and the corner of his mouth is doing the millimetre thing, and the millimetre thing right now is the worst thing you have ever seen on anyone's face.
"Grace."
"Don't."
"Don't what."
"Don't talk."
"I-"
"You don't get to say make me in this room, do you understand. Not here. Not at school. I cannot do anything about make me in this room, and you said it anyway, and I want you to think about that for a second."
You think about it for a second.
You think about it for several seconds. He is watching you think about it. The patient teacher mask has burned through and what is underneath is the same man, but with a finger of frustration laid quietly along the jawline of it, and the frustration is so much hotter than the patience was that you cannot, immediately, do anything except stand there and absorb it.
"Get your bag," he says.
"Grace, I-"
"Get your bag."
"I-"
"Get your bag."
You get your bag.
You get your bag without saying another word, because there is, you have correctly intuited, no word available to you that will not make this worse. He waits by the door. He does not look at you while you pack up. When you are done he opens the door and he holds it open and you walk through it, and he follows you out, and he pulls the door closed behind him with the same quiet considerate click as this morning, and the considerate click, given what is happening underneath everything, is the most threatening sound you have ever heard.
In the hallway he walks slightly behind you. Not close. Not far. Close enough that you can feel him there. You do not turn around. You do not speak. You walk through the hall and out into the parking lot and the late-afternoon air hits you and you take a breath and you keep walking.
"Did you drive," he says.
"Yes."
"Good. I biked."
"You-"
"Yeah. So you're driving."
You stop walking. You turn to look at him. He has stopped one step behind you and he is, in the late afternoon light, calmly waiting for you to process the logistics of the situation he has just described, which are: you are going to drive him to your apartment, in your car, with him in your passenger seat, for fifteen minutes, in silence, having just said make me to him in your own classroom.
"My bike's locked up at the rack," he says, helpfully. "It'll be fine overnight."
"Overnight?"
"Mm."
"Grace, you biked?"
"I bike every day."
"It's October."
"I have a coat."
You stare at him. He stares back. He is not, you realise, ever going to defend the bike. The bike is a fact of his life, like his glasses or his terrible t-shirts, and he has, in the middle of this, casually mentioned it the way one might mention having brought a packed lunch.
"Get in the car," you say.
"Mm."
"Get in the car, Grace, I swear to-"
"Easy."
He says easy in the same mild teacher voice he said stand up in. You close your mouth. You get in the car. He walks around to the passenger side. He gets in. He puts his bag on the floor between his feet. He buckles his seatbelt. He folds his hands in his lap.
He looks at you.
"You can start driving," he says.
You drive.
You drive out of the lot and you take a left at the light and you do not look at him, because you cannot afford to look at him. You can feel him in your peripheral vision. He is just sitting there. He is sitting in your passenger seat with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes, you can feel, on the side of your face, and he is not saying anything, and the not-saying-anything is filling the car like water.
You make it three minutes before you have to speak.
"You're being weird."
"Mm."
"You're being weird on purpose."
"Mm."
"Grace."
"Eyes on the road."
You snap your eyes back to the road. You did not realise you had taken them off the road. You had, at some point in the last sentence, turned to look at him, and you had not noticed yourself doing it, and he had noticed, and he had, very calmly, redirected you.
The teacher voice is going to kill you in this car.
You make it another four minutes. You make it through two more lights and one merge and a stretch of road where nothing happens. You can hear him breathing. You can hear, you are fairly sure, the seconds of your life ticking away. At one point, at a red light, he reaches over and adjusts the air vent on his side of the dashboard, casually, the way a man might in any car he was riding in, and the casualness of it is the most intimate thing he has ever done.
You make a small sound.
"What," he says.
"Nothing."
"Mm."
"Stop mming."
"No."
The light goes green. You drive. You make it another two minutes. You think, at minute eleven, I could just keep driving. I could keep driving past my apartment and just keep going and we could be in Vermont by midnight.
"You're not going to Vermont," he says, conversationally, like he can hear it.
"What."
"You're doing the face. The face you do when you're considering an exit strategy. You're not going to Vermont."
"How did you-"
"I've been watching your face for eight months, sweetheart, I know what it does."
You almost run a stop sign. You catch yourself. You brake hard. He puts one hand, casually, on the dashboard to steady himself, and does not comment.
"Don't call me that in the car," you say, through your teeth.
"Mm."
"Grace"
"You're going to miss your turn."
You make the turn. You make the turn and you pull into your lot and you park and you sit there for one second with both hands on the wheel and you think, very clearly: I am not going to survive this afternoon.
You get out of the car. He gets out of the car. He walks around to your side and he stands there, calmly, waiting for you, and you lock the car and you walk to your building and he walks one step behind you and you can feel him there and you fumble the key in the lock once, twice, and you get the door open on the third try, and he reaches over your shoulder and pushes it the rest of the way open for you, polite, and the politeness of it, given everything, is what nearly takes you down at the threshold.
You walk in.
He follows you.
He closes the door.
You turn around to face him.
You have, on the drive, prepared a speech. The speech was supposed to land you back on level ground. The speech contained the deli voice and a wry observation about his pacing and a small joke about Vermont, and you had it organised by the time you parked, and you were going to deliver it the moment the door closed, and you were going to win.
You open your mouth.
He kisses you.
He kisses you before you can get the first word out, and the kiss is not a patient, tangential, slow thing. The kiss is a man whose composure has been scratched off by the last forty minutes of you and who is, finally, allowed to use his hands. One hand is in your hair. One hand is at the small of your back. He has pulled you in hard against him and your bag has dropped somewhere and the wall is at your shoulder blades and his mouth is on yours and you understand, in a single small bright pulse of clarity, that you have miscalculated.
You go up on your toes into it because your body has made an executive decision without consulting you.
You get your hands in his hair.
You get your hands in his hair and you pull, because you cannot help yourself, because the bratting is autonomic at this point, because the part of you that has been driving all afternoon does not know how to stop driving even when the road has ended. You pull and he makes a small sound against your mouth, almost amused, and you take the amused noise personally, and you bite his bottom lip.
You bite it on purpose. You bite it harder than you mean to. You feel his lip catch between your teeth and you hear, very distinctly, the sound he makes, and the sound is not amused anymore.
He pulls back.
Not far. Just enough to look at you. His mouth is wet. There is a red mark on his bottom lip where your teeth were. His glasses are crooked. His face is doing something that has nothing to do with patience and nothing to do with mildness and nothing to do with any of the registers he has been using all day, and you stare at him and you understand, with a small descending lurch, that you have snapped him.
He does not move for a second.
Then he says, very quietly: "Okay."
A beat.
"Okay. You want to do it like that."
It is not a question. You do not answer it. You could not answer it. Your mouth has gone dry and your knees are doing something concerning and you are pressed against your hallway wall with a man you have spent eight months teasing and you have just bitten him, and he is looking at you like he is, finally, going to do something about it.
He turns you around.
He turns you around with one hand on your shoulder, not rough, just decisive, and you are now facing the wall and his hand is on the back of your neck, light, not pressing, just there, and his other hand is at your hip, and his mouth is at your ear.
"You are going to listen to me," he says, into your ear. Soft. Almost gentle. "I am going to tell you what is about to happen. And you are going to be quiet and let me tell you. Can you do that."
"I-"
"Words."
"Yes."
"Yes what."
"Yes, I can do that."
"Good."
The good goes all the way down your spine. You make a sound. He hears it. He does not comment on it. The hand at the back of your neck stays where it is.
"I am going to take you to your bedroom," he says, into your ear. "And I am going to take a great deal of time. And every time you try to rush me, I am going to stop. And every time you try to bite me again, I am going to stop. And every time you say something cute, I am going to stop. Three strikes, sweetheart, and I leave you on that bed and I go home. Do you understand me."
"Yes."
"Yes what."
"Yes Grace."
He pauses. The hand at your neck flexes, once, very slightly.
"Try again."
You stare at the wall in front of you. You can feel his breath at the side of your head and his hand at the back of your neck and your face is hot and you are, suddenly, not sure what he is asking for.
He waits.
He waits long enough that you have to think it through, and then you understand, and your stomach does the wrong thing.
"Yes," you say. "Ryland."
"Good girl."
The words do something to you that you will, later, deny. Your knees actually buckle, briefly, and his hand at your hip catches you, and he laughs, very quietly, against the side of your head.
"Down the hall?"
"Yeah."
"Show me."
You show him.
You walk down the hall and he walks behind you with his hand on the small of your back, and the hand is not gripping, it is just present, and the present-ness of it is keeping you upright in a way that is not entirely metaphorical. You get to your bedroom. You stop at the threshold. You do not know what to do.
"Inside," he says, behind you.
You go inside.
He follows you. He closes the door, which is unnecessary because you live alone, and the unnecessariness of the door-closing is a deliberate choice he is making, and you clock it, and your stomach does the wrong thing. He stops in front of you. He looks at you. He pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger, slowly, the way he did at your desk.
"Take your cardigan off," he says.
You take your cardigan off. You drop it on the chair.
"Shoes."
You take your shoes off.
"Good."
You make a sound. You can't help it. He hears it. He does not smile. The not-smiling is somehow worse than the smiling would be. You are standing in front of him in your skirt and your blouse and your bare feet on the cold wood and you are absolutely certain that you have never been looked at like this in your entire life.
"Grace."
"Don't talk."
"I-"
"I said don't talk."
You close your mouth.
He walks around you. Slowly. A full circle. He is looking at you like a thing he is appraising. You stand still because you have been told to stand still and because, frankly, you are not sure your legs could be doing anything else. When he comes back around to your front he stops and he looks at your face and he says, very mildly:
"You bit me."
"I-"
"That was a question."
"It-"
"Was that a question."
"Yes."
"So answer it."
"Yes, I bit you."
"Why."
"I-"
"Yes or no would be easier. Did you bite me because you wanted to, or because you were trying to make me stop being slow."
You stare at him. You understand the trap. The trap is that there is a correct answer and a true answer and they are not the same answer, and he is going to wait until you give him the true one.
"Both," you say.
"Mm."
"Don't mm-"
"I will mm if I want to. Sit on the bed."
You sit on the bed.
He stands in front of you. He is, now, fully out of the patient teacher register and into something else entirely, something where he is paying attention to you with the same focus he uses on a problem he is genuinely interested in, and the focus, which has been pointed everywhere else in his life for forty-eight years, is now pointed at you and you cannot, you find, look away from him.
"Look at me," he says.
You were already looking at him. You keep looking.
"You can be a brat," he says, very calmly. "I figured that out. I figured it out eight months in but I figured it out. You can be a brat with me all you want. You can say make me and you can bite me and you can do whatever you have planned for the next time you want to wind me up, and I am not going to break, sweetheart, I am going to handle it. Do you understand."
"Yes."
"Yes what."
"Yes Ryland."
"Good."
He kneels down in front of you. He is, suddenly, eye level. He puts his hands on your knees. He pushes them apart, slow, and steps in between them, and his hands are on your thighs, sliding up under the skirt, and his mouth is on the inside of your knee, and your hands fly to his hair.
"No," he says, against your knee. "Hands behind you."
You put your hands behind you, on the bed.
"Good."
The good is going to kill you. You are going to die in this bed. Of the goods. You make a small sound and he hears it and he does not comment on it and he moves his mouth higher up your thigh, slowly, and you bite the inside of your own cheek to keep from saying anything.
"You can talk," he says. "I just don't want you to push. Tell me if it's too much. Tell me if you want me to do something else. Just don't tell me to hurry. Got it."
"Got it."
"What was that."
"Got it, Ryland."
He laughs, very softly, against your thigh. He is, you realise, pleased. He is pleased with the Ryland. He is pleased with all of it.
He pushes your skirt up around your hips. His hands hook into your underwear and he pulls it down, slow, and you lift your hips for him without being asked and he says, soft, "good," and you make a sound that is not language. He drops the underwear somewhere on the floor. He puts his hands back on your thighs and he pushes them wider apart and he just looks at you for a second, with his glasses sliding down his nose and his hair already a wreck and the most focused expression you have ever seen on his face.
"Grace."
"Mm."
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what."
"Like you're going to write a paper on it."
He laughs. He laughs against the inside of your thigh and the laugh hits you in three different places and you make a sound and his laugh stops, abruptly, like he has just discovered something.
"Okay," he says, quieter. "Okay. Hold on."
He leans in.
The first thing he does is not what you expect. He does not put his mouth on you. He kisses the inside of your thigh, high up, slow, and then the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and then the other crease, and you are already, embarrassingly, lifting your hips toward his mouth because your body has stopped consulting you on anything, and he places one flat hand on your stomach and presses you back down against the bed.
"Stay."
"Grace-"
"Stay."
You stay.
He puts his mouth on you.
He does it slow, the way he does everything in this bed. The first pass is just his tongue, broad and warm and exploratory, and you make a sound that is not a word and his free hand tightens on your thigh in answer. He does it again. He does it again, slightly different, slightly higher, and you can feel him paying attention, the way he pays attention to a malfunctioning copier, the way he pays attention to a problem he wants to actually solve. He is learning you. He is logging which thing makes you make which sound, and he is going to use it.
"Ryland."
"Mm-hm."
"Ryland, what are you-"
"Shh."
He finds your clit. He finds it and he closes his mouth around it, gently, and he sucks, once, and you make a noise that you would, ordinarily, be deeply embarrassed by, and the noise tells him what he wanted to know, and he does it again.
Your hands fist in the sheets behind you.
He goes slow. He goes unbearably slow. He is not in a hurry. He is, you understand with mounting horror, going to take the entire afternoon to do this if he wants to, and he wants to, and there is nothing you can do about it. He keeps his rhythm steady and patient and exact, and every time your hips try to come up off the bed his hand on your stomach presses you back down, and every time you make a sound he files it, and every time he files a sound he comes back to whatever caused it and does it again.
He slides one hand up the inside of your thigh. He hooks two fingers, gentle, just at your entrance, and pauses there.
"Yes?"
"Yes, Grace, please-"
"Words."
"Yes, you can-"
"Yes what."
"Yes you can, Ryland, please, please-"
"Good."
He pushes the two fingers into you, slow, and your back arches off the bed and his mouth is back on your clit and his fingers are crooked just exactly right inside you, like he has been practicing, like he has been thinking about it, and you are immediately, embarrassingly, very close.
"Ryland, I'm-"
He pulls his mouth off you.
His fingers stay where they are. The fingers stay where they are, slow, lazy, exactly not enough, and his mouth is at your inner thigh again, kissing, like nothing is happening, and you make a sound that is genuinely the most undignified thing your throat has ever produced.
"Grace-"
"Mm-hm."
"What are you doing-"
"Taking my time."
"Ryland, I will-"
"Mm."
He moves his fingers, just a little, just enough to make you make another sound, and then he keeps them still, and your hips try to move and he presses you down with his free hand and you understand, with a kind of furious clarity, that he is going to keep you exactly here, on the edge, for as long as he decides to, and there is nothing you can do.
You drop your head back against the pillow and you make a sound that is half a laugh and half something that is not a laugh.
"You are evil."
"Mm-hm."
"You are literally evil-"
"Ask me for it."
"What?"
"Ask me for it. Properly. Like you mean it."
You lift your head. You look at him. He is between your thighs with his glasses fogged and his fingers inside you and his free hand on your stomach and his mouth wet, and he is waiting, and you understand that he is going to wait as long as it takes, and you understand that you cannot wait as long as it would take, and you give up.
"Please, Ryland."
"Please what."
"Please, your mouth, please will you finish, please-"
"Good."
He puts his mouth back on you.
He does not, this time, go slow. He has gotten his answer, and now he is going to give you what you asked for, and what he gives you is steady and focused and exactly the rhythm he had a minute ago, and his fingers crook inside you on the same beat, and you come apart in under thirty seconds with both hands fisted in the sheets and his name in pieces in your mouth.
You come for what feels like a long time. He works you through it, mouth and fingers, until you are pushing at his shoulder with one hand because you cannot take any more, and only then does he ease off, slow, and rest his forehead against your inner thigh for one second, breathing.
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"Up."
"Are you asking."
"I am asking, Grace, please, get up here-"
"Mm."
He gets up there.
He pulls his fingers out of you, slow, and you make a small protesting sound that you hate yourself for, and he kisses the inside of your thigh once more, and then he climbs up your body, slow, kissing as he goes. He kisses your hip. He kisses your stomach. He pushes your skirt the rest of the way up and then off you entirely, dropping it over the side of the bed, and he kisses up between your ribs and unbuttons your blouse one button at a time with his teeth around the third button which makes you laugh, and he says "don't make me laugh, I will lose track," and undoes the rest with his hands.
He pushes the blouse open. He looks at you. His face does the thing it does when he is looking at something he genuinely cannot believe is in front of him.
"Hi," he says.
"Ryland, please get off me and take your pants off."
He stops.
He stops kissing your sternum and he lifts his head and he looks at you. The look is not angry. The look is patient and very slightly disappointed, in the way a teacher looks at a student who has just done the exact thing the teacher told them not to do five minutes ago.
He sits up. He sits back on his heels between your knees. He puts his hands on his thighs.
He waits.
"Grace."
"Mm."
"What did I-"
"You're pushing."
"I'm not-"
"Mm."
You stare at him. He stares back. He is, you realise with a kind of dawning horror, not going to do anything else until you correct yourself. He is going to sit there, between your bare knees, with his glasses fogged and his hands on his own thighs, until you ask him properly.
The afterglow of the orgasm he just gave you is still in your bones. Your body is still loose and shaky and grateful, and you have just demanded that he hurry up like none of the last forty minutes happened, and he is now demonstrating, with great patience, that they did.
"Ryland."
"Mm."
"I'm sorry."
"Mm."
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Try again."
"Please. Please, will you take your pants off."
"Better."
He stands up off the bed.
He stands up and he turns away from you, slightly, and he pulls his t-shirt off over his head, slow, and you finally get to see him properly, and what you see is a man who is, by any honest measure, real. Real chest. Real shoulders. Real soft middle where his cardigan has been hiding it. Real chest hair, going grey in places. The most Ryland Grace body you have ever seen, and your mouth goes dry.
"Stop looking," he says, without turning around.
"No."
"That's my line."
"Mm."
He laughs, soft. He unbuckles his belt. He undoes his pants. He pushes them down with his underwear in one movement and steps out of them, and he is, you note with some considerable feeling, very hard, and he turns around and he sees you looking and he does not, for once, tell you to stop.
He leans over and picks his pants up off the floor and fishes in the pocket. He comes back up with his wallet. He opens his wallet. He takes out a condom.
You stare at him.
"You had that in your wallet?"
"Mm-hm."
"Since when."
"Couple weeks."
"Couple weeks?"
"Mm-hm."
"Ryland-"
"You want to keep talking about it, or-"
"Get over here."
He stops.
He stops with the condom in his hand and he looks at you, calmly, and he does not move toward the bed.
"Try again," he says.
"Grace, I-"
"Try again."
"I-"
He waits. He holds the condom. He is standing two feet from your bed, naked, hard, with his glasses sliding down his nose, and he is not coming, and you are spread out on the bed with your blouse hanging open and your underwear gone and your skin still flushed from the orgasm he just gave you, and you have just told a naked man holding a condom to get over here, and you are about to lose your mind.
"Please."
"Please what."
"Please, will you, will you come back to the bed, please, Ryland-"
"Better."
He comes back to the bed.
He rolls the condom on, slow, watching your face the whole time, and you watch his hand on himself and you make a sound and he hears it and the corner of his mouth pulls and then he is kneeling between your thighs again and he leans down and kisses you, slow, and his mouth tastes like you, and you make another sound and you reach for him and he catches both your wrists, gently, and pins them next to your head.
"Hands here," he says, against your mouth.
"Ryland."
"Stay."
You stay.
He braces himself on one forearm next to your head. He reaches down with his other hand and lines himself up, and he pauses there, just at your entrance, and looks down at you.
"Yes?"
"Yes, Grace, I have been saying yes-"
"Just checking."
He pushes in.
He pushes in slow. He pushes in unbearably slow, because of course he does, because he has not stopped being himself for one minute of this afternoon, and you feel every inch of him going in and you make a sound that has no shape, and he is making small sounds back into your neck that are not words, and when he is all the way in he goes still and drops his forehead onto your shoulder and breathes out, ragged, against your skin.
"God."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"Move."
He moves.
He moves slow at first because he cannot, evidently, help it, because slow is his whole afternoon, but the slow does not last very long this time. The slow lasts maybe thirty seconds. The slow lasts until you wrap one leg around his hip and tilt up into him and make a small please sound against his ear, and then the slow goes out of him in long peeling sheets, and what is underneath it is a man who has been wanting this for eight months and has been holding himself together with both hands, and he is not, now, holding himself together.
He picks up the pace. He picks it up and he does not put it down. He is over you, braced on both forearms now, his hips snapping into yours in a steady deep rhythm, and his face is in your neck and he is talking, of course he is talking, and what he is saying is not the patient teacher voice from the hallway, it is not the careful handler from the desk, it is Ryland Grace talking like he talks, breathless and tangential and chaotic, into your skin.
"God, you are, you are, I have thought about this, I have thought about this so much you have no idea-"
"Ryland"
"You have no idea, I have, eight months, eight whole months of you sitting on my desk and-"
"Ryland, I-"
"Lazy, you called my teaching lazy-"
"Grace."
"In front of everyone, in front of-"
You laugh. You laugh and the laugh shakes you both and he makes a small surprised sound at the way you tighten around him and his hips stutter once before he catches the rhythm again, and you bite his shoulder, the same one as before, harder this time, and he says fuck into your neck which is the first time you have ever heard him swear and the swearing does something to you that you will, later, have to think about carefully.
He pulls his head up out of your neck.
He looks down at you. His mouth is still wet. The red mark from your teeth is still on his bottom lip. His hips have not stopped moving in that deep steady rhythm, and his face, above yours, is focused, and he is looking at you with the calm decisive attention of a man who has just decided to do something about a thing.
He leans down.
He puts his mouth on the place where your neck meets your shoulder. He does it carefully. He does it without hurrying. And then he closes his teeth around the skin there, not hard, just deliberate, and bites you.
You make a sound.
He holds the bite for one beat longer than you expect, and then he releases it, and his tongue passes over the mark he has just left, slow and soothing, and he kisses the spot once, and lifts his head again.
"There," he says, mild. "Closer to even."
You stare up at him. He is still moving. The mark on your neck is throbbing in a way that is travelling through the rest of you, and you make a sound that is not a word, and the corner of his mouth pulls.
You have, in the middle of all of it, one single very clear thought.
The thought arrives without tone. The thought arrives without any particular feeling attached to it, just a flat declarative line in your own voice in the middle of your own head, which is: I am going to murder him and then I am going to marry him.
He laughs, very softly, against the side of your head, like he has somehow heard it.
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"Harder. Don't ask, just do it."
He stops.
He stops moving. He does not pull out. He stays exactly where he is, all the way inside you, and he goes completely still, and he lifts his head off your neck and looks down at you.
You stare up at him.
"No," you say. "No, no, no, Grace, please, please don't-"
"What did I tell you at the wall."
"Ryland-"
"What did I tell you. About the third strike."
You make a sound. It is not a word. It is the sound of you understanding, in a single small bright pulse, that he has been counting. He has been counting the pulls and he has been waiting to use the threat and the threat is now, and you are full of him and he is not moving and you are going to die.
"Ryland, I'm sorry-"
"What was the rule."
"Don't push, don't push, Ryland please-"
"And what did you just do."
"I-"
"Look at me."
You look at him.
His glasses are fogged. His hair is a wreck. His face, above yours, is focused and patient and unmoving, and his hips are still and his weight is heavy and you can feel him inside you still hard and still right there and he is doing nothing, and you understand, in the same small bright pulse, that he can do this all afternoon, that he is patient enough and frustrated enough and attentive enough to do this all afternoon, and that the only way out is through.
"I pushed."
"Mm-hm."
"I pushed, I'm sorry, Ryland, please-"
"Please what."
"Please, please will you, will you please go harder, please-"
"Mm."
He waits one more beat. He waits long enough to make you sure, for one terrible second, that he is going to say no, and then he leans down and kisses you, gently, on the forehead, and he says, very softly, "okay," and he gives you what you asked for.
It is not gentle this time.
It is not gentle and you cry out at the first hard thrust and his mouth comes down on yours and swallows the sound and then he is fucking you, properly, hard, the way you have been pushing for, and the difference between thirty seconds ago when he was still and right now is so vast that your whole body is shaking with it. His hand has come up to cradle the back of your skull, carefully, like he is making sure you don't hit the headboard, and the carefulness of the hand in contrast to the rest of him is what finally undoes you.
You feel it coming. He feels it coming. He somehow knows, because he is paying attention the way he pays attention to everything, and he reaches down between you with his free hand and his fingers find your clit and he says, into your ear, "come on, sweetheart, come on, I've got you, I've got you, good girl," and you come apart underneath him with his name in your mouth, both of them, Ryland Grace, broken, and you are not, this time, trying to be quiet, and he is saying it again into your ear while you come, good girl, that's it, good girl, over and over, soft and certain, and you understand dimly that he has waited to deploy that one, that he has held it back since the hallway, and the saving of it is the last thing that goes through your mind before everything goes white.
He follows you a few thrusts later with his face buried in your neck and a sound he makes that you will think about for weeks.
He goes still.
He is heavy on top of you. His whole weight. He is breathing hard. His hand is still cradling the back of your skull. His other hand is gripping your hip, hard enough that there will be marks tomorrow, and you do not, you find, mind.
You lie there.
You lie there for a long time. He does not move. You do not push him off. His breath slows. Yours slows. His glasses are pressed sideways against your cheek and are, definitely, bent.
Eventually he kisses the side of your neck, very softly, and lifts his head, and looks at you.
He looks like a man who has just been hit by a small truck.
"Hi," he says.
You laugh. You cannot help it. The laugh shakes you both and he laughs too, and he drops his forehead back onto your shoulder, and you put your arms around him, and he sighs, and the sigh is the most relaxed sound you have ever heard him make.
"Ryland."
"Yeah."
"You had a condom in your wallet for two weeks."
"Yes."
"That's presumptuous."
"Mm-hm."
"You were that sure?"
"I was hopeful."
You laugh again. He laughs into your shoulder. He kisses your collarbone, sleepy now, and after a second he eases out of you, careful, and deals with the condom, and comes back and sprawls half on top of you with his face in your neck.
"Your glasses are bent."
"I know."
"They're really bent."
"I'm aware."
"You should take them off."
"I'm not moving."
"Grace."
"Mm."
You laugh. You laugh and he laughs into your neck and he presses a kiss to your jaw, and you reach up and, gently, take his glasses off his face and put them on the nightstand. He makes a small grateful noise. He closes his eyes.
"Hey," he says, into your neck. Quiet now.
"Yeah."
"You're not actually allowed to call my teaching lazy in front of the whole department."
"Oh my god."
"I'm just saying. As a general policy."
"Grace, I will throw you out of my bed."
"You won't."
"I will."
"You won't."
You won't.
He pulls you closer. He is warm. He is heavy. After a minute, into your hair, he says, very softly:
"I clocked you at the meeting."
"I know."
"I want to be on record. About when I clocked it."
"Grace, I know."
"Just so we're clear."
"We're clear."
"Mm."
A pause.
"You really did call it lazy, though."
"Grace."
He laughs into your neck. You close your eyes. The afternoon light is doing something through the curtains and your apartment is very quiet and his weight is heavy against you and you think, very clearly, oh.
Every single fic update there is an author trying frantically to find the right balance between a nonchalant aside of "leave a comment if you enjoyed =)" and clinging desperately to the coat tails of a random stranger, dragging along behind them on the street wailing "Please, please! I have to know what you thought! I'm desperate to talk to people about this! Ask me about the alliterative repetition! Ask me about the symbolism!"
So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.
I love the lawyer metaphor, because whenever I see “John knew that...” in prose writing I immediately think “how? How does he know it?” Interrogate your witnesses. Cross-examine them. Make them explain their reasoning. It pays dividends.
First, let me preface this with something very important: you can treat all of this advice as SECOND-DRAFT ADVICE. It is so much easier to rewrite this kind of stuff once you have words on the page. Telling yourself the first draft is totally appropriate and acceptable.
What we’re talking about here are FILTER WORDS (and to some degree verbs of being). Yes, “thought” words are included. But so are “heard, saw, looked, tasted, smelled” etc.—most words having to do with the senses.
This isn’t black and white advice; sometimes you’ll use these words and that’s okay. They’re not WRONG. They’re just weaker. And they’re weaker because they create distance between the reader and the experience of the character.*
If you want your reader to feel like they’re experiencing the story right alongside the character, you want to cut down on filter words.
*This is particularly important with first person and close third POVs. The reader always knows whose eyes they’re seeing through and thoughts they’re privy to. So you don’t need to tell them “I saw X.” Or “I heard X.” Or “I thought Y.” You can just jump into the action/observation as it’s happening.
This is also where you want to pay attention to verbs of being.
“It was rainy.” Versus: “The rain pounded against the roof.” Or “The rain howled like an injured animal.” Or “The rain tapped against the window like an anxious lover.” All of these are inviting the reader deeper into the experience of the story by using stronger verbs and similes. And, at the same time, they stir feelings (instead of TELLING feelings). And feelings keep your reader engaged. Engaged readers keep turning pages; engaged readers become FANS.
The most valuable advice that Author Ex gave me through the years that we wrote together was this: the problem with all these filter words is that they create distance in the POV.
That means that when you read a line like
John saw that the curtains were open.
It immediately takes you OUT of the character's perspective and instead tells you what they experience as a secondhand observation.
You don't have to get fancy or purple with how you rephrase things like this. Not everything needs a ton of breathing room.
You wanna know what's perfectly impactful while keeping a tight POV?
What I always love about this every time it crosses my dash is that while it's good advice, it's not actually framed as advice. It's framed as a time-limited challenge. That's very different!
It's not saying "never use these words again." It's saying "give this a try, a really hardcore try, just for a little while (it says six months but obviously you can adjust that), and see what happens." Which is so much more useful, because it's framing it as a learning experience.
If you do this, for six months or two months or one full story or whatever, at the end of that time you'll have a better understanding of when these words are and aren't necessary and when and how to use them to get the specific effect you want - because like defilerwyrm says, they create distance, and maybe sometimes you want that!
So much writing advice falls flat because you can always think of an exception that allows you to ignore the rule. But a writing challenge gives you a chance to explore new territory and see how it works.
summary: bob floyd was in a pickle. his ma and pa were expecting him to bring someone home for his older brother’s wedding. are you up for the challenge of being his fake girlfriend for the week? or will it ruin your friendship?
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, oral fem and male receiving (bob eating it from the back), male masturbation, roommates/friends to lovers (my fav trope sue me), no use of y/n
word count: 14.3k
a/n: bob is a total mama's boy in this, but in such a good way. can you guys tell i just love bob so much? i hope you enjoy!
masterlist
your call sign: bee
In a month, Bob was expected back in Montana for his older brother's wedding. But he stared at the most recent missed call from his Ma and grimaced. How was the wedding already so close? And how had he dropped the ball this badly?
A few months earlier...
"Ma, yes, I'm still coming," Bob spoke into the phone pressed against his cheek and shoulder. His hands were folding his fresh laundry as it lay out on his bed.
"And your older brother needs to know if you're bringing someone with you, honey. There's no shame in coming home alone again..." his mother said in a sweet voice, but Bob knew what the underlying tone meant. All his life, he never had anyone to bring home. It was like an ongoing joke inside his family at this point. No high school or college girlfriends seemed acceptable at the time, but now he was a Navy pilot and couldn't get a girl? Well couldn't get the girl he really wanted.
Before he even thought about what he was saying, he blurted out a response, "I'm bringing someone."
What.
"What?! Robert Floyd, you better not be messing with me!" his mother squealed over the phone. "Jim!" Bob had to pull the phone away from his ear with a grimace as his mother shouted for his father. "He's bringing someone!"
"About time," he could hear his father's gruff voice on the other end of the call. "Was gettin' worried about him out there in California. That boy's not built for the beach."
"Oh, you hush! Honey, I'll go ahead and let Mark know. I love you!" his mother's excitement could be felt through the phone, her voice all high and pitchy.
"Bye Ma, I love you," Bob huffed out. What did he just do?
"How's she doing?" Bob jumped at the sound of your voice, quickly turning to you. You lounged against the door frame of his bedroom, wearing nothing but a sports bra and some running shorts. He hadn't expected you to be home from your run with Phoenix so soon.
"Ma? Oh, uh, yeah, she's good. She's good, nothing new, y'know," he fumbled through a response, trying to not to look at the way the beads of sweat ran down your neck.
You hummed at him, "That's good. Are you still up for Thai food tonight? The new place on 4th?"
Of course, he was. When you first mentioned it last weekend, he had almost jumped at the opportunity. Sure, he liked Thai food, but sitting across from you and sharing a meal was what Bob really cherished. "Yep! Yeah, that sounds good. Ready in an hour?"
"You read my mind, Bobby," you said with a grin as you backed into your room across from his.
Present time…
“What’s wrong?” you saw the scowl on Bob’s face as he stirred the pasta like he had a personal vendetta against it.
“Huh? Oh, um, just thinking about my brother’s wedding,” he said like even the thought made him sick.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you said as you prepped the various vegetables on the countertop around you. “I love weddings. The outfits, the candles, the flowers! I can’t wait to get married. And I don’t want to have a big wedding, y’know? But like more of a backyard, summer barbecue type of vibe. Oh! And I want all my bridesmaids in different color dresses!”
Bob watched you as you described your perfect wedding, mentally taking notes. The way you had set down the knife to wave your hands around was adorable. You were always so animated, unafraid to show your emotions.
“But Bobby, the best part about weddings is…” you left the ending open for him, ushering him to fill in the blank.
“The cake?” he questioned. To be honest, he was trying to appeal to your sweet tooth.
“I mean, yeah, that’s pretty high up there. But no, it’s the look right before the first kiss. So many people say it’s the first look or the actual kiss, but for me it’s that moment where everyone knows what’s coming next and the purest emotions are on the bride and groom's faces,” you explained in pure joy and awe, like you had experienced this feeling yourself. It was sweet to watch. Your wonder and love for the simple things were something Bob loved about you.
“But, why is that moment better than the first look?” he asked innocently.
You sighed wistfully. "Just that moment when you can see the excitement on the groom's face, and he can barely contain himself. And the bride is usually so bashful, but always so excited. It's just so sweet, Bobby."
It did sound sweet. If Bob and you were getting married, he doubts he'd be able to contain his eagerness before the first kiss. No, he'd be way too focused on you to even listen to the officiant of the ceremony. Surely, he'd forget what to say, and he'd be a mess through his vows.
Bob was quiet for a minute or two, and you wondered what was going on in his head. You saw the way he had a small smile on his face, like it was hidden and just for him at this moment. And the way his shoulders relaxed, going more and more slack as time passed.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you?" you asked him with a teasing smile.
"Yeah, maybe," he chuckled and went back to stirring the pasta. Bob wanted to stay in this moment forever with you. It was so domestic. Cooking together in the kitchen you shared, laughing and throwing each other playful looks, talking about weddings. Maybe one day you'll talk about your wedding. Anything you wanted for the big day, Bob was sure to agree.
Living with you had been both the best and worst thing for Bob. A few months into the program, your lease was about to let up, and you were scrambling to find a new place. Bob hadn't known you prior to the mission that brought you all down to San Diego, but you had become close very quickly. Being two of only a few backseaters in the squad, you and Bob had spent a lot of time together in training and going over mission briefs. He had met a handful of WSOs in his time in the Navy, but knowing you was like a breath of fresh air. You never diminished your position or your knowledge, even when other pilots would question your place in the military. It was a learning curve for him to be around at first; seeing you go toe-to-toe with cocky pilots was daunting. He learned that's where your call sign came from, Bee. You were sweet, but could sting when you wanted. Soon, he got used to it, becoming more confident in himself in turn.
When you joked about bumming it on Phoenix's couch until you found a new place, Bob chimed in, "You can stay at mine. I have a spare bedroom, never really got around to using it."
"Wait, really?" you asked, fully turning your body towards him. You always did that, too, gave your full attention to whoever you were talking to. It was a bit intimidating. Bob was only now getting used to it, but still felt his heart beat pick up.
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind having a roommate," he said with a soft smile.
"Oh, Bobby, I could kiss you right now!" you said with a big grin, squeezing his forearm. He wished you had.
It wasn't until you had fully moved in that Bob realized the full consequences of his actions. You were horrible to live with.
Not in the way that you left dishes in the sink to "soak" all week, or you forgot to switch your laundry out for hours on end, or even in the way that you would blast music loudly at 2 in the morning. No, you didn't do any of those things. In fact, you always cleaned up after yourself, and Bob too, taking his plate right from his lap before he could protest. You cleaned the whole apartment, top to bottom, on Sundays. Your music carried throughout the hallways as you moved from room to room. Best of all, you baked! Every week! Trying a new recipe and being a little messy was your favorite way to unwind from a hectic work week, and lucky for Bob, he was your taste tester. Sure, you brought in your treats for the entire squad on Mondays, but Bob got to sit at the counter and watch you work. You would always gravitate towards him during this time, either letting him try the new brownie batter before you added more sugar or asking him how many chocolate chips are too many.
You were a great roommate. Always so courteous and kind. Anyone would be lucky to share a space like this with you. But it was torture actually living with you.
Too many times, Bob has caught a glimpse of you walking around in nothing but a shirt and some panties. To be fair, it was almost always after you had showered and were walking to your room. But as Bob watched you track down the hallway, he cursed himself for offering up the room in the first place.
And since moving in and getting closer, you had become even more touchy than usual with him. You were quick to give out hugs and other normal affectionate gestures to everyone on the squad, Bob included, even when he had only known you for a few weeks. But now, it was like Bob's personal space was your personal space. You always pressed into him when maneuvering around the small kitchen. Bob always held his breath, feeling you up against him, reaching for the oregano or paprika. Recently, too, your hand would work its way into his windswept hair after long days at the beach. The way your nails would drag against his scalp made him want to groan every time.
But worst of all were busy nights at the Hard Deck. On multiple occasions, barstools would fill up quick, only leaving the squad with two or three seats. It was fine for most of the night, with everyone so invested in the latest match of pool between Bradley and Jake. But after a few hours, you needed a break and always found your way into Bob's lap.
"I can get up, so you can sit," Bob stammered out the first time you sat on his lap. The rest of the squad shared amused looks, careful to hide them from both of you.
"It's okay, Bobby, I know you wanna sit too. Plus, you're comfy," you said, wiggling around trying to find the best position like he actively wasn't about to combust.
A bump of your hip snapped the man back into your kitchen. "Everything okay over there, space cadet?" you asked, tilting your head to look at him better.
"Mhm, yeah. I'm okay," he said in a small voice, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes.
Furrowing your brows, you wondered what was making Bob so distant tonight. "You know you can always talk to me, right?" you offered with a small smile. People say that but rarely mean it. But you meant it, and you wanted him to know that. He just nodded his head and continued stirring the boiling pasta. "Okay, Bobby. I'm here when you want to talk," you said as you rubbed up and down his back. You swore you saw a chill run up his spine.
You watched the way his face continued to fall as you worked on dinner. Bob was always quieter than you, so gentle and sweet. But you hoped whatever was bothering him would go away, or that he would talk to you about it at least. As the night continued, he gave you those small smiles, and your worry just grew.
જ⁀➴
"Why don't you just ask Bee?" Phoenix questioned as she grabbed the drink Penny put on the bar top. The Hard Deck was busy with patrons in all corners of the joint.
"I can't just ask her!" Bob squeaked out; he felt his cheeks flush at the thought of it.
"Why not? Because you have a crush on her? Come on, Bob," she teased him with a shit-eating grin on her face. She watched him slump against the bar as if she had just punched him in the gut. "If you won't take me, then why not Bee?"
Bob sighed, given that they had this conversation almost every day. Before training, after training, and even during training. Even the clear blue skies weren't safe from Natasha's questions. "It's not like I don't want to take you. But my parents know you. They're expecting me to bring someone home, y'know."
"Someone to give them grandchildren," Phoenix cackled as Bob groaned loudly. Penny placed his fizzy soda on the bar with a smile, knowing all about the man's debacle. Natasha thanked her, and they made their way back to the squad.
"Don't say that! I don't even, I can't even think- Oh jeez, Phoenix. No more talking about this. I've decided." The pilot swore she had never heard his voice that pitchy before. Bob shook his head as he wove through the crowd of people.
Once they had settled back into the fray of the squad, Natasha finally took to giving actual advice, not just teasing her back-seater. "I think you should just be honest, tell her. It's Bee."
"Oh yeah, let me just tell her I've been in love with her for months on end now. She's gonna think I'm a creep! Luring her into my apartment, making her live with me," he half shouted, half whispered at her. "And I also said, I didn't want to talk about this. Especially with her right there." Bob glanced at you laughing freely with Bradley, head thrown back. Your energy was contagious to the people around you, as he saw Bradley and Mickey spotting matching smiles. Bob found himself smiling to himself, too.
"She wanted to live with you, idiot. And I'm not saying confess your love. Just ask for this favor. You don't have to give anything away if you don't want to," she said matter-of-factly. If only it were that easy. Within minutes of you being in his childhood home, Bob would surely fold and show all the feelings he's been trying so hard to hide. One conversation and approving nod from his mother, and he'd propose on the spot.
The pair were too entrenched in their conversation to see you making your way over. You didn't mean to snoop, but you couldn't help overhearing snips of their chatter.
"I just don't know what I'm going to do. I have to tell Ma I'm not bringing anyone," Bob muttered, dragging a hand down his jaw.
"To the wedding?" You whipped around and saw Bob's eyes almost pop out from behind his glasses. Phoenix, however, let a mischievous glint dance on her face as she watched the two of you. Directing your attention back to Bob, you continued, "Sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But if you need someone, I'll go."
Natasha let out the biggest cackle you had heard; it even caught a few of the other aviators' attention. She looked to Bob, who seemed to be frozen in time, and decided she would do her best friend a solid.
"His family is expecting a girlfriend. That's why Bob is having such a hard time," she explained. But you just furrowed your brows further at this.
"I'll be your girlfriend," you said. At this, Bob nearly fell off his barstool. "I mean, I can be your pretend girlfriend for a week. I'm really good with parents and family and stuff. And we know each other well, too! I'm sure we'd be a convincing couple. So, yeah. If you need someone." Suddenly, you felt awkward under his gaze. You definitely gave it away. Who just proclaims they'd be someones fake girlfriend?
You met Jake's gaze from across the pool table and saw him biting down on his bottom lip, trying to suppress the grin on his face. Flashing a 'Help me!' face in his direction, the blonde man made his way over to you.
"Offering your fake girlfriend services again, Bee?" he asked with a raised brow. Both Phoenix and Bob shot him quizzical looks. "Bee came out to dinner with my folks when they were in town a few weeks ago. They were on me about not settling down, but she quelled those fears. Swear I've never seen my mom fall in love faster."
"Really?" Bob asked, looking between both of you. "You met his parents?" A flash of hurt crossed his face. You had missed it completely, but both Hangman and Phoenix caught the distress on his face.
"That's perfect! Right, Bob? Bee would be great," she hit his arm, trying to snap him out of what Jake had just said. The three of you looked at Bob, waiting for his response.
He nodded slowly before responding, "Yeah, I mean, if you're okay with missing the full week. I'd love to take you." Natasha grinned at his recovery, mentally noting to pat him on the back about it later.
"I can talk to Maverick about it tomorrow. I'd love to come," you said bashfully. Jake smiled knowingly at your response. He locked eyes with Natasha and winked. The woman just rolled her eyes but got the signal.
"When was the last time I beat you in pool Hangman? I think my trophy needs a little dusting off," she challenged, gaining the attention of the squad and taking it off Bob and you.
"Looking for a rematch? I'm happy to oblige," Jake said in a sickeningly sweet tone. He stepped closer so only she could hear the next part of his sentence, "I'll win this game, just like I'll win our bet."
"In your dreams, Seresin," she scoffed. "Rack 'em!"
જ⁀➴
Jake's couch had become a second home to you at this point. Its cushions surely remembered the way you would slump into them every weekend. Being Jake's back-seater was a challenge at first; you were never one to back down, and neither was Jake. It wasn't until you both had figured out that instead of going up against each other, you could turn your focus on the pilots around you. So as time went on, you bonded over your love for college football, dad rock, and surprisingly, the Great British Bake Off.
"Oh come on, Tom! No one is going to win with a ganache like that," Jake exclaimed from the end of the couch. There was no quippy response from you, and Jake raised an eyebrow in your direction. You had been like this all week. Mopey and weird. Your usual trash talk to other pilots or Maverick was replaced with a stone-cold face. It was just as intimidating, but Jake knew something was up.
Clutching the throw pillow in your arms, you couldn't even focus on the monstrosity that was Tom's cake on your screen. No, all that ran through your head was how you were going to contain yourself around Bob and his family. In just two days.
With a whack, fabric came flying on top of your head.
"Ow! Jake!" you exclaimed, immediately putting your arms up to protect yourself from further attacks.
"Jake! Don't Jake, me," he sassed you, only making the pout in your lips grow deeper. "What is going on with you? Is this still about Baby on Board?"
"Don't call him that," you grumbled, taking your pillow and whacking him across the chest.
He just rolled his eyes and continued, "Seriously, you need to get it together. Baby on Board and his family are expecting a perfect girlfriend, and right now, you're this."
You scowled at him as he chastised you. "Jake, that's mean. I just," you sighed before continuing. "I just don't know how I'm going to do this. A whole week? He'll know!"
Your dramatics were nothing new to Jake, but when it came to Bob, it seemed like you dialed it up tenfold. "This opportunity has been placed in your lap. I think you should take advantage of it, embrace it," he suggested.
"That's easier said than done," you mumbled.
This upcoming week made you queasy just thinking about it. It wasn't that you didn't want to go to meet Bob's family. No, you wanted all of it. But not like this. From the first day you met Bob, you knew you were in for it. His cute glasses and sweet smile almost had you confessing by the end of the first week.
When he asked you to move in with him, you had happily agreed. But as the arrangement unfolded, you realized what kind of agony would be in store for the near future. The way he always carried in all the groceries, not letting you lift a finger. How he always drove you, never letting you sit behind the wheel, no matter what kind of day he had. And he was so handy around the apartment, too. One day, the garbage disposal in your kitchen stopped working, and just as you were about to call someone, Bob brought over his tool kit and got down on his knees. It was way more attractive than it needed to be.
But these little daily pains were nothing compared to what you had walked in on about a month ago. You were about to go on your daily run with Phoenix when she called you from the car to cancel. Turning your keys and walking back into the house, you slipped off your sneakers and began padding down the hallway towards your room.
Just as you were about to head into your room, there was an odd sound. At first, you thought it was the apartment, settling, or something that people always say when a building makes noise. But as you paused, clutching your shoes and phone close to you, you knew it was something else. It was him.
His moans were unmistakable, so vocal and loud. And you froze. For a few seconds, you just stood there, listening. Listening to Bob falling apart. The schlepping of his hand against himself was unmistakable. The rocking of the bed, too. You had to peel yourself away from this. Away from his noise. So that's what you did.
You tried to forget it. But a part of you wanted to remember, as horrible as that sounds. You hadn't been able to look Bob in the eye for a few days after, and when you did, the heat in your tummy would start again.
The thought of sharing this week with Bob was more daunting than any mission you had ever faced.
"Hey! Are we going to watch this episode, or are you just going to sit and stew the whole night?" Jake's voice snapped you out of your thoughts.
"Sorry, just a little worried still," you said quietly. Jake had never seen you like this before, so in your own head.
He slid down the couch and placed an arm around your shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. Everything will be okay, I promise. Your biggest worries right now should be if Tom can figure out his presentation for the judges."
You giggled at his teasing. "Fucking, Tom," you murmured under your breath.
"Yes, fucking, Tom! God, he's selling it!" Jake boomed next to you, throwing you into another fit of laughter. "Seriously, Bee. Don't worry too much about this week."
"I will be texting you live updates every hour, I hope you know," you said with a grin.
"Wow, only hour updates. I was expecting every 5 minutes," Jake teased, poking into your sides. You just swatted his hands away, fighting off a smile.
જ⁀➴
Stepping onto the packed dirt and smelling the fresh Montana air was a relief to Bob. The picturesque mountain ranges were illuminated by the strong moonlight, and the sky was lit up by thousands of twinkling stars. It was something to get lost in, and that's exactly what Bob found as he turned to look at you. "It's so beautiful," you said, eye going a little wide, and your voice was quiet. Bob figured it was from your hours of traveling, maybe partly from the awe of the view.
Without looking away from you, he responded, "Very beautiful."
Bob's moment of peace with you was interrupted by a swift closing of the front door and a cheery voice. "Bob! Oh, honey, you made it safe!" an older, but spry woman ran up to Bob. You looked at the pair as they embraced and caught a look at them, side by side. Bob was much larger than the woman, towering over her. His arms stood out against her frame as your eyes trailed across his large muscles and hands without even realizing what you were doing. And his nose, it was the same as the woman who stood next to him. The cute button was something you always caught yourself looking at when tracing the map of his face.
A squeal snapped you out of your daze, and you were quickly met with a tight hug and a rushed introduction of Bob's mother's name, Pam. "Oh wow! You must be Bee! You are so gorgeous. I don't know why Bob kept you hidden from us for so long." She leaned back a bit and took you in, dragging her hands across your frame and face. You giggled at her ministrations.
"Thank you for having me this week. I'm so excited to get to know you all," you said with a sweet smile.
"Oh, we are so happy to have you, Bee! Such a cute little nickname, you don't mind?" she asked, but continued on anyway. "We were a little worried about Bob for a while there. Honestly, never thought he would-"
Bob's eyes widened, knowing the long list of stories his mother could tell you. "Alright! Alright, let's not talk about all that just yet," he cut her off with a blush that dusted his cheeks.
"Honestly," you started, gaining the attention of both Bob and his mother. "Bob is the best thing that's ever happened to me. You raised such a kind and thoughtful man. I'm so thankful for him." Your eyes met his as you spoke, sharing a look of genuine care. Pam caught the way you looked at her son and smiled knowingly.
"Well, you two had better head on up to bed. Your Pa is sleeping, but he'll be up bright and early. And everyone will be over tomorrow night to meet you, Bee," Pam said, finally letting you out of her grasp. Instead, she placed a hand on your lower back to guide you inside.
You turned to grab some of your bags to take inside, but instead saw Bob balancing all of your luggage in his hold, just the same as when you left the apartment and at the airport. He shot you a look, telling you to head inside. You rolled your eyes, but mouthed 'thank you' as you kept walking with his mother.
She led you to a small bedroom upstairs in the rustic-looking house. It was cosy, a queen bed with golden colored quilt, a small adjoining bathroom, and a small window with lace curtains. She gave you another quick hug and whispered 'goodnight' before heading back down the stairs to bed.
Bob set down your bags and let out a deep breath.
"You okay? Wanna shower first? You had a long day," you said, a hand coming to his shoulder and rubbing it sweetly. He melted into your touch, unconsciously leaning into you.
"No, no. You go first, I'll be okay," Bob said softly, trailing off a bit towards the end. You had been traveling since that morning, and you could tell how tired the man in front of you was. Your flight was a few hours long, and since his family didn't live in Bozeman or Billings, Bob had to rent a car and drive 3 more hours out to the small town.
"Bobby, go shower and get ready for bed. I'll unpack and lay out the clothes for tomorrow." You took your hands and placed them on both sides of his shoulder, pushing him into the bathroom as he chuckled lowly.
Bob gave you a tired, but grateful look before he closed the bathroom door carefully. Today had been long, but seeing the way you interacted with his mother made it all worth it.
Stepping under the warm stream of water, Bob felt his muscles relax instantly. He didn't want to take long in the shower, knowing you were waiting for him, but he also needed a few moments to himself. Reflecting on your day together, Bob felt himself getting half hard at the thought of you.
On the plane ride over, you had fallen asleep against his shoulder, your body angling into his. With your odd positioning, your tits were pressed right up against him for the majority of the flight. It took everything in him to keep his gaze straight ahead on the action movie playing on the little screen in front of him and not your soft, full chest.
His right hand drifted down, gripping himself firmly.
And your hair. You had been tucked right under his chin, and the scent of your shampoo was overwhelming. Sometimes, Bob would catch a whiff of it floating down the hallway after your showers, but now it was coming at him in waves. He felt like such a creep, but what was he supposed to do? Push you away from him? Bob didn't know the next time you would get so close to him.
Now, his cock stood proud under the stream.
In the car ride over, you had made it a point to keep him company since it was so late at night. Finding a radio station that played old country music, you began to sing along to almost every song that played. After the fourth song, Bob knew it wasn't a fluke that you knew all the lyrics so well. You explained that your college roommate was from Wyoming and was constantly playing her music in the dorms.
Bob knew he needed to keep his eyes on the road, but he couldn't help the way he looked over to your figure sitting beside him. Your lips moving along to whatever song was playing, your thighs pressed up against the leather seat of the truck, and the way your hand would occasionally find its way to his upper back, rubbing soft, smooth circles into it, all drove him to glance over at your sweet face.
His pace was steady now.
Bob felt so dirty, touching himself like this with you, only a thin wall away. But he knew if he didn't do it now, he wasn't sure when he would get a chance this week. So he hunched over the corner of the shower, trying to focus on anything but you. But like every time before this one, Bob's mind only wandered to thoughts of you.
What would you look like with water cascading down your tits? Or how your back would arch into the tile of the shower as he fucked you from behind. Best of all, how your face would twist with pleasure as he drilled into you, making you cum all over his thick cock.
That's what always got him to finish. Thinking about you, your pleasure. He caught the groan in his throat before it sounded, instead biting down on his free fist, whining lowly.
After cleaning up fully, Bob looked around the bathroom and realized he hadn't brought any clean clothes in with his. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out sheepishly.
At the creak of the bathroom door, you looked up from your place on the ground. You were met with Bob's nearly bare form. Water droplets from his hair were dripping down his shoulders, finding their way down his chest and waist. As you tracked one of the droplets, your eyes stopped when they met his waist. Bob's v-line was even better than you had imagined, and you had thought about it a lot.
He had an aversion to taking his shirt off around others, and that was reasonable. Especially in front of a bunch of macho, testosterone-fueled Navy men. But you had always wondered what he looked like under the kaki uniform he wore so often. Seeing it up close almost had you drooling.
"Forgot a change of clothes," he explained in a quiet voice. You just hummed, not trusting your voice. Pushing up off the ground and padding over to the dresser, you opened a drawer, and Bob found all of his clothes folded and set perfectly. His heart warmed at the thought of your delicate fingers working across all the clothing he had packed for the week. You had obviously taken care of his stuff first, as your luggage was still open on the floor.
Bob grabbed a change of clothes and kept his voice at the same quiet tone, "Thank you, Bee." You smiled up at him, staring a bit too long. But quickly, you fumbled to grab your nightwear from your bag and made your way into the bathroom.
Bob dropped the towel from his waist and began to dress. He didn't miss the way your eyes trailed down his body, and honestly, it made his stomach flip. Just as he was about to lie down and call it a night, he realized you hadn't discussed the bed situation. Bob would never want to make you uncomfortable, so he shuffled down the hall and found his way into the spare linen closet, grabbing a fluffy comforter and some blankets to lie down on the floor beside the bed.
Not too long after, you emerged from the bathroom and furrowed your brows at the sight of the empty bedroom, expecting to see Bob knocked out on the bed from such a long day.
"Down here," Bob's voice startled you as his hand shot up in a lazy wave from the other side of the bed.
"Bob? What are you doing?" you asked the man, walking over to see him laying down on the makeshift bed he had set up on the hardwood floor.
He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes. "Didn't want to make you feel like we needed to share the bed or anything like that."
"We've literally fallen asleep on the couch together," you said, narrowing your eyes as a teasing smile made its way to your face at his chivalry. "I don't mind sharing the bed at all, Bobby. And that can't be comfortable."
"No, no. Ma's got the best blankets. Feels like a cloud," Bob explained with a soft smile.
You narrowed your eyes at the man before speaking, "With you back? Do you remember earlier today when we got off the plane?"
Bob recalled the moment of weakness. He had stretched out a bit too far after sitting for hours on end and felt a tug throughout his body, wincing a little. You had fused over him for the next 30 minutes, almost refusing to get in the car if you couldn't drive. But Bob, of course, got his way.
He looked as if he was about to argue with you. Bob was hardheaded sometimes, but you knew just the right thing to say to knock him out of it.
"Plus, if your mom comes to wake us up and she sees you sleeping on the floor, everything would be ruined," you offered. Seeing a look of recognition flash across his face, he nodded slowly, like he was considering your words. "Come on, Bobby. I'll help you fold everything and put it back."
You giggled as he sprang up from the floor, a hand already coming down to his lower back.
"I knew your back was going to hurt! Comfy my ass," you said, smacking him lightly across the chest. He just smiled at you, joining in with some soft chuckles that warmed your heart.
Curling into bed, you felt sleep hit you almost immediately. Letting your eyelids droop, part of you wanted to stay up and think about tomorrow. To pick Bob's brain about who might show up. Worry about what they would think of you. But the sound of Bob's voice made your heart slow and breathing even out.
"G'night, Bee. Thank you again for coming with me," Bob told you, not even sure if you were lucid enough to hear him.
"Anything for you, Bobby. Goodnight," you said in the softest voice he thinks he's ever heard from you. Your words slurred a little and were definitely muffled by the pillow, but he still heard you. He saw your eyelashes flutter across your cheeks as you settled into sleep. The way your mouth opened slightly, lips parting so delicately. How your body seemed to curl into itself, making you look so small and fragile.
Wishing to hold you close to his chest like earlier today on the plane or to grasp your hand to hold in his sleep, Bob just stayed up for a few minutes longer to watch your sleeping form. Soon enough, his thoughts of you became muddy and distant as sleep took over, claiming you both now.
જ⁀➴
Bob had awoken to soft beams of sunlight streaming through the lace curtains. Everything was quiet, and Bob let himself lie for a moment, taking in the peace. Just as he was about to stretch and get up, he looked to his side and saw you.
Your cheek was still flushed up against the pillow, and your hair was in a bit of a mess as it rubbed on the fabric. It wasn't rare that Bob got to see you relax, but it was rare to see you completely void of all concerns. Usually, you were still holding some type of resistance in your shoulders or furrowing your brows slightly, even when lying across the couch at the end of the day. But now, you looked completely free. He smiled a bit at this.
Like you had sensed him mentally tracing the outline of your nose or the apples of your cheeks, suddenly your eyelashes fluttered, and you opened your eyes.
"G'morning, Bobby," you half mumbled-half whispered into your pillow. You weren't sure he understood you until hearing his telltale chuckle that was seemingly reserved for you.
"Morning, Bee," he said softly, voice a little deeper than usual. You chalked it up to the morning hours, but it still made your tummy flip. "Did you sleep well?"
"Mhm," you hummed. Bob saw that you made no effort to move from your comfortable position and chuckled again.
He often teased you for being so out of it in the mornings, but Bob had never seen you so unguarded. On the weekends you had off from training, you would usually pad into the kitchen, eyes still a little puffy and your movement still a little soft. There was one time Bob had to quickly intervene before you poured your coffee into your cereal bowl instead of your mug. But right now was different.
"Don't laugh," you grumbled. "Need like five more minutes. Or maybe ten."
Just as Bob was about to say okay and lie back under the covers with you, he heard a familiar pattern of steps making their way up the hallway.
"I'm afraid you're not going to get that, Bee," he spoke, seeing your brows fold in on themselves at his words. But soon, the bedroom door opened, and Pam was rushing to hug you good morning.
"I can see Bob has been soft on you, letting you sleep in," she joked as you shot up in the bed to meet her embrace. "We Floyds are early risers! Better start building the habit now."
"Oh, I know. Bob's up every morning at the crack of dawn, it feels like. Always hear him trying to be so quiet around the apartment," you said with a yawn as she drew away from you. Bob's cheeks heated at the thought of you being so in tune with his morning routine.
"Well, I won't rush you this morning, but breakfast will be ready in 20 minutes. Then we'll head into town afterwards, alright, Bee?" she said with a fond smile on her face. You nodded your head, saying a quick thank you as she closed the door and left.
The room was silent for a few seconds as you and Bob shared a small smile and knowing look at what had happened. "I'm only getting up early for her this week, Floyd. Don't expect any new habits when we're back home," you joked, a teasing smile on your face.
"Oh, I know. Wouldn't want to disrupt your morning routine of inside-out jeans and backwards shirts," Bob said with full seriousness as he pushed the covers off his body.
"Whatever that happened like one time," you said, pursing your lips. Hearing his laughter fill the air made your face flush with embarrassment. "One time! It was one time!"
Your protests at his teasing had no effect. Instead, Bob's laughter seemed to increase ten-fold as he doubled over in the bed.
"Bob, stop! It was one time!" you whined now. "You said it wasn't that bad."
His laughter subsided as he began to speak, "I know, I know." There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds until he spoke again, "But it was so funny, Bee." With that, Bob burst out laughing again as you half groaned, half laughed loudly.
From the kitchen, Pam smiled to herself, hearing her son's laughter carry throughout the house.
જ⁀➴
That night, like Pam had promised, Bob's extended family was over. Honestly, Bob was a little worried for you. His family could be a lot, and given that this was the first time he had brought anyone home, he expected everyone to poke and prod at you. But as his family filed into the house, your bright smile had never faltered.
Sometime after dinner but before dessert, Bob had lost you in the crowd of Floyds. He had walked through the house about ten different times at this point, looking for you, but you were nowhere to be found. Seeing the worried look on his face, his father gently grasped his son's shoulder to gain his attention.
"She's outside," he said lowly. Bob nodded and walked with purpose towards the back porch. His mind racing, thinking of all the possibilities that would've pushed you to escape outside. Were you crying? Was this all too overwhelming? Did someone ask you a rude question? Had you finally gotten sick of him? Sick of this role you were playing?
Right as he was about to push the door open, Bob paused. He saw you outside, but you weren't alone.
Gathered around you in the grassy field was a gaggle of small children, all laughing and smiling. Bob couldn't tell exactly what you were playing with the children, but after one of his younger cousins ran up to you and tapped your hip, he understood immediately. Bob smiled to himself, seeing you take off into a run as all the children screamed joyfully.
"She's sweet. Reminds me of your mother." Bob was snapped out of his trance as his father spoke. "Good job, son," he added, hand coming to clap softly on Bob's back.
Bob felt his heart race watching you. He knew you were perfect, living with you and being best friends had proven it to him. But he had never seen you like this, so carefree and thoughtful. Sure, there were nights when Jake or Bradley would get a bit too carried away at the Hard Deck, and you would be right by their side, taking care of them. But it wasn't even close to this.
Bob saw you chase around the children, never gaining too fast on the younger kids, but still giving the older ones a run for their money. He watched as all the kids gravitated towards you, all of their smiles and laughs being thrown your way. And Bob understood this feeling deeply. He had always felt a pull towards you. It came out in various ways, like always finding your eyes when Coyote would say something outrageous during training. Or bursting out into synchronized laughter whenever Jake would ultimately lose another game of pool to Nat. And his favorite was the way you would find your way over to Bob whenever you were in a large group. You could talk to Jake or joke around with Bradley, but whenever the full Dagger Squad was together on a crowded night at the Hard Deck, you were glued to Bob's side. These moments let him know that you were undeniably in each other's orbit.
Finally, Bob pulled open the door and walked out to you and your new friends.
"Uncle Bob!" one of the children exclaimed. You whipped around, seeing Bob walking up to you with a small smile on his face.
"Thought I lost you in there," he joked. You smiled, not speaking but walking closer to meet him in the middle. He met your kind eyes, but upon looking into them further, he squinted a little at you. Just as he was about to step back, you lunged forward.
"Tag! You're it!" you blurted out, giggling as you sprinted in the opposite direction. The children seemed to follow your example, all shrieking and laughing as Bob took off.
Suddenly, you heard little cries of your name. Turning around, you saw Bob gaining on you. Before you knew it, his hands grasped your waist, picking you up a few inches off the ground, bringing you into his chest.
Tucked close into him now, you felt his breath on the back of your neck. The heaving of his chest against your back had you squirming. "Can't get away that easily," his voice close to your ear. Biting down on your lip, careful to not let the whine out, you felt your tummy flip at the position he had you in.
You had come outside to escape, yes. But not from Bob's never-ending list of uncles or aunts. From him.
During dinner, he had been nothing but kind to you. Caring. Attentive. And it had been like that all day. From when you left the house and went into town with him and his mother, you hadn't as much as blinked before Bob made sure you didn't have to lift a finger. Sure, he had done this to a certain extent back in California, not letting you open the door or always opening glass jars for you when in the kitchen together. But today was a different level.
Pam insisted on getting you a pair of real, genuine cowgirl boots. She marched you into "Jesse's Boots & Shoes" and immediately sat you down on one of the little benches. After gathering what seemed like half the merchandise in the store, she came back to you with stacks of boxes full of different types of boots.
As you began to bend down to untie your shoes, Bob suddenly appeared in front of you. On his knees.
"I got it, don't worry," he said, before delicately unlacing your shoes. His large, warm hand flew up underneath your calf, and the other shimmied off your shoe. Then he looked up with that sweet smile and repeated the whole process on your other foot. You could've sworn you saw Pam snap a picture.
Later in the day, you made it back to the house and were helping Pam fix up some lunch. She handed you a big yellow onion and a kitchen knife, but before you could even take hold of the wooden handle she had outstretched to you, Bob had rushed into your view. Stealing the onion out of your right hand and gently pushing you out of the way of the cutting board, you looked at him incredulously.
"I know how watery your eyes get. I got it, just go sit down," he offered with that same sweet smile.
"I can cut one onion, Bobby," you said, playfully trying to grab the onion from his hand. He just raised his hands above his head, ensuring you wouldn't be able to reach him.
"I got it, Bee. Don't try to argue," he challenged, raising his brows. Huffing, you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the small smile that was creeping on your face.
Pam once again snapped a picture. This time, giggling to herself a bit like she knew this was going to happen.
The third time was right before everyone had arrived. You were upstairs, checking your hair one last time and making sure your outfit looked okay, when you noticed you had forgotten to put your necklace on this morning.
After retrieving the delicate piece from the bathroom, Bob had seemingly appeared. Seeing the jewelry in your hand, he walked forward with purpose, holding out his palm. You raised an eyebrow at his actions.
"Seen you do it a million times," he started. "Let me."
You nodded, not trusting your voice once again, dropping the piece into his hand. Softly, his free hand came down to your hip, guiding you to turn around.
Then, you felt his arms go around your shoulders, not touching, but there. It was so quiet in that moment. The only noise you could hear was the creaking of the old house and Bob's soft breathing close to your ear. It was distracting. Maddening, after the day you had.
Clasping the necklace around you, his hands dropped. Turning back around, you were met, once again, by the same sweet smile.
"You look beautiful, Bee," he told you before backing out of the room. "I'll be downstairs whenever you're ready."
Driven outside, you had wanted to sit on the porch for a bit. Think about what this weekend really meant for you. For Bob. For your friendship. But your plans were quickly interrupted after feeling a little tug on your leg and hearing a quiet invitation to a game of tag.
"Robert Floyd, you'd better let go of that girl! We've got apple pie coming out the oven!" Pam's voice drew you back into the heart-racing position you were in. Bob was quick to set you down, smoothing his hands over your hips in an effort to fix the creases in your dress that his hold had caused. But you saw the raging blush that crossed his face and burst out into a fit of giggles, and soon, all of his younger cousins were doing the same thing.
"I think this might be your inside-out jean moment," you teased with a smile, seeing the blush turn to a darker shade.
"Not funny," he said sternly, but you could tell he was trying to hold back a laugh.
"Mm, I recall saying something earlier this morning like that." You grinned at him, walking closer to the house, but your body was still fully facing the man in front of you. "But Bobby, it's so funny!" you laughed, throwing your head back. Bob couldn't help but smile, even if it was at the expense of his own actions.
What neither Bob nor you realized was the crowd of onlookers peaking through the windows, watching as Bob Floyd was struck with a look of love.
જ⁀➴
You had been right. The look before the first kiss was the best part of a wedding. Bob doesn't remember the last time he'd seen his older brother so giddy.
You, on the other hand, had missed it completely. Looking at the man who sat next to you instead. You saw the way the corners of Bob's mouth pulled upwards, smiling brightly.
The week had gone smoothly, both of you getting away with touches that were a little more lingering than usual or looks that called for a deeper conversation. To Bob's family, this looked like restraint, manners, and control. To you, this was torture, heartache, and suppression. You didn't know how many more instances of Bob's big hand on the small of your back you had in you before you broke completely. His gentle guidance and care throughout the week had been something that you reveled in. Returning to California, returning to normalcy, it all seemed so distant.
Sipping some champagne, you sat with Bob at the reception. Stringed bulbs lit up the night. Bright colors popped from all of the flowers that seemed to be placed on every table. And sweet music filled the air, inviting everyone to dance.
Bob studied your face under the night sky and limited lighting. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Dread filled his heart, though. The thought of this week just being a glimpse into what life would be like if he got up the courage to ask you to be with him weighed heavily on his heart.
Going to bed with you every night was something Bob didn't even know he was missing, but now he craved it so deeply. Being able to talk to you and share his thoughts with you right before bed. Getting to hear you ramble on, either about your worries or joys, was something he began to love more than anything. The way your voice would begin to taper, become gentle, when you were truly tired and ready for sleep. How you supported your face under your small palm while talking with him in the dark. How your eyes would become glassy and glazed over as you finally hit the pillow. These moments became precious to him.
"All couples! Head to the dance floor now! Tell your partner how much you care about them, and let's dance!" The DJ's voice broke Bob's train of thought. Without thinking, he rose out of his seat and offered you a hand.
Sheepishly, you took it, letting him guide you.
A soft, slow melody filled the air as you began to take your place with Bob. His hands brushed your hips, stiff, like he was in middle school, and it was his first time slow dancing. You chuckled a little under your breath.
"What's got you laughing now?" he asked, soft and sweet. Eyes searching yours with intensity you had only seen from him this week.
You looked at him for a moment and just grinned, like you knew something he didn't.
"Just so stiff, Bobby. Relax," you told him, pushing into his space a little more. Your hands found their way around his shoulders, palms settling on the broad plain of his back. Now, your face met his chest, and you melted into him.
Bob felt the sway of your hips and the light movement of your feet. If it wasn't for you, he would've stood still, not knowing what to do with you like this. Sure, he had danced like this before. But it was never this intimate. This deep. This connected.
At any moment, Bob felt like he was going to let the words spill out of him. Tell you how he was really feeling. It seemed so easy.
The way you interacted with his family. Cooking with his Ma, talking about college sports with his Pa. Even the way you talked with his brother and sister-in-law. Though it was brief, you made an immediate connection. You and his sister-in-law, chatting away like you had grown up together. And he didn't miss the way his older brother shot him a look of surprise, but approval.
But it wasn't just about them. It was also about the way you just fit so well into his life. Sure, you weren't an early riser, and Bob had learned this weekend that you weren't the best with large animals, but he didn't mind. If being with you meant slow mornings where you would coax him back to bed, hands grasping for him to come lie with you beneath the sheets, he'd be okay with that. More than okay. And if the biggest animal you owned was a chocolate lab, that would be okay by him, too.
Slowly, his large hands came around your waist, more secure and grounded. And Bob closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. Taking in this moment with you was the most important thing to him.
You danced under the twinkling lights and stars, no concern for the people around you. No concern that this was fake, that it was all pretend. Because right now, it felt real.
Hearing the thump of Bob's heart calmed you. It was grounding you, just like the gentle guitar in the background. You swayed like that for a while, but eventually the pounding of his heart and the steadiness of his figure became all too much. While the music swelled, so did your chest. Heaving up and down at a much more rapid pace.
Bob, feeling the sudden shift in your energy, pulled back, but just slightly. Still close enough to hear the hitch in your breath, to see the quiver of your bottom lip.
Your eyes blinked rapidly. Looking up at Bob seemed like an impossible task. But with a gentle touch to your chin, you did.
"Bee?" he asked softly. Concern written across his face.
"I'm sorry," you said, even quieter. With slow moments, you pressed your lips to his.
Your lips were softer than he imagined. The way your lips slotted between his was like second nature. And before you could pull back, he learned in deeper. Taking the hand that was under your chin and pressing it into the back of your head. Meeting you in the kiss, he pressed closer to you, and you felt the strong hold he had on your hip.
Bob wanted so badly to lick into your mouth, to mix your spit. But he restrained himself upon feeling the slight jump below his waist.
The solid kiss made your tummy turn in a way you didn't think was possible. Something deeper took hold of you as you melted, once again, into the man in front of you. The heaving of your chest was still present, but now it was fueled by want rather than anxiety.
Pulling away slowly, your breathing was heavy. Your eyes searched his, trying to see what he was thinking. What would his reaction to your impulsivity be?
Before your question could be answered, you were being pulled by one of Bob's cousins, urging you to go line up for the bouquet toss.
Bob watched as you were ripped away from him. His hand came up to grab onto you, but his fingers slipped against the fabric of your dress. Your eyes widen, head whipping around to look at him. But just as quick, you broke your gaze.
જ⁀➴
As soon as the door to the guest bedroom clicked shut, you immediately began apologizing.
"Bobby, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, and I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking," you said, hands coming up to your face in an attempt to hide from him.
"Bee," Bob tried to cut in, but you could barely hear him over the sound of your racing heart and rambling words."
"I didn't mean to ruin this. Ruin this weekend and make you feel uncomfortable. Ruin what we have. Our friendship," you kept going, stomach now turning at the thought of losing Bob from your life.
"Bee," he started again, but still you weren't hearing a thing he said.
Your hands now rubbed nervously down your dress, like you were trying to wipe off what had happened earlier that night. "I'm gonna go take my stuff and sleep in the bathroom or something. You don't have to share a bed with me tonight. And if you want me to move out, I will. I'm sorry, I just, I don't know-"
"Bee!" Bob's voice startled you into silence. He stepped closer to you, reaching for your hands, trying to quell your nervous energy.
Bob's hand closed around your wrists. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you looked at your best friend.
"Tonight," he started, hand rubbing softly against yours. "What did the kiss mean?"
He took a deep breath as you just stared at him.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," you said, feeling tears well up in your eyes.
"I'm not mad, and I'm not uncomfortable. I just," he took another deep breath before continuing. "I just want to know what it meant to you. Why you did it."
A tear slipped down your cheek at his soft-spoken words.
"I love you," you said quietly as more tears fell from your eyes. "I kissed you because I love you. Because I'm in love with you. I'm sorry, Bobby."
You felt your world crumbling around you. Years of friendship, laughter, and good memories all seemed to blur past you. Surely, when you got back to California, Bob would ask you to move out. The thought made you sick to your stomach.
Bob stared at you, silent. He felt like he was dreaming. All week, he had been trying to tell you how he felt. Been trying to get the words out. And here you were, saying everything he was thinking.
His hands quickly came up to your face, wiping the tears away. You couldn't look at him, eyes closed and body closing in on itself.
"Bee, will you open your eyes, please. I just want to talk to you," Bob pleaded. "I need to tell you something. Need you to look at me."
You shook your head, starting to feel like everything was all too much. Of course, he was still being sweet to you. After everything, after all of what you said and did. The thought made more tears come to your eyes.
"Please, please look at me," he asked again, thumbs now stroking your cheeks. Bob could see the internal debate you were having as your lips pushed deeper into a pout.
But after a few seconds, you opened your eyes. Blinking away the last bit of tears, you tried to look at the man in front of you.
As soon as your eyes met his, Bob smiled at you sweetly. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner. And I'm sorry about this week. I should've told you how I was feeling, but I thought everything would go okay. That we could just go back to being normal after all this."
Your shoulders relaxed with his admission, your mouth opening just a bit to look at Bob in awe.
"But we can't," you said, voice still small. It made Bob's heart ache thinking about all that you were feeling this week, knowing he was feeling the same way.
"No, I don't think we can." His eyes dropped to your lips for a split second. If you weren't watching him so closely, you would've missed it.
Something in your stomach turned at the thought of kissing him again. Your chest began to rise and fall much like it had earlier.
Still holding your face in his hands, Bob leaned in slowly. Slow enough to let you pull away if this was something you didn't want. Slow enough that seconds felt like minutes.
Finally, your lips met for the second time that night. Less rushed than before and softer. Your eyes flutter shut at the feeling.
The kiss was sweet. Bob's heart was racing out of his chest, having you like this. He was content letting your lips brush up against each other in a soft manner. But each time you kissed, he got hungrier. It wasn't until you let a soft sound slip past your lips and into his that he pressed into you harder.
Suddenly, Bob was walking you backwards into the bed. You felt one of his hands leave your face and come down to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him.
"This okay?" he asked breathlessly as you nodded, not trusting your voice.
With that, Bob got to work on the zipper at the back of your dress. He felt your hands in his hair, on his arms, pulling him in closer. Finally, the dress dropped and you let it fall to the floor.
Bob's eyes scanned your body. Wearing the prettiest set of black lace underwear and a matching bra, he felt his stomach turn. You were perfect.
Quickly, his hands were all over your body as you fell back with him on the bed. Feeling his hard length grind down on your barely clad heat had you biting down on your lip. Bob worked his mouth against your neck, looking for the spot that would make you moan against him. His licking and biting made your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him even closer if possible.
"Please, Bobby. Need you," you whispered. His head shot up to take you in. Your eyes were blinking quickly, like you were struggling to keep them open. Your mouth parted slightly, like you couldn't take deep enough breaths. Your hair splayed out around you, like you were an angel come down from heaven.
"Want me to touch you?" Bob asked as you whined, head nodding. "Gonna have to be quiet for me, okay? I wanna help you."
"Okay, I'll be good. Promise," you said, eyes searching his. Waiting for his movements to change. Waiting for him to help you feel good.
His hands moved from your hips down to your heat. Only one hand cupping it at first, while the other worked at the back of your bra. Pushing into your underwear, Bob's big hand began to feel you everywhere. His thumb quickly found your clit, and you thought you were seeing stars as he rubbed it softly.
You felt the tightness of your bra loosen, and Bob's other hand quickly moved to take it off you completely. Seconds after, his mouth came down to your pebbled nipple, swirling his tongue around it, sucking it into his mouth.
Your jaw dropped at the feeling. His kisses and ministrations made your hips jump up into his hand. "Need more, wanna feel your fingers," you said softly, trying to keep your promise to him.
Popping his lips from your tits, Bob looked at you with darkened eyes. "Being so good for me. I can feel you, so wet for me," he praised you, but still, his hand made no effort to move further into your heat.
Your brows furrowed at this, and you propped yourself up to look at the man lying above you. "Bobby, please," you whispered, kissing his cheek sweetly.
There was no way he could resist you when you asked so sweetly. His hand made its way towards your opening, stretching your underwear a bit. Bob played with you a bit more, and you whined into the pillow next to you.
"Sorry, honey," he whispered into your ear. "Just love your little pussy so much."
Your jaw dropped at his dirty words and at the feeling of two of his fingers stretching out your heat. They felt so thick, and Bob knew exactly what he was doing, moving them with expert precision. Pushing in slow and deep, reaching your spot almost immediately, your back arched off the bed into his touch.
Bob watched as you crumbled at his touch. It had to be a dream. The way your tits heaved up and down made him dizzy. Your face, now driven into the pillow next to you, silencing your noises, made his cock jump from beneath his trousers. You lying on the bed, almost completely naked, and he still fully dressed, made him bite down on his lip hard.
He was trying to take his time with you. Be gentle. Get to know your body. But every noise that escaped you and every look of longing you shot him made his resolve crumble. He could spend hours like this, with you at his disposal to play with. But sweat beaded down his forehead in restraint. Bob had to know what your tight pussy felt like around his cock.
A hand on his bicep pulled Bob from his thoughts. He felt your pussy clench up at his fingers, and he instantly moved his thumb back up to your clit. The reaction was immediate. Your body curling off the body and into him, Bob leaned into you, taking one of your tits into his mouth again, sucking harshly this time.
"Oh, fuck," you whispered as your orgasm ran through you. You never knew your orgasms could be so intense, but with Bob's constant attention to your body, you had never felt better.
Delicately, he pulled his fingers from your entrance and leaned down to kiss you sweetly.
"You're so beautiful," Bob said breathlessly. Then he brought his fingers up to his mouth, and you felt your pussy throb all over again at the sight of him licking your slick from his fingers. "Taste so good, too," he said, popping his fingers from his mouth. "Can I taste you?"
You nodded, but apparently, this wasn't enough for him anymore.
"Wanna hear you," Bob spoke softly. "Killing me, not being able to hear all your cute noises."
"Sorry," you said bashfully. "Yes, please."
"Don't gotta say sorry. Doing so good for me, my beautiful girl." Bob leaned in to kiss you again, making you feel his want and warmth as he licked into your mouth. His mouth traveled down your body, stopping to suck dark marks into your throat and all over your tits. But you didn't stop him, not really caring about how you would cover them up in the morning. His nips and licks were much more convincing than anything your brain told you.
Finally making his way down to your heat, Bob pushed your underwear to the side. Licking a broad stripe with his flat tongue, he tried to feel all of you. Your thighs worked to close around him, but his strong hands came up to grip them just hard enough to remind you of his strength, but not hard enough to hurt you. Continuing, he kissed all over your heat, much like he had just licked into your mouth. The movements made you dizzy.
Focusing on your clit, you felt one of his hands leave your thigh and dive into your heat again.
"Bobby," you whined. Quickly slapping a hand over your mouth, remembering what you had promised him. He looked up at you, chuckling a bit at your movements. But the vibrations against your heat only made you squirm and cry out more.
Removing his mouth from your heat, he kissed your thighs sweetly.
"Need me to help you, honey?" he asked, voice low and eyes dark as they looked at you.
"Mhm, please," you whispered, still moving your hips against his fingers.
He smiled at your movements. "So needy," he whispered more to himself than anything. "Didn't think you'd be that way."
Your tummy flipped at his admission. Even if he hadn't explicitly said it, just thinking about Bob touching himself to the thought of you made your pulse race like crazy.
Pulling your underwear away from your heat, Bob tossed them across the room. His hands now moved to your waist, picking you up effortlessly, flipping you on your tummy softly.
Your neck craned back, a puzzled look on your face. But he was already meeting you half way, coming up to kiss you again and ask a question.
"This okay, honey?" Bob asked, one hand coming to raise your hips. Another guided a pillow beneath them. Your stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to do.
"Yeah, it's okay," you whispered. He smiled at this, placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head. But soon, his hand was pushing your head into the pillow, tucking your hair behind your ears, making sure you were comfortable. But still, his hand came down to guide you into the plush surface beneath you.
Not seeing Bob and only feeling him was something you never thought you would love. But the way his hands dragged down your body, fingers toying with your body, and firmly kneading your ass made your breathing sharp and shallow. Bob made his way down to your heat once more, licks more confident and sure now.
Sure enough, you whined into the pillow underneath you, pushing your hips back into Bob as he continued to work at your entrance. His tongue pushed in and out of you, sucking harshly. Hands spreading your ass, allowing him to kiss you better, get deeper.
It was quick for you to feel the familiar tug in your tummy return, ready to snap at any moment. Snaking a hand under your tummy and to your clit, Bob worked diligently to make you feel good, rubbing tight, small circles.
Your hand flew back, trying to grasp at anything you could. Your fingers found his golden locks, and you gripped them tightly as you came for the second time that night.
After a few last licks, Bob kissed up your back, letting his body sink into you a bit. It wasn't until his kisses reached your neck that you felt his hard length straining against your ass.
"So good, honey," he whispered, placing sweet kisses against your hair once more. "Gonna go get a towel to clean you up, okay?"
Soon, he moved to shift off the bed. But you shot up, grabbing his forearm.
"What's wrong?" Bob asked, concern evident on his face as he looked at you. He wondered if it had been too much. He had indulged a little bit, but he thought that you were feeling good. Or maybe he was pulling away too soon, maybe you wanted to cuddle a bit more before he got up. But what you said next made his heart jump.
"Wanna feel you. Do you not want to?" you spoke softly, forehead creasing in on itself.
Bob smiled at your question, coming back into your space, pressing his lips to yours. You smiled into the kiss, too. Something about them was so sweet and gentle, but so deep and longing at the same time.
"Course I do, just didn't want to push anything," he spoke, pulling away a bit. "And, I don't have anything here. I didn't bring any condoms," Bob whispered the last bit, like it was a secret.
"I'm clean and on birth control," you offered with a small smile that Bob swore would be the death of him.
"Me too," he said, immediately backtracking at the sound of your giggles. "I mean clean. No birth control."
Your smile grew wider at his words. Even when Bob didn't mean to, he made you laugh, always making you feel good.
"Can I see you? Think it's a little unfair you're still dressed," you teased him. Even with the faint glow of the moon and the soft bedside lamp, you were able to see the way Bob's ears turned pink.
Without a word, he began to unbutton his shirt. Scooching toward him on the bed, your hands made quick work of his belt, button, and zipper. Bob would've laughed at your eagerness if he weren't feeling the exact same way. Kicking off his pants and underwear and whipping the shirt off over his head, Bob stood before. Your tongue peeked out a bit at the sight of him.
His abs are sculpted and molded to perfection; you were able to gawk at them more openly now than a few nights ago. As your eyes traveled further, you saw his V-line, prominent and defined. And his length stood proud in front of you. Chills ran down your spine at the thought of taking all of him. You leaned down, falling on your elbows before him. Kissing his pink tip, your tongue began to kitten lick at his head.
Bob groaned audibly at the sight in front of him. Your ass up, mouth working against his length, and eyes looking up at him for approval. This wasn't real, surely. Any minute now, he would wake up in bed, spoiled underwear once again. But as you moved to take his length further in your mouth, Bob couldn't deny what he was feeling.
Knowing that if you sucked his length much longer, he wouldn't last, Bob softly grasped your head in his hands, moving you away from his length and instead onto the bed like you once were.
Lying back on the bed, you watched as Bob moved over your body. Settling on top of you, you found yourself face-to-face with him. Smiling at him, your eyes met, and you couldn't help but laugh a bit to yourself.
"What's got you so happy?" Bob asked, leaning down to kiss your neck as you let the giggles flow freely. He smiled at you, the kisses sweet rather than searing like they were before.
"I just love you," you whispered. Bob's head shot up, dopey grin now on his face.
"I love you," he whispered back. Leaning down to kiss you again, you thought about how you would never get used to this. Just a few hours ago, you were anxiety-ridden with thoughts of losing your best friend to a dumb mistake. Now, all your nerves were still on fire, but for a different reason. Bob's lips worked against yours until you felt your tummy flip again, and it seemed he felt the same way; one of his hands moved down to grip his length. Guiding himself to your heat, you felt Bob shudder in your embrace, but his lips never left yours.
Bob groaned against your lips as he pushed into you. Only a few inches at first, seeing the way your body would react to him. Your chest heaved, and your eyes screwed shut at the unfamiliar feeling. But your hands pawed at his chest and back, trying to bring him closer to you.
"Doing okay, honey? Feel good?" Bob asked, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.
You whinnied a little as you answered, "Feels good. So good. You're so big."
"You can take it, can't you, honey?" Bob asked, pushing a bit more into you as your jaw dropped at the feeling. He was now kissing up and down your throat again, unable to keep himself away from your soft, dewy skin for too long.
The man felt you pulsed around him. Your heat seemingly needing more from him. Before Bob could ask, you spoke in a breathless whisper.
"More, please. I can take it."
With that, he pushed into you fully. Balls settling against your ass, pelvis meeting yours. His arms came around under your back, bringing you tight into his embrace. Bob made sure to hold onto you, made sure he was taking care of you.
When he started moving, it was filthy. The sounds couldn't be masked as he moved in and out of your heat at a steady pace, deep enough to be hitting your spot in just the right way. Your bodies began to sweat and shine under the soft bedroom light.
You tried biting down on your lip, tried to not let the sounds escape you, but it was no use. The way that Bob moved above you drew out soft, airy noises. Bob saw that you struggled to control yourself and fully feel pleasure, so he took matters into his own hands.
Placing a large hand over your mouth, Bob met your eyes. They shot wide open at first, maybe a flicker of embarrassment, but soon they became droopy again as you focused more on his thrusts into you.
"It's okay, honey," he leaned down to talk near your ear. "Know it feels good. Just gonna help you a little."
You nodded at his words, clenching around his length again. Your moans were now muffled behind his big hand. The feeling of Bob asserting himself over you made you dizzy. You knew he was confident and could take charge if need be, but this was something else. Bob worked with precision, seemingly adjusting to your every move. It wasn't long until his other hand left its spot on your hip and made its way down to your heat once more, circling your clit in what you now learned was your favorite way. His big thumb moved in tandem with his thrusts, and you opened your eyes to look at the man above you.
Bob, seeing the way your eyes glossed over, kissed your lips, briefly moving his hand before placing it back and speaking, "It's okay, I got you. Wanna feel you cum around me."
With that, the knot in your tummy unraveled. Shaking against Bob, you pushed your body as close to his as possible. Still working into you, Bob felt the way you squeezed his length and couldn't hold back anymore, coming to his high with you.
Slowly, Bob moved his hand from your mouth and instead stroked your hair, placing a kiss on your hairline. You smiled at his actions, despite being exhausted from your rigorous activities.
"I love you," Bob told you. He watched as you relaxed against the bed, shifting slightly to hold you better.
"I love you, Bobby. Thank you for inviting me this week," you said sweetly, sharing another kiss with him as he was still nestled inside you, neither of you moving to get up just yet.
He smiled at your words. Thinking back to this week and all that had happened, Bob was grateful you were by his side. From his rambunctious family to the quietness of rural Montana, you fit in perfectly. Bob couldn't wait to bring you back, properly this time.
જ⁀➴
Like always, you and Bob went along with the squad's outstanding Saturday night plans at the Hard Deck, not caring that you had just gotten back to California a few hours prior. Jake grinned at the sight of you walking into the Hard Deck, hand in hand with Bob. He watched as Bob carefully guided you through the crowd of people, delicately holding onto your waist and shielding you from the rowdy patrons.
"Well, well, well," Jake teased as soon as you had both made your way over to the pool table full of aviators. "Looks like my plan worked."
Bob's brows furrowed at this, immediately looking to you.
"No way, Bagman, you aren't getting the credit for this," Phoenix chimed in, abandoning the game of pool.
Now it was your turn to look at Bob with confusion on your face.
"I was the one who sold Bee about the parents thing," Jake argued. You felt your face flush at his admission of your white lie.
"Well, I was the one hyping Bob up for weeks about getting her to come," Phoenix fought back. Bob closed his eyes, not thinking he could survive the look of amusement on your face.
Suddenly, both of your pilots turned to you.
"So who did it?" Phoenix asked. Both you and Bob looked at each other, puzzled.
"Oh come on," Jake said exasperatedly. "You know what were talking about. Who made the first move?"
The squad was silent, watching both you and Bob under a microscope, it seemed. A slight tilt of Bob's head in your direction made Jake cry out triumphantly, pumping his fists into the air.
"I knew it! I knew it! Suck it, Phoenix," Jake whooped as onlookers watched with amusement at his antics.
"Knew it?" Bob asked, almost scared for the answer.
Jake grinned at the both of you. "Yup!" he said, popping the ending syllable in a way that made Nat's eye roll even farther back into her head. "I knew Bee would make the first move. She's gutsy! No offense, Baby on Board."
"Jake," you chastised, but knew the nickname was all in good fun now.
"Where's my twenty dollars? My wallet seems to be missing something," Jake faux-questioned, turning his attention to Phoenix.
Digging into her back pocket and sifting through her wallet, she slapped a crisp twenty-dollar bill into Jake's outstretched hand with a groan. Jake almost giggled in delight, a sound you had only heard come out of him once or twice.
"I just want to say," he started, raising his glass to the group, "that I, Jake Seresin, best pilot among us, was instrumental in ending our suffering. That is, watching these two dance around each other forever like little lovesick puppies."
The group groaned at his statement, but raised their drinks nonetheless. You giggled into Bob's shoulder, and he smiled widely at the sound. His eyes found yours and saw a playful look on your face. Before he knew it, you leaned into his space, pressing your lips to his.
The group watched as he melted into your touch, half-cheering and half-whistling.
Pulling away slightly, you smiled at the man next to you. Bob's cheeks were now dusted with pink, but he still wrapped a hand around your waist, bringing you close into his hold.
i know i say this often but i cannot say it loud enough: people who comment on fics, people who reblog posts and engage with fanworks are the people who generate community and without them fandom would be nowhere, so truly thank you for your presence, you make the world go 'round <3
honestly sometimes there's no better feeling than rereading a fic you've written and coming out of it going, "yeah that actually this DOES slap. exactly what i wanted to read. fucking nailed it."
summary: you're back at the olympics determined to have a fresh start in big air after a career-threatening injury, while sidney chases one last gold as he faces uncertainty beyond his hockey career. amid the pressure, the two of you connect over the fear of pursuing your dreams at the highest level.
warnings: age gap (12 years but it doesn’t get mentioned a ton), this does not mimic real events (e.g. changed winner of gold, snowboarding + hockey happening in the same city), mentions of sid retiring, description of knee injury, whatever the opposite of a slow burn is
wc: 18.5k
DAY ONE
The Olympic village was strange at night.
The lights were too bright for the hour, the floors too clean, the air too full of languages folding over one another. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, someone somewhere always laughed too loudly because adrenaline didn’t know how to switch off just because the clock said it was past ten.
The Canadian men’s hockey team pushed through the glass doors in a sluggish wave of red jackets and tired shoulders. Sidney moved with them, nodding absently as Brad Marchand told a story beside him.
Practice had run long. Hard, tight, disciplined. Cooper was on them all, nitpicking the tiny errors. Sidney could still feel the burn in his legs, the dull heaviness of travel sitting behind his eyes. It was only seven p.m. local time, but back in Pittsburgh it was past one in the morning — hours beyond when he would normally be asleep. They’d been here over a week, and yet his body wasn’t totally adjusted. He rolled his neck slowly, scanning the dining hall as they grabbed trays.
That’s when he heard the noise. It wasn’t just the usual buzz that fills the air; it was sharper and brighter. It was a burst of laughter, ringing through the room. Sidney’s eyes flicked across the room on instinct, mild annoyance forming before he’d even fully registered why.
Across the dining hall, at a long table cluttered with pasta bowls and scattered red-and-white gear, a cluster of athletes leaned toward a single focal point. A girl sat at the center of it — animated, flushed, incandescent in a way that didn’t fit the late hour.
Her hair, still slightly damp at the ends, fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink from cold air or exertion — maybe both. She was mid-story, hands slicing through the air as she reenacted something that Sidney couldn’t quite make out. When she laughed, she tipped her head all the way back, unrestrained, unselfconscious.
Sidney exhaled through his nose. “Unbelievable,” Nathan muttered, not unkindly, just tired.
Sidney understood the sentiment. The team had barely been in the country for seventy-two hours. Jet lag still pressed down on all of them. Everything felt a half-second slower than it should. And yet she looked like she’d just stepped off a podium.
One of her coaches clapped her firmly on the back. “Every single run,” he said, pride evident even from across the room. She covered her face with both hands, laughing again as her teammates erupted.
Sidney adjusted his tray, pretending to examine the salad options while his attention drifted back to her table. He caught fragments of what she was saying.
“I thought I’d over-rotated — I swear — I was like, ‘well, that’s it,’ and then it just stuck.”
Her voice carried easily. She radiated adrenaline. Relief. Joy. His mouth twitched despite himself. He grabbed grilled chicken, vegetables, rice, the same as everyone else, and followed his teammates to a table. But his attention didn’t follow his body. It stayed across the room. You didn’t seem tired. If you were jet-lagged, you masked it with adrenaline and joy. Sidney couldn’t force himself to look away.
“Who is that?” Devon Toews asked quietly, glancing over with mild curiosity. “Figure skater?”
“Too loud,” Brad Marchand muttered. “Figure skaters are quieter.”
Cale Makar leaned back in his chair, studying you more carefully. “Oh, I know who that is.”
“Who?” Sidney asked. A little too quickly, but they didn’t notice.
“Y/n L/n. The big air snowboarder.” Cale answered. “She’s the one who had that brutal crash four years ago in Beijing. Tore her knee apart in finals. Everyone’s been talking about her ‘big return’.”
Sidney remembered that moment. You were Canada’s next big thing in snowboarding, and you were all over the winter Olympics promotion in 2022. Your qualifying runs had been flawless, which meant you would drop last in the finals. The entire country was watching when you pushed off the lip for your first run. You felt it the second you left the jump — the grab was late. A split second, nothing more. But it was enough. Your board drifted off-axis, your body overcorrected, and suddenly the landing wasn’t beneath you anymore. You hit hard. Your knee twisted under you before the rest of you followed. The broadcast caught your scream before the crowd went silent.
But across the dining hall now, she laughed again, untouched by that memory.
Devon’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Nathan continued, still watching you. “Came back this season swinging. She’s been landing everything in training, apparently. Tocchets been buzzing about it.”
Brad let out a low whistle. “So she’s good, good.”
“Very,” Nathan said. “Could medal. If she keeps that up.”
Across the room, as if sensing something, you glanced up. Your eyes scanned briefly before they met Sidney's. It was quick, then unexpectedly, you smiled. It wasn’t a big one, just the corner of your mouth lifted. Sidney’s spine went a little straighter. He dropped his gaze immediately, pretending intense focus on his rice.
Across the table, Tom Wilson smirked. “You gonna go say hi?”
He didn’t look up. “Eat your food.”
But his ears felt warm.
Later that evening, the village had quieted. Not fully, but enough that Sidney’s footsteps sounded a little bit louder than normal. He pushed open the door to the training and recovery room, expecting solitude. He liked it here at night. The steady rhythm of bikes spinning lazily, the low hum of the NormaTec machines, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. It was like a respite for him.
He stepped inside, already rolling his shoulders, when he heard a familiar voice. “…and then he’s like, ‘we’re not adding another cork,’” you were saying, your voice echoing slightly off the tile walls. “As if I haven’t been throwing it since I was sixteen.”
A man’s deeper voice responded, amused. “You were also sixteen and invincible.”
“I’m still invincible,” you shot back, and the splash that followed told him you’d kicked water.
Sidney paused just inside the doorway. You were sunk shoulder-deep in an ice bath at the far end of the room, hair piled messily on top of your head now, damp strands clinging to your temples. Your skin was flushed from the cold, goosebumps rising along your arms.
The older guy beside you — mid-fifties maybe, solid build, wearing a Team Canada jacket — had to be your coach. Sidney swallowed and moved quietly to a mat across the room, grabbing a foam roller. He lay back, positioning it beneath his quads, and began to roll.
He focused on the muscles in his legs. He absolutely did not look at you. But then you laughed again, loud and bright, and he couldn’t help himself. You were gripping the edge of the tub now, jaw tight as the cold started to bite deeper. The bravado in your voice had softened slightly.
“Okay,” you muttered. “This is where I regret every life choice.”
Your coach smirked. “Three more minutes.”
“Three? That’s not what you said.”
“I said ‘a few.’”
“You’re a liar.”
Sidney’s mouth twitched despite himself.
He rolled forward, stretching out his hip flexor, trying to focus on the dull ache in his legs instead of the way your shoulders tensed against the cold. He didn’t mean to look again. He really didn’t. But when you inhaled sharply and stood, water cascading down your body in a rush, his eyes lifted instinctively.
Water streamed over your shoulders and down the clean lines of your torso, tracing every defined edge before splashing back into the tub. You were in a team-issued sports bra and matching biker shorts, nothing flashy, just functional — but it didn’t hide the strength of you. Your abs tightened as the cold air hit, sharp and sculpted from years of landings and lifts and endless core work. There was nothing delicate about it. It was earned power.
Sidney’s breath caught before he could stop it.
He’d spent his entire life around elite athletes. He knew what dedication looked like. He knew the hours it took to build a body like that — the discipline, the sacrifice, the pain. And yet seeing it on you, in that unguarded moment, felt different. His eyes dropped immediately. Not because he didn’t want to look.
Because he shouldn’t. You were a teammate in this strange, temporary Olympic ecosystem. Another athlete chasing something fragile and enormous. He prided himself on control — on keeping things compartmentalized, professional, steady. He didn’t let his mind drift where it didn’t belong. But it drifted anyway. Because the simple truth, the one he didn’t need to overthink, was that he just found you really, undeniably pretty.
He noticed your legs, your unbelievably toned legs that would give Sidney a run for his money. They were sculpted and strong, no doubt from dozens upon dozens of hours of snowboarding in your life. That’s when he spotted the scar. It ran long and pale against your skin, carving up from just below your knee toward mid-thigh. It wasn’t thin or subtle. It was thick in places, slightly raised.
You stepped carefully out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the hook. You were mid-sentence — “If I lose a toe to frostbite, I’m blaming you”— when you caught it. His lingering eyes. They weren’t gawking or pitying, just stuck staring at your knee.
You glanced down at your knee, then back up at him. “Don’t worry,” you said lightly, drying off your skin. “It looks worse than it is.”
Sidney blinked, heat rushing up his neck. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
You grinned. “I tell people I got it in a bull-riding accident,” you continued casually. “Sounds way cooler than ‘I fucked up a simple trick at the Olympics and busted up my knee.’”
Sidney let out an involuntary huff of laughter before he could stop it. “A bull-riding accident?” he echoed.
You shrugged, beginning to pat your legs dry. “You’d be surprised how many people just accept that without follow-up questions.”
Sidney laughed, the sound low and surprised, like it had been pulled out of him before he could filter it. There was a beat. Then you tilted your head.
“You’re Sidney Crosby,” you said, like you were confirming something obvious but still wanted to hear it out loud.
He huffed lightly. “Yeah.”
“I thought so.”
He waited for the usual follow-up — the long-winded praise, the childhood posters, the “my dad loves you” speech. Instead, you stuck out your hand.
“I’m Y/N.”
It caught him off guard enough that he blinked. “I know,” he admitted.
You smirked. “Oh? Stalking the snowboarding coverage?”
“My teammate mentioned you at dinner,” he said quickly, then winced internally at how that sounded.
You laughed. “Ah. So I’m team gossip already.”
“Not gossip,” he corrected, stepping closer and taking your hand. Your fingers were cold when they wrapped around his, fresh from the ice bath. “We just uh… we remember the crash.”
Sidney regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. Why are you bringing up her almost career-ending injury to her in your first conversation? Your expression shifted, only slightly, but he caught it. The brief flicker of something heavier behind your eyes.
“Yeah,” you said, softer now. “Most people do.”
Silence settled, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not quite.
“You coming back like this,” he added carefully, “that’s… impressive.”
You studied him for a long moment. Then, lightly again, because you seemed to prefer that, you shrugged. “Well. I’m invincible.”
He smiled at that. A real one this time.
Your coach clapped his hands once. “Alright, superstar. Let’s get you out before you start flirting with national icons.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Oh my God.”
Sidney felt his ears go hot again.
“I am not—” you started, then stopped, laughing. You slung your bag over your shoulder. “Good luck in your next game, Sidney.”
He nodded. “You too. When’s your next competition?”
“I have qualifiers the day after tomorrow.”
He held your gaze for half a second longer than necessary. “I’ll be watching.”
Something shifted in your expression again — smaller, quieter. “Yeah?” you said.
“Yeah.”
You smiled. Not the loud one, not the cocky one. Something in between. And then you were gone, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft click. The room felt too quiet after.
Sidney stared at the space you’d occupied for a moment longer before lowering himself back onto the mat. He placed the roller beneath his legs again. He rolled forward slowly, muscle over foam, the steady pressure grounding. He told himself that was all it was — curiosity. Respect for another athlete. Nothing more. But his mind drifted anyway.
He’d watched that crash four years ago from his childhood home during the All-Star break. Everyone had. The scream, the way your body folded wrong on the landing, the stillness after. He remembered thinking, fleeting and uncomfortable, that could be it. Not just a season. A career. A dream that had been building since childhood, cut clean in a second. Hockey had taught him how thin that line was.
Now you were here. Laughing. Arguing about adding another cork, as if your knee had never betrayed you. Like fear was something you’d already met and decided not to keep.
He shifted the roller higher up his thigh. Comeback stories always sounded romantic from the outside. Redemption. Resilience. But he knew what they actually were — early mornings when no one was watching. Doubt that settled in the quiet. The private negotiations with your own body. The way you had to convince yourself to trust it again.
You had done that. And you were younger than him. The thought slid in quietly, almost unnoticed.
These Games felt different. He hadn’t said it out loud — wouldn’t. Not to the media. Not to the guys. But there was a finality humming beneath everything. His body still responded when he asked it to. He was still effective. Still sharp. But time wasn’t something you beat forever. You just outlasted it as long as you could.
He pressed his forearm over his eyes for a moment, breathing steadily.
What happens when it ends?
He didn’t let the question finish forming. There would be other things, there always were. But hockey had been the spine of his entire life. His time was measured in seasons instead of years. You were fighting to prove you could still fly. He was trying not to think about the day he wouldn’t.
Sidney put the roller and the mat away, begging his mind not to think about the thoughts that had been plaguing him for a while now. His mind rolled back to you. He exhaled slowly. No one had left him feeling like that in a long time. Curious and a little off balance.
DAY TWO
Even before his alarm goes off, Sidney’s awake, staring at the ceiling of his room. The air hums faintly with distant footsteps and muffled laughter in the hallway belonging to other athletes moving through their own rituals, their own nerves.
Quarterfinals. It shouldn’t rattle him like this. He’s played in more elimination games than some of his teammates have played seasons. He’s worn the maple leaf so many times it feels stitched into his skin. And still his stomach twists.
Practice is sharp and fast. Everyone feels connected and ready for tonight. Inside, though, there’s that buzz. Afterward, instead of heading back to his room to lie still and overthink, he veers toward the village gym. He tells himself it’s just to flush the legs. Just to spin out the extra energy.
The gym smells like rubber and sweat, sunlight spilling through the windows, glinting off the weight rack. And there you are. You’re on a mat near the mirrors, one leg stretched long, the other bent carefully in front of you. A resistance band loops around your knee. You’re pulling it slow and controlled, jaw clenched in concentration as your quad tightens. He pauses for half a second. You glance up, a small smile spreading across your face.
“Hey,” you say, pushing a stray piece of hair off your cheek.
“Hey,” he answers, suddenly aware of how big and awkward he feels standing there.
There’s a beat where neither of you quite knows what comes next. Sidney puts his head down and crosses to the stationary bikes and swings a leg over one, adjusting the resistance higher than usual just to have something to focus on. The pedals begin to turn. His thighs burn in that steady, controlled way he likes.
But his eyes keep drifting. You’re careful with your knee. He notices that immediately. The way you ease into each stretch. The slight hesitation before you deepen it. The way your hand hovers there sometimes, as if you’re reminding it, ‘we’re okay, we’re okay’. He wonders what it took to come back from something that bad. Wonders if you ever look at the scar and feel angry.
Across the room, you’re pretending not to look at him. You’re supposed to be counting reps. Supposed to be focusing on alignment and breath. Instead, your gaze keeps flicking up to the mirrored wall.
His compression shirt clings to him as he leans forward, dampened slightly along the spine, molded to the shifting planes of his back. Each pull of his shoulders draws the fabric tight, outlining the quiet strength there — the defined ridge of muscle beneath his shoulder blades, the subtle taper of his waist. It’s the kind of build that looks effortless, but you know comes from years of dedication to his sport.
When he stands up lightly to increase the resistance, you can see the controlled power in his legs. My god his legs. You drag your gaze back to your form. Your breath. Your counting. But you keep catching fragments of him in the mirror, and your eyes are back on him. It would be easier if he weren’t so unfairly, quietly… attractive.
Across the room, he glances up again. And this time, you’re not fast enough to look away.
You swallow and finally break the silence. “So,” you say lightly, changing out the resistance band to a higher tension. “When do you compete next?”
He looks over, almost surprised you asked. “This afternoon,” he says. “Quarterfinal.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Today?”
“Yeah.”
You tilt your head. “And you’re here?”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Couldn’t sit still.”
You lean forward more, stretching out your quad. “Pre-game jitters?”
He hesitates, then nods once. Honest. “A little.”
You grin. “You’ve played, what, over twenty seasons?”
“Twenty-one,” he corrects automatically.
“Twenty-one,” you repeat. “I thought pre-game butterflies were supposed to disappear with age.”
He raises an eyebrow at you. “Are you calling me old?”
“I mean, at your age, shouldn’t you be knitting or something?”
His mouth curves into a smile. “At my age?”
You shrug, biting back a smile. “Maybe some bingo with the others in the retirement home.”
He laughs — really laughs this time — and it does something strange and warm to your chest. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “Brutal.”
You stand up out of the squat, meeting his eyes. “Relax. You wear it well.”
“Wear what?” he asks.
“Twenty-one seasons,” you say softly. “It looks good on you.”
For a second, the gym feels smaller. You hadn’t meant for the words to land the way they did. But now they’re there, hanging between you. The pedals slow under his feet.
You hadn’t been blind to the age difference. You’re twenty-six — still figuring things out, still collecting firsts, still feeling like the world is something you’re actively running toward. He’s thirty-eight — lived-in confidence, long seasons behind him, a body shaped by time and repetition and resilience. There’s history in him. Experience. Weight.
You should notice those twelve years more. But it doesn’t change a thing. If anything, it makes him more compelling. Because the attraction isn’t just physical — though God, that would be enough on its own. It’s the way he carries himself, how patient he is.
He stands, swinging one leg off the bike. Up close, he feels even taller. Broader. The warmth of exertion still clinging to him. You catch the faint scent of clean sweat and something crisp — soap, maybe.
Your pulse stutters again. Twelve years older. Still doesn’t matter. Not when he looks at you like that. Not when your stomach flips just from standing this close.
Sidney grabs his water bottle mostly to give his hands something to do. He’s faced down Olympic pressure, game 7 do-or-dies, and entire arenas chanting against him. And somehow this, standing a few feet away from you, feels riskier.
He clears his throat. “Do you… um.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you want to come? To the game.”
You blink. “What?”
“The quarterfinal,” he says quickly. “Against Czechia. I mean, if you’re busy or have training or— it’s fine if you can’t. Just thought I’d—”
“I want to go,” you interrupt. The words tumble out without hesitation. His flustered rambling stops. “You do?”
“Yeah,” you say, smiling now. “I’ve never actually been to a professional hockey game in person before.”
He stares at you like that information alone has shifted the balance of the universe. “Well,” he says, recovering slightly. “We should probably fix that.”
You step back toward your mat, trying to steady the sudden rush in your chest. “I’ll be there.” He nods, a grin tugging at his mouth as he heads toward the door.
“Try not to knit too hard before puck drop,” you call after him.
He glances over his shoulder. “Careful,” he says. “I might score just to prove the old guy still has it.”
You watch him leave. And for the first time that morning, the nerves in your knee and in your chest don’t feel quite so heavy.
Later, in the cafeteria, you scan the room for familiar faces. The snowboarders are loud in the way only adrenaline and youth make you loud. Trays clatter. Someone is reenacting a near miss from practice with exaggerated arm movements. You slide into the seat beside them, trying to look casual.
“Anyone want to come to hockey tonight?” you ask, spearing a piece of fruit you don’t really plan on eating.
Three heads swivel toward you. “Hockey?” Scott repeats, like you just suggested competitive puzzle making
“Yeah. Quarterfinal. Canada vs. Czechia.”
A pause. “When did you become such a hockey fan?” Clara laughs.
Your stomach tightens for half a second. Not from guilt exactly, but from the awareness that the truth would come out sounding too obvious. You shrug, reaching for your water. “My dad’s obsessed. Like, borderline unhealthy. I grew up watching it. Playoffs, Olympics, random Tuesday night games. It’s basically background noise in our house.”
It rolls off your tongue easier than expected. They groan in sympathy. “Ohhh, okay. That makes sense. Trauma bonding with your childhood TV schedule.” Scott nods
“Exactly,” you say, grateful for the direction the teasing takes. “Consider this me honoring my roots.”
They buy it. Of course they do. Your life has always been half-truths and media answers and polite deflections. This is nothing.
“Fine,” Val says. “We’ll go. But if it’s boring, you owe us dessert.”
“It won’t be boring,” you say before you can stop yourself.
And boring it wasn’t. The game was fast and demanding. It took a minute to get a handle on tracking the puck. But once you did, you couldn’t help but notice how often it was on Sidney’s stick.
You watch him receive a pass from his teammate and go flying up the middle of the ice. A Czech forward closes on him, but he slips past between the boards. You lean forward without realizing it. He passes to a teammate in the middle before bolting up to open ice on the left side of the net.
Scott mutters something beside you, but you don’t hear it. Because you’re watching the way he refuses to drift. He’s constantly moving hard. Even when the puck leaves his stick, he doesn’t stop moving. He crashes the net, ties up a defender, digs in the corners. He’s talking constantly, directing traffic, pointing, tapping sticks. It’s captivating watching an athlete command their space like that. There’s urgency in him tonight. Not panic. Not recklessness. Just this relentless insistence. As if the game will bend if he leans on it hard enough.
Midway through the second period, the score is tight. 1-1. Czechia is structured, suffocating. The game threatens to stall. And then Sidney takes over. He wins a faceoff cleanly, pulls it back, immediately spins off his check, and slides into the high slot. The return pass finds him in stride. He doesn’t dust it off. He just snaps it. The puck whistles past the goalie’s glove and the arena detonates.
You’re on your feet before you even process it, heart slamming, shouting something incoherent as the red light flashes behind the net. He doesn’t celebrate wildly. Just a sharp exhale, a fist pump, teammates crashing into him.
By the third period, he’s everywhere. Backchecking hard enough to break up a two-on-one. Winning battles along the wall against players younger and bigger. Blocking a shot late in the game and hopping right back up without a second thought.
The final minutes stretch thin with tension. Czechia pulls its goalie. Six attackers swarm. Sidney stays on the ice. He’s exhausted, you can see it now in the heavier rise of his chest, the damp hair curling at his temples, but he digs in anyway. He wins another draw and chips the puck out. Chases it down himself and pins it deep, burning precious seconds.
When the horn finally sounds, Canada up by just one goal, the sound feels physical. It presses against your ribs. He tilts his helmet up, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright. And for a second, amidst the chaos and the cameras and the maple leaf waving everywhere, he looks almost boyish. Relieved. Alive. When he lifts his head and scans the stands, you swear his eyes catch yours for half a heartbeat. And your pulse answers before your mind can.
DAY THREE
When you wake up, before a pale line of sunrise appears in the sky, your heart is already beating fast like it knows what day it is. The qualifiers aren’t for another seven hours, but you’re already on edge. You close your eyes again and try to will yourself back to sleep, but your brain won’t cooperate. It keeps replaying the run order (you’re going eighth out of twenty-nine), the weather forecast (it’s going to be just over freezing during the competition).
You sit upright. Your knee aches. It’s not a pain, more like a memory. Of Beijing. You swallow hard and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. There’s no point pretending you’ll sleep again.
The Village cafeteria is quieter than you’ve ever seen it. A few early risers, but the emptiest you’d seen it since you’d arrived. You load your tray without really thinking—eggs, fruit, a slice of toast, coffee you don’t even want but feel like you should drink. You yawn as you carry your tray towards the tables.
And that’s when you see him. He’s sitting alone near the windows, shoulders slightly hunched, hoodie pulled over a Team Canada tee. A mug cradled in both hands. He looks up as if he feels you staring.
For half a second, you consider turning around. Instead, you walk over. “Couldn’t sleep either?” you ask softly. He smiles. It’s small and private, which doesn’t look like the one he gives cameras. “Guess not.”
You slide into the seat across from him. Up close, he looks exactly like he always does on television, calm and steady, but there’s something tired around his eyes.
“You’ve got qualifiers today,” he says.
You blink. “You remember?”
He shrugs lightly. “Kind of hard to forget.”
You stir your coffee even though you haven’t added anything to it. “Yeah. I go eighth today.”
He nods once. “That why you’re up?”
“Partly.” You hesitate. “And partly because my brain won’t shut up.”
He studies you carefully. Not invasive. Just… attentive. “About your knee?” he asks gently.
The question lands softly, but it still makes your breath hitch. You hadn’t told him much about Beijing. Most people know the highlight version—the crash, the injury, the long rehab—but they don’t know what it felt like. The way the air disappeared from your lungs when you realized you were short on rotation. The split second of weightlessness before gravity made its decision.
You stare down at your plate. “Yeah,” you admit. There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just Sidney giving you space to talk. “It comes back sometimes,” you say quietly. “The crash. I’ll be at the top of the ramp, and suddenly it’s like I can feel it again. The pain.” He doesn’t interrupt. “I tried a trick I’d only landed twice in training,” you continue. “I thought I needed it. Everyone else was pushing so hard. The sport was evolving so fast. I thought if I didn’t go bigger, I’d be invisible.”
You laugh softly, but it doesn’t feel funny. “Turns out I wasn’t ready.”
“You going for it again?” he asks.
You meet his eyes. “Yes,” you reply. “But it’s different now,” you add quickly. “The sport’s moved forward. Spins are cleaner, rotations are bigger. I’ve added another half spin into the setup. It’s controlled. I’ve landed it more than twice this time.”
He leans back slightly, considering. “You scared?” he asks.
You exhale slowly. “Yeah.”
There it is. Honest and exposed in the quiet morning light. You expect him to tell you not to be. To give you some cliché about believing in yourself. Instead, he says, “Good.”
You frown. “Good?”
“Good,” he repeats, steady as ever. “If you weren’t scared, I’d be worried.”
You tilt your head. He wraps both hands around his mug. “Fear means you understand what’s at stake. It means you respect it. The ice, the ramp, the moment. The guys who scare me are the ones who think they’re invincible.”
A corner of your mouth lifts. “You don’t look scared out there.”
He huffs quietly. “That’s the job.”
You study him. The way he sits—still, contained, like he’s holding something in. “So what do you do with it?” you ask. “The fear?”
He thinks about it. “I shrink it,” he says finally. “I don’t let it turn into this big, career-defining monster. I make it about the next shift. The next faceoff. The next detail I can control. I can’t control the crowd. Or the headlines. Or whether a puck hits a skate and goes in. But I can control my first three strides. My stick position. My breathing.”
You nod slowly, absorbing it. There’s a beat of silence. The sky outside has shifted from navy to pale gold. A few more athletes trickle into the cafeteria, but the world still feels hushed.
You glance at him again. “You don’t have practice until this afternoon,” you say. “Why are you up?”
He hesitates. It’s just a flicker, but you catch it. “I always get up early on tournament days,” he says at first, default answer ready. Then he exhales. “But that’s not really it.”
You wait. He looks down at the table, then back at you. And for the first time since you met him, he looks less like a legend and more like just a man.
“I keep thinking about what happens after,” he says quietly.
“After this tournament?”
“After hockey.”
The words hang between you.
You blink. “You’ve got years left.”
He gives you a look that says he knows you don’t quite believe that. “I’ve given my whole life to this,” he continues. “Since I was a kid. Every decision, every summer, every relationship. It’s all been built around being a hockey player.” His jaw tightens slightly. “I don’t know who I am without this.”
The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. “And this,” he adds, gesturing vaguely, meaning the Olympics, the flag stitched on his chest. “It’s Canada. It’s everything. Gold is the standard. Anything less…” He swallows. “In my head, it’s failure.”
You lean back in your chair, studying him the way he studied you earlier. “You really believe that?”
He shrugs, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s what people expect.”
“Or is it what you expect?”
He doesn’t answer. You take a breath. “Can I tell you something?” you ask. He nods. “When I was in rehab after Beijing,” you begin, voice steady but soft, “there was a week where I couldn’t bend my knee past ninety degrees. The doctor said it was normal. The physio said it was progress. But I went back to my house and cried because I thought that was it.”
His eyes lift to yours. “I thought my career was over. Not because anyone told me it was. But because I couldn’t imagine being anything else. I didn’t know how to exist without the version of me that flew off jumps.”
You wrap your hands around your own mug now, mirroring him. “And you know what scared me most?” you continue. “It wasn’t losing competitions. It wasn’t missing podiums. It was people not caring anymore. It was walking into a room and not being the snowboarder.”
He listens like he’s memorizing every word. “I had to figure out who I was when no one was watching,” you say. “And I hated it at first. It felt empty. But eventually, I realized… I’m not valuable because I land a trick. I land tricks because of who I am.”
He’s very still now. “My stubbornness. My discipline. My curiosity. The way I handle pressure. Those things didn’t disappear when my knee did. They were still mine.” You lean forward slightly. “Hockey isn’t who you are. It’s how you express who you are.”
His breath catches almost imperceptibly. “You think when you retire, you suddenly stop being disciplined? Or driven? Or someone who makes the people around him better?” you ask gently. “Those are yours. The rink just gave them a stage.”
He looks out the window for a long moment. Sidney wasn’t used to being given advice. It’s been a long time since he was a rookie. Since he was the guy struggling with the landscape of the NHL. He’d long been the one guiding others as they began their careers. He didn’t know how to swallow what you were telling him.
“And about gold,” you add, quieter now. “You want it because you care. That’s good. But you don’t get to measure your worth by a medal.”
He gives you a faint, almost incredulous smile. “Easy for you to say.”
“Is it?” you counter softly. “If I podium today, it doesn’t erase Beijing. If I don’t, it doesn’t erase the work I’ve done to get back here.”
You hold his gaze. “You making Canada proud isn’t about the color of the medal. It’s about the way you show up. The way you play. The way you carry yourself when it’s hard.”
The cafeteria noise grows slightly louder as more athletes wander in, but your table still feels like its own world. He exhales slowly. “You’re pretty good at this.”
“I’ve got a good teacher,” you reply softly.
A small smile spreads across his face — not the polished one, not the public one. The real one. For the first time since you woke up, your heart isn’t racing. And when you look at him now, he doesn’t seem like a man drowning in expectations. He looks like someone who just needed to be reminded that he’s more than the game.
Across the village, Sidney is frantically unlacing his skates. His fingers burn as he yanks at the laces, the tips stiff and numb from the cold of the rink. Practice had run long. Extra reps. Extra faceoffs. Extra shots he didn’t need but took anyway.
He doesn’t wait for the equipment guys. He pulls his helmet off, shoves it into his stall, and checks his phone. The livestream is already up and just showing the order. “Damn it,” he mutters under his breath. He does the quick math. If they’re on the first rider and you’re going eighth, Sidney has, what, ten minutes?
He’s already stripping out of his gear. Shin pads hit the floor. Shoulder pads tossed into his stall without their usual careful placement. His undershirt sticks to his back as he peels it off, sweat cooling instantly in the open air of the locker room.
Nathan notices first. “Whoa,” Nate says from across the room, leaning back against his stall. “You got somewhere to be? Or you just allergic to post-practice stretching now?”
Sidney doesn’t look up. “Just—uh. Gotta get over to the hill.”
Nate arches a brow. “The hill.”
Sidney grabs a towel and disappears into the showers. “Yeah.”
Water blasts on. He stands under it for barely thirty seconds, barely enough to rinse the sweat from his hair. He scrubs fast, mechanical. His heart is beating like he’s still on the ice doing reps. He keeps glancing toward the exit as if he can see the clock through concrete. When he steps back into the locker room, toweling his hair aggressively, Nate is still watching him with narrowed eyes.
“Sid.” He doesn’t respond. “Sidney.”
“What?” He pulls on a clean hoodie, dragging it over damp hair.
“Why exactly do you need to go to the hill?”
Sidney sighs. He should lie better than this. He’s had years of media training. But this is Nate. And he’s never been good at lying to his teammates. “They’re starting,” he says, quieter now. “She’s going eighth.”
Nate’s expression shifts immediately. The teasing sharpness softens into something knowing.
“Ohhh,” he says slowly. “We’re talking about her.”
Sidney shoots him a look. “Don’t.”
Nate grins. “The snowboarder.”
Sidney tugs on his shoes. “I just want to support her.”
“Sure you do,” Nate says. “That’s very noble. Very patriotic. Very team spirit.”
Sidney rolls his eyes.
Nate lowers his voice. “How serious is this, exactly?” Sidney hesitates, and that hesitation is all the answer Nate needs. “Oh,” Nate says again, this time with a smirk. “It’s serious, serious.”
“It’s not—” Sidney starts, then stops. He doesn’t even know how to define it yet. He just knows that when you’re standing at the top of that run, when the wind hits your face, and the whole world narrows to the lip of a jump, he wants to be there. Even if you can’t see him in the crowd.
Nate studies him for a second longer, then claps his hands together. “Alright. I’m in.”
Sidney blinks. “In?”
“I’m coming.”
“You don’t even—”
“I’m not passing on a chance to watch you fall in love,” Nate says solemnly. “Plus, I’ve never seen snowboarding live.”
Sidney shakes his head, already moving toward the exit. “Fine. But you have to hurry. I’m leaving now.”
“Bossy,” Nate mutters, grabbing his jacket.
“Where are you going?” asked Macklin as he stepped out of the showers, drying off his chest.
Nate doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re going to see Sid’s crush.”
Sidney stops in his tracks, groaning at Nathan's words. Macklin’s head snaps up fully. “His what?”
“She’s competing,” Nate says casually. “Snowboarder. Big air final.”
Macklin’s eyes widen like a kid who just found out there’s an after-party. “No way. Are you talking about that girl, what's her name… Y/n! You’re dating her?”
“It’s not like that,” Sidney insists, which of course makes it sound exactly like that.
“It’s totally like that,” Nathan says
Macklin is already on his feet, tugging on his Team Canada sweatsuit. “I’m coming.”
Sidney exhales sharply. “Guys, seriously, I don’t—”
“Are you kidding?” Macklin says. “This could be historic. I need to see this for myself.”
Nate slings an arm around Macklin’s shoulders. “We’re being supportive teammates.”
“You are not telling anyone,” Sidney says firmly, looking between them.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nate replies, grinning.
Macklin nods eagerly. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“You don’t know that.”
Sidney shakes his head, but there’s no stopping them now. The three of them head out into the cold air of the village, breath visible immediately as they step outside. The walk feels longer than it should. Sidney checks his phone again as they move. Five riders have gone now. Mostly clean landings. Some big scores. He feels it in his chest. He knows you’re nervous. All he’s hoping is that you remember what he said. Shrink it.
Nate glances sideways at him. “You’re more nervous than before a gold medal game.” Sidney doesn’t deny it.
The three of them pick up their pace, running shoes crunching against packed snow as they round the last bend toward the big air venue. Music pulses faintly in the distance. The giant scaffolded ramp rises against the sky like something engineered by people who don’t believe in safety. They reach the entrance just as the announcer’s voice booms across the hill.
“Next up, riding in eighth position…”
Sidney freezes for half a breath. “That’s her,” he says.
They slip into the crowd, unnoticed beneath beanies and Team Canada jackets. The big screen flickers, cutting to you at the top of the run. You’re clipped in, helmet on, goggles reflecting the pale sky. Sidney feels his chest tighten. You look small up there. The starter waves you forward. You drop in.
It’s faster than it looks on TV. The crowd noise quiets as you build speed down the in-run, knees bent, body compact and balanced in a way that makes Sidney’s stomach flip. He knows what it feels like to accelerate toward something you can’t hesitate on. He knows that moment when you can’t second-guess.
You hit the lip. And then you’re flying.
Sidney’s breath catches. Actually catches. His fingers curl into fists at his sides. You soar higher than he expects. Higher than seems reasonable. You spin, controlled and fluid, board carving clean through air that looks too thin to hold you. For a split second, you hang there. And Sidney feels it in his ribs like someone’s pressing inward.
Then you come down. Hard. Hard enough that he winces instinctively, imagining his own knees taking that impact. But you absorb it like water. Smooth. Centered. Riding it out with only the slightest skid before straightening.
The crowd roars. Sidney exhales, a shaky, disbelieving laugh escaping him. “Holy—”
“That,” Macklin breathes, eyes wide, “is insane.”
On the screen, you glide to the bottom, slowing, unclipping one foot. You don’t celebrate. You just nod once to yourself. You stand there for a bit while the judges deliberate. Sidney watches the replays on the big screen. He watches the slowed-down version of you spinning in the air. He watches how you don’t hesitate as you land.
Finally, the score flashes up.
80.50.
Sidney studies your face on the screen. You give a small smile. Not overjoyed. Not upset. Measured. It puts you in third. “She’ll want more,” he murmurs.
Nate glances at him. “You know that?”
Sidney nods. “Yeah.”
Half an hour later, you’re back at the top. After everyone had gone, you were now in sixth. Sixth was plenty to get you into the finals. But you wanted more. The wind has picked up. Snow drifts sideways across the lens. Sidney shifts his weight, hands buried in his pockets, heart pounding.
You drop in again. This one looks just as clean to him. Same speed. Same precision. You take off. Another spin. Different grab. It looks massive from where he stands. Perfectly timed.
But this time you wobble on the landing. Your balance is slightly off, and to prevent yourself from completely falling, your hand comes down to the snow to steady yourself. You ride it out, but you’re already shaking your head before you fully slow.
“Why’s she shaking her head? That looked good to me,” Macklin says.
Sidney doesn’t answer. He’s watching you. On the screen, you pull off your goggles and press them to your helmet, lips tight. After a few replays, your score pops up on the screen.
72.50.
Sidney swallows. He hates that number for you. Hates the way disappointment flickers across your face before you smooth it away. He wants to be down there. Wants to tell you it’s still in reach.
“That’s good! That’s a good score!” Macklin says. Sidney appreciates his optimism, but he knows you want a good run to put you further up.
“She’s got one left,” Nate says quietly.
Sidney nods.
When your final run rolls around, you quiet the world around you. You close your eyes.
Sidney’s breath slows without him meaning it to. He mirrors you unconsciously.
Your shoulders rise. Fall. Rise again.
“Shrink it,” he whispers, barely audible even to himself.
You drop in. Faster this time. No hesitation.
Sidney can feel it. There’s something different in the way you carry yourself—less thinking, more instinct.
You hit the jump. Launch. And this one—
This one is perfect. Higher than the first. Cleaner than the second. You spin with a kind of calm violence, board locked to your hand, body tight and extended in exactly the right moments.
You come down. No skid. No adjustment. Just solid, powerful contact and a seamless ride out. For a half-second, the entire hill seems to hold its breath. Then the roar explodes. You can’t help it this time. You throw one arm up, a quick, sharp celebration before catching yourself. Sidney laughs, the sound punched out of him with relief. His eyes are bright. He doesn’t even realize he’s gripping Nate’s sleeve.
The score loads.
86.25.
It jumps you up the leaderboard instantly.
“Let’s go!” Macklin shouts.
That run put you into a qualifying position comfortably, but the fear was still there. There were still twenty-one riders, and at least half of them could knock you out of contention. But half an hour later, there are no changes to the top four, and you’re advancing to the finals in fourth. Sidney exhales like he was surviving something himself.
On the big screen, Sidney watches you hug your fellow riders, a wide, unguarded smile showing when you turn towards the camera. And he feels something shift in his chest. Not pride. Not exactly. Something deeper and warmer and terrifying.
Nate elbows him gently. “She’s unreal.”
Sidney nods slowly, eyes still locked on you as you hug your coach at the bottom.
“Yeah, you managed to pick someone cooler than you,” Macklin says, Nate elbowing him gently in the ribs.
On the screen, you’re still grinning — cheeks flushed, breath fogging in the cold — when you finally turn away from your coach. Sidney doesn’t even realize he’s stepped forward until Nate grabs the back of his hoodie.
“Easy,” Nate mutters. “You’re not subtle.”
But it’s too late. You’re scanning the edge of the venue now, helmet still on, goggles pushed up. You’re looking for someone — and the second your eyes land on him, you freeze. Your face splits into something brighter than the scoreboard, and you start towards him immediately.
Sidney’s stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with hockey or pressure or legacy. He steps out from the cluster of fans, no longer caring if anyone recognizes him.
You don’t slow down. You launch yourself at him. Sidney barely has time to brace before your arms wrap around his shoulders and your boots leave the snow. He catches you automatically, strong hands locking around your back as you squeeze him like you’re trying to fuse the two of you together.
A full-body, big bear hug. The kind that knocks the breath out of him. He laughs into your shoulder. “Whoa— okay. Easy.”
“You made it,” you say against his hoodie, voice muffled but glowing. “You actually made it.”
“Of course I made it,” he replies, tightening his grip for a second before setting you back down carefully. “Wouldn’t miss that.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, hands still fisted in the fabric at his sides. Your eyes are bright — not just from the cold. “You were insane,” he says, and there’s no teasing in it. Just awe. “That last run? That was ridiculous. You were so high I thought you might not come down.”
You laugh breathlessly. “It felt high.”
“It looked perfect.”
Your smile softens at that, something quieter settling in. “I remembered.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Remembered what?”
You bump your shoulder into his lightly, like it’s a secret between you. “Shrink it.”
For a second, he just stares at you. Then he huffs out a disbelieving laugh, eyes crinkling. “You did.”
“Last run,” you nod. “I was overthinking. I could feel it. So I just—” You close your eyes briefly, inhaling the cold air the same way you did at the top. “Shrank it. Made it just the jump. Just the grab. Just the landing.”
Sidney shakes his head slowly, admiration written all over his face. “That’s exactly what you did. You looked locked in.”
You study him now, really look at him — damp hair still slightly messy from his rushed shower, hoodie thrown on too fast, laces not even fully tightened.
“You ran here, didn’t you?” you ask.
“Maybe.”
Nate clears his throat loudly from a few feet back. “He absolutely did.”
You glance past Sidney and finally register the extra bodies.
Your eyes widen slightly. “Oh my god.”
Sidney turns. “Right. Uh—”
Nate steps forward first, grinning. “Hi. We’ve heard a lot about you.”
You laugh, a little overwhelmed but glowing. “Thank you.”
Sidney laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh, this is Nate and Macklin. They’re my teammates.”
“It’s nice to meet you both,” you said, sticking out your hand to shake theirs. “I’m Y/n.”
Sidney shifts back toward you, lowering his voice slightly. “Seriously. I’m proud of you.”
The word lands more heavily than he probably intended.
Your expression softens again. “It’s just qualifying.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. “You showed up when it mattered.”
You hold his gaze for a beat too long for this to be casual. Then his tone shifts, just slightly — a flicker of nerves underneath it. “You’re coming tomorrow, right?” he asks.
“Tomorrow?”
“Semifinal. Finland.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his eyes give him away. “I think I might need that good luck.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, so now I’m good luck?”
“You absolutely are,” Nate chimes in.
Sidney doesn’t break eye contact with you. “You need to be there.”
You pretend to consider it, rubbing a gloved hand against your chin. “Hmm. I don’t know. I’m pretty busy being an Olympic finalist.”
He steps half a pace closer. “I watched you fly thirty feet in the air. You can handle sitting in a rink for two hours.”
You grin. “Thirty-five.”
He huffs. “Show off.”
There’s that look again — the one that feels bigger than the village, bigger than the noise, bigger than the Games. “Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll be there.”
Relief flashes across his face so quickly it’s almost invisible. “Good,” he says. “I’ll play better if you’re watching.”
DAY FOUR
The hockey arena is louder than it was for Czechia. You feel it the second you step inside. The air is thick with noise, red jerseys everywhere, the deep rhythmic chant of “CAN-A-DA” rolling through the stands like thunder. It vibrates through the metal steps beneath your boots.
You wedge yourself between Scott and Clara, who are already halfway through a bucket of popcorn and have suddenly become know-it-alls about hockey since the last game you’d dragged them to. Your hands are tucked deep into the pocket of your Team Canada hoodie, fingers curled into the fleece. Your heart is pounding in a way that feels dangerously similar to the start gate.
It’s ridiculous. You’re not the one playing. But you know what it feels like to carry a nation’s expectations on your shoulders. To hear the roar of a crowd and know it’s both for you and because of you.
The first period is brutal. Finland clogs the neutral zone. Hits are heavier. Every inch is earned. You find yourself leaning forward every time he touches the puck. Watching the way he delays, the way he draws defenders toward him before slipping passes through seams that don’t seem real.
Midway through the second, tied 1–1, he drives the net. He absorbs contact from two Finnish defenders and still manages to shovel the puck across the crease for a tap-in. You, along with the rest of the arena, explode.
You’re thrilled for Sidney, but recognize the urgency in it. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t for highlight reels. It was survival. It was a man refusing to let his ending come early. The game goes to overtime, tied 2–2.
You don’t realize you’re gripping your own knee until it aches. Over time is quick. Sidney doesn’t even get a chance to get on the ice. His teammate wins the draw. The defenseman regroups and skates to the offensive zone. One pass and the puck is rifled into the top corner. The red jerseys detonate. You’re on your feet, screaming, but your eyes search for him.
He doesn’t celebrate wildly. He exhales. He closes his eyes for half a second like he’s steadying himself against something invisible. Like relief weighs more than joy.
The village is electric that night. Canadians fill every common space, the watch party area full of patriotic fans with tired, euphoric smiles. You don’t go to the celebrations.
You sit cross-legged on your bed, ice wrapped around your knee, the television muted but still flashing highlights from the game you just watched. His assist. His minutes logged. The way he leaned over his stick at the end, chest heaving. You stare at your phone for a long second before typing.
what a fucking game. you okay?
The message sends. The three little dots don’t appear right away. You tell yourself you’re fine with that. They finally blink to life.
come by.
Your pulse trips.
His building is quieter than yours. The Canadian hockey players are nowhere to be heard. They know the work is not done; they know it’s too early to celebrate. Security nods you through without a second glance. Athletes visiting athletes isn’t unusual. No one asks why your stomach feels like it’s flipping inside out.
When he opens the door, he’s in grey sweats and a black Team Canada tee. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. There’s a faint bruise blooming along his jaw, reddish-purple already spreading beneath the skin. You step inside his room. It’s exactly how you imagined it would be: bed perfectly made, suitcase zipped and tucked against the wall. For a second, neither of you speaks. You suddenly feel very awkward having shown up at Sidney Crosby’s door the night before your finals.
“You shouldn’t be playing twenty-seven minutes in a semi at your age.”
Sidney’s mouth twitches. “You calling me old again?”
“I’m calling you stubborn.”
He leans back against the dresser, arms folding loosely across his chest. There’s a tiredness in his posture that he doesn’t let the cameras see.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he says, but there’s no edge to it.
“You texted me.”
He exhales through his nose, a half-smile ghosting over his mouth. “Yeah, I know, but you’ve got your final tomorrow,” he adds. “You should be resting.”
“I will.” You step closer without really deciding to. “Couldn’t sleep yet.”
“Nerves?”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I’ve got nerves about everything.” Sidney nods slowly as if your words land somewhere deep within him. Like he knows what it’s like to have a whole country’s expectations wrapped around your ribs.
“You don’t have to win gold to matter,” you say, almost absentmindedly. “You know that, right?”
“And you don’t have to land the biggest trick anyone’s ever seen to prove you’re not that girl from Beijing.”
You’re both quiet for a moment. Because somehow, in the middle of all this, you just understand each other — the pressure, the doubt, the quiet fears you don’t say out loud. You step closer until there’s barely any space between you. Close enough to see the scrape along his cheekbone. Without thinking, you lift your hand and brush your thumb just beneath it.
“You’re going to bruise.”
“I’ve had worse.”
Your hand lingers. His slides to your waist tentatively, like he’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t. His hand is warm through the thin cotton of your shirt.
“I don’t want to think tonight,” he says quietly. “About medals. Or endings.”
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
The words barely leave your mouth before something shifts between you. The air tightens, charged and fragile. He studies your face like he’s memorizing it. His thumb presses lightly into your waist, testing, asking. You nod. It’s small, but it’s enough.
Sidney closes the distance first.
The kiss isn’t rushed. It isn’t reckless. It’s careful like he’s been holding it back for days and doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it if he moves too fast. His mouth is warm and soft against yours, tasting faintly like mint and a sports drink he probably chugged after the game. Your hands find his shirt instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric at his ribs. For a second, it’s just lips brushing. Then you exhale against him, and something breaks open.
His hand slides from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer. You feel the solid line of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, still not fully recovered from earlier. He kisses you deeper this time, and you feel it everywhere — in your stomach, in your fingertips, in the place beneath your ribs that’s been clenched for weeks.
Your knees nearly give when he pulls you closer, like gravity has shifted and he’s the only thing holding you upright. His mouth moves against yours with growing certainty, like he’s finally letting himself have something he’s been denying for too long. Your fingers slide up into the damp curls at the nape of his neck, and he exhales low and unsteady like the contact knocks the breath from him.
“Tell me if your knee—” Sidney starts quietly, pulling back just enough to look at you.
You cut him off with another kiss. “It’s fine.”
The laugh you breathe into his mouth is soft and warm, and something in his expression melts completely. Careful hands slide under your thighs, instinctively protective, like he can’t separate desire from the constant need to make sure you’re okay. He lifts you with surprising ease, steady and deliberate, and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically.
You can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out of you. It’s half giddy, half disbelieving, because this is ridiculous and overwhelming and somehow exactly what you needed. His forehead brushes yours as he walks you towards the bed, every step slow, measured, like he’s still giving you time to change your mind. You don’t. Your legs stay hooked around his hips, fingers pressing into the solid warmth of his shoulders.
Time slips. You’re not sure how much. Clothes end up scattered on the floor as the world outside his room dissolves into nothing but the soft, slow way his hands feel every inch of you. Later, you’re curled against him, cheek resting lightly on his chest. His heartbeat is slower now, steady and heavy beneath your ear. One of his hands drifts lazily along your arm, thumb brushing back and forth in absent, soothing strokes.
You feel him inhale, then exhale slowly like he’s gathering himself. “You should probably head back to your room soon,” he says, voice low. “You need some sleep before tomorrow.”
You blink at him, then squint slightly, a teasing smile creeping in. “…Are you kicking me out?”
“What? No — I — that’s not—” He pushes himself up on one elbow, flustered in a way that feels almost endearingly boyish. “I just meant — you need rest. I don’t want to— I wasn’t—”
The words tangle together, flustered and earnest all at once. He pushes himself halfway upright like he might need to physically clarify the situation, hands hovering awkwardly between reaching for you and not wanting to make it worse.
You burst into quiet laughter. “Sid,” you manage between breaths, reaching up to press your palm gently against his chest. “I’m kidding.”
He freezes, searching your face to make sure. When he realizes you really are just teasing him, a slow flush creeps up the back of his neck. “Oh my god,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“You looked horrified.”
“I just didn’t want you to think—” Sidney stops, exhales, then shakes his head at himself. “Never mind.”
Your laughter softens as you bring your fingers up to his jaw. “I know.”
His shoulders loosen after that, tension melting out of him again. His hand slides to your waist, resting there — not pulling you back down, not stopping you from moving away either. Just… holding. Eventually, you shift, reaching for your clothes. He sits up too, running a hand through his already-mussed hair, watching you with something thoughtful in his eyes. When you’re ready to leave, he walks you to the door. Your fingers brush once more before you step into the hallway.
“Good luck tomorrow,” he says quietly.
“Thank you, Sid.” You smile.
The door closes softly between you, but the warmth of him clings to your skin all the way down the quiet hallway. And inside your chest, everything feels calm. For the first time in weeks, the pressure doesn’t feel crushing. It’s just there. You know it’s there, but it doesn’t hang over your head like an anvil waiting to fall.
You fall into bed with the faint taste of mint still on your lips, his voice still low in your ears, his heartbeat still echoing somewhere beneath your ribs. Tomorrow will be loud. Tomorrow will be everything. But tonight, you sleep smiling.
DAY FIVE
The morning of the big air finals is the only time you actually sleep. Not the restless half-sleep you’ve been drifting through all week that kept being interrupted by anxiety about competition. This was real sleep. Deep sleep that went uninterrupted for hours, that settled into your bones.
Your alarm still feels rude, though. It cuts through the dark in sharp, repetitive chirps. You blink at the ceiling, disoriented for a second, warm and still and reluctant to exist. For a brief, dangerous moment, you think about snoozing it. Just ten more minutes. Just a little more of that weightless quiet.
But the word finals drifts into your awareness, slow and inevitable. Your stomach flips.
You groan softly and force yourself upright, rubbing your face with both hands. The nerves are there, humming under your skin — but they’re different today. They aren’t clawing at your ribs or making your chest tight. They feel contained. Like something held carefully in cupped hands.
“Welcome to Livigno snow park and the women's snowboard big air finals. Twelve of the very best riders on the planet, including two-time Olympic champion Anna Gasser, the number one qualifier Zoi Sadowski-Synott, and Canada’s very own comeback story, Y/n L/n.”
Music pulses from speakers somewhere below. Boots and boards scrape against tightly packed snow. Sounds overlap — coaches, competitors, announcers, volunteers, cameras clicking, radios crackling. Despite the noise, you feel comfortable. Your breath is steady, your pulse is slow and rhythmic.
You wait below for you and your group of six riders to take the sketchy elevator to the top of the scaffolding. You watch the first few riders drop in, one after another — spins, grabs, landings, cheers. Some clean. Some sketchy. One full crash that makes the crowd groan in sympathy before bursting into applause when the rider stands up.
The elevator shudders on its cables as it descends again, empty now, a metal cage dangling against a pale sky. From below, it looks impossibly small — a rattling box climbing into nothing. You flex your fingers inside your gloves, rolling your shoulders once, then again. Everything feels loose. Ready.
The elevator lands with a metallic clang. A worker waves your group forward. Boots thud against the grated floor as you step inside. Boards scrape. Someone’s glove brushes your arm. The gate slams shut with a heavy latch, then you begin to rise.
The metal hums beneath your boots. One rider is tapping her boot, another is repeating something under her breath—a mantra maybe. You don’t move. You’ve never felt this calm before a competition. And yet, you’re as steady as you can be right before the Olympic finals.
The wind greets you first. It’s stronger up here, blowing loose strands of hair across your goggles. The in-run stretches ahead like a narrow white runway disappearing into the sky. From this height, the landing looks miles away.
Your turn rolls around quicker than you anticipate. Your coach gives you a few words, but they go in one ear and out the other. You strap your boots onto your board, jumping once to make sure you’re secure. The starter gives you the okay, and you inch towards the slope.
“Canada’s Y/n L/n drops in next. The twenty-six-year-old is trying to come back from heartbreak. Her last run at a medal in Big Air was shattered when she crashed during her second run and had to have a total knee reconstruction. Now, four years later, Y/n says she feels stronger than ever.”
You jump sideways, dropping in goofy stance. Gravity grabs immediately—smooth, familiar acceleration pressing through your legs as the snow hisses beneath your base. Speed builds fast. Faster. The lip rushes toward you, but your body already knows the timing—knees compress, arms set, shoulders aligned.
You pop into the air, the scenery spinning in a blur. Your board rotates clean beneath you, movement crisp and controlled. Muscle memory and instinct thread together seamlessly. You feel the spin finish exactly when it should. No rush. No hesitation. Your board meets snow with a deep, solid compression that travels straight up through your legs. Ankles absorb, knees stack, core tight. A tiny wobble flickers through your joints — quick, electric — but it never turns into anything more. You ride it out.
The sound hits a moment later — the crowd detonating, cheers crashing over you as you glide down the landing and into the outrun. Your chest rises and falls once, twice. Heat floods through your body, bright and electric. That felt good. Better than good. You coast into the waiting area, unclipping your boots, glancing up toward the scoreboard. Time stretches strangely here, like it’s being pulled tightly between two hands. Your eyes stay trained on the blank board as the judges deliberate your score.
The board suddenly flashes.
89.00
A grin of pure satisfied certainty breaks across your face before you can stop it. You give the camera a wave, then head towards the waiting area to take the elevator from hell back up to the top of the scaffolding. Halfway there, you glance toward the crowd, and there he is. Sidney is standing at the front of the barricade with a big smile. His thumbs are up high, pride written all over his face. You flash him a grin and continue on.
Half an hour later, the mountain feels different.
The podium chances of riders who fell in their first run are in jeopardy — they’ll need to be perfect on their next two, and they know it. The others who had good runs now feel better, looser, as laughter and small talk fill the air.
The elevator jolts to a stop, and the doors slide open. Once again, your turn comes quicker than you expect. You strap in, tug your bindings tight, bounce once, twice. Your legs feel strong. Solid. But there’s a thin thread of something else now. Not fear exactly… just awareness. Precision matters more on the second run. Everyone pushes harder. Everyone risks more.
You slide forward to the start. The slope stretches ahead, pale and smooth. When you drop, the speed builds fast. Faster than the first run, the snow is colder now, harder, slicker beneath your base. When you pop off the lip of the jump, you spin. It’s fast and controlled. At first.
The world streaks into white and sky and color. Your board rotates beneath you, but midway through the spin, something shifts — just slightly. A fraction late. A fraction off-axis.
You try to correct. Your shoulders open too early. Your board almost comes around, almost. But your edge touches down first. It catches violently. The force whips your board sideways, and suddenly the ground is no longer beneath you. It’s beside you, and then you’re sliding, fast, uncontrolled, the packed snow scraping along your hip, your arm, your shoulder as momentum drags you down the landing.
In the crowd below, Sidney’s breath locks in his chest. The crowd goes suddenly silent. Not fading or gradual, just a complete and immediate silence. You lay there for a second, fearing the worst. You test your knee, bending it a few times. No pain. Medics are already moving toward you, boots pounding the snow, voices calling — but you push yourself upright before they reach you.
A wave of applause rolls across the venue. You lift a gloved hand toward the medics. “I’m good.”
They hover anyway, scanning your posture, your movement, but you give them a small nod and walk the rest of the way under your own power. You give the crowd an appreciative wave.
When you stop in the waiting area, you shake out your arms. The adrenaline is fading now, replaced by that strange hollow calm that follows a crash. You look up.
Sidney is already searching for you. When your eyes meet, you see it instantly — the tightness around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are still gripping the barricade like he forgot how to let go. Worry. Real worry. You give him a small reassuring nod.
Your score flashes quicker this time.
18.25.
The number hangs there, almost comically small after your first run. A murmur moves through the crowd. You just exhale softly, then give the camera a casual wave like it doesn’t matter — like crashes are part of the job. Because they are. You step out of the waiting area and head straight toward the barrier. When you stop in front of Sidney, his eyes are scanning you head to toe, checking your posture, your stride, your balance — every detail.
“I’m okay,” you say immediately, voice calm, steady. “Don’t worry. I just hesitated in my takeoff.”
He searches your face like he’s trying to read something deeper. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
You smile more softly this time. “Yeah. Promise.”
His shoulders loosen slightly, but not fully. His gaze flicks once toward the jump, then back to you. “That looked bad.”
“It looked worse than it was,” you say lightly. “Just caught an edge. Happens.”
He still doesn’t look convinced. “You didn’t hit your head?”
“No.”
“Nothing twisted?”
“Nope.”
“What about your knee? Did you do anything to it?”
You laugh quietly.
“Sid…”
He exhales through his nose, then nods once, accepting it — mostly because you’re standing steady, breathing normally, looking completely like yourself. “Okay,” he sighs. “Just… remember? Shrink it. Don’t let the fear take up too much room.”
You nod, smiling softly. You give his hand resting on the barrier a small squeeze before stepping away, rolling your shoulders once to shake off the last of the adrenaline.
When your third and final run comes around, the top of the hill feels quieter than the previous two. Not because the crowd is quiet — the stadium is roaring, wind snapping against banners, music pulsing somewhere below — but because everything inside you has settled into something still. Heavy, focused, and clear.
Your gloves press against your thighs as you rock gently on your board, staring down the massive slope that drops away into the blinding white of the landing. The jump looks enormous from here. Bigger than before. Or maybe you’re just finally seeing it for what it is.
Your breath fogs the air in front of you. And then his voice slips in, steady and familiar, like it’s always been there.
Just shrink it.
You almost smile.
Shrink the fear.
The official nods.
You roll forward. The board glides, then gathers speed, edges humming against packed snow. The wind builds fast, slicing past your helmet, tugging at your jacket. Your knees compress automatically — years of muscle memory taking over where nerves used to live. No hesitation.
The world drops away, and you rise into nothing but open air and blue sky. The spin comes clean — faster than your first run, smoother than your second. Your body knows exactly where it is, exactly where it needs to be. Every movement is deliberate. Controlled. Yours.
Spot the landing. Extend. Impact.
Your board lands with a solid clap. There’s no wobble, there’s no waiver, there’s not even a slight drag of the hand. You brace for pain, in fact. You expect your right knee to crumble beneath you.
But it never comes. You ride it out clean, pushing upright, carving through the landing with complete control. You can’t help yourself when a scream tears out of you from so deep inside, like the ghosts of lingering injuries escaping.
You glide to a stop in the waiting area, shifting your goggles to your helmet and pulling down your balaclava. The grin on your lips is inescapable as you wave to the camera.
Noise swells to your right — louder than the general roar. Not just cheering. Shouting.
You glance toward the crowd behind you and spot Sidney. He’s half standing, half leaning over the railing, yelling something you can’t hear but absolutely feel. His teammates, all dressed in matching Lululemon Team Canada jackets, crowd around him. They clap and laugh, pointing down toward you like they can’t believe what they just saw. Nate’s got both hands in the air. Macklin is bouncing like he might launch himself over the barrier. A few others you don’t recognize are right behind him, shouting just as loudly.
They look completely unrestrained. Wild. Proud. Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with competition. You wave once, small but real. Then you turn back to the scoreboard.
Waiting stretches. Seconds feel elastic. Your heartbeat seems louder than the music. Louder than the announcer. Louder than everything. It feels like years. Then—
92.25
Your breath leaves you all at once. The total flashes next.
181.25
Gold medal position. For a moment, the world tilts — not from imbalance, but from sheer disbelief. Then the realization hits fully, bright and electric and impossible to contain. The grin plastered on your face gets even wider as an incredulous laugh escapes your mouth.
And before you even fully realize what you’re doing, you’re moving — boots crunching fast over snow, weaving past officials and equipment and people calling your name.
You reach Sidney, who’s leaning over the barriers almost at a run. You surge at him, engulfing him in a bear hug. The hug surprises you almost as much as it surprises Sidney. For half a second, your brain flashes warning signals: cameras, crowds, attention — public — visible. It feels weird. It feels terrifying. It feels like exactly where you want to be. So you don’t let go.
His jacket smells faintly like cold air and something clean and familiar. His arms tighten once around your shoulders, like he’s anchoring you there. Your heart is still racing when the announcer’s voice cuts sharply through the mountain air.
“Up next — the first of our final three riders—”
Reality rushes back in. You pull back slightly, but your arms stay looped around him. “Don’t get your hopes up,” you say, breath still uneven. “The last three riders are all really good.”
He doesn’t look at the scoreboard. Doesn’t look at the slope. Doesn’t look at the crowd screaming around you. He studies you. Only you. “I know,” he says quietly. “But that was yours. You rode that with conviction, not fear.” His voice steadies, warm and unshakeable. “No one can take that away from you.”
Your throat tightens.
A gloved hand taps your shoulder, a worker asking you to move back to the waiting area. You look back at Sidney, whose face is nothing but demure. Shrink it. You shuffle back, boots scraping against packed snow, the cold seeping through the soles. The waiting area feels smaller now. Tighter. Like the air’s been compressed by expectation.
From the top of the hill, the first of the three remaining riders rolls forward. She doesn’t hesitate.
She drops in aggressively—fast, controlled, like gravity is something she negotiated with long ago. Her speed builds instantly, board humming against the snow. Even from here, you can see how composed she is. No wasted movement. No correction. Just pure line.
She’s been like this all season. Technical. Clean. A perfectionist in the air. She hits the takeoff and explodes upwards. Her rotation is sharp, precise, perfectly timed. The grab is locked in, held like she’s suspended in glass, untouched by wind or pressure or consequence. Then she spots the landing, coming down smooth and centered. She absorbs the impact like it’s nothing and rides away clean.
You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it leaves you in a long, slow exhale. You’ve never been good at predicting scores. Judges are fickle-minded, and it never did you any good to guess. Your eyes stay trained on the scoreboard, waiting for their judgment.
The scoreboard flickers.
90.75.
You swallow, eyes locked on the numbers as they update again—
88.25 + 90.75 = 179.00.
A strange warmth spreads through your chest—relief, sharp and immediate. You’re still in gold. Your shoulders drop slightly, tension leaking out in a slow, controlled release. But it doesn’t last long. Not fully. Not completely.
Because there are still two riders left. And the mountain is very, very quiet again.
The starter calls her name, and the energy shifts instantly. You can feel it — that tight, electric hum that rolls through the crowd when everyone knows something big is about to happen. She doesn’t just ride. She hunts. Always has. And right now, she needs something massive. She rolls toward the drop-in with that loose, dangerous confidence — shoulders relaxed, jaw set, like the risk is already decided and she’s just showing the world how it’ll look.
No hesitation at the lip. She sends it. Her takeoff explodes — fast, aggressive, board snapping upward as she hucks herself into the air. The spin is huge, floating, dramatic — the kind that makes people gasp halfway through because it feels almost too big to control. Mid-rotation — just a fraction behind. You see it before she does. Or maybe she sees it and refuses to accept it.
Her body snaps tighter, shoulders wrenching through the final degrees. She forces the rotation around with pure muscle and stubbornness, dragging time forward with her.
A deep, solid thud that you feel through the snow, through your boots, through your ribs. Her knees compress hard — almost folding — and one hand shoots down instinctively, fingers brushing the snow for balance. But she stays up. Not clean. Not effortless. But undeniable.
The crowd erupts anyway — that raw, impressed roar reserved for riders who land things they probably shouldn’t have. She rides it out fast, straight, shaking out her arm once like she’s throwing off the weight of the landing. When she glides into the waiting area, she doesn’t celebrate. She knows what that hand drag might cost.
Now everyone waits. The judges take their time. Longer than usual. The scoreboard stays blank, glowing, silent. You can hear boards scraping snow, muffled voices, the faint mechanical hum of the lift — all the little sounds that fill the space when anticipation stretches too tight.
She stares at the screen without blinking. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your chest starts to ache. Then—
89.00
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Quick math everywhere.
176.75.
She exhales sharply — not quite frustration, not quite acceptance. Just reality landing heavier than her trick did. She nods once, small and controlled, like she knew the risk when she left the lip. It’s not enough to slip past you, your name staying next to the ‘1’ on the podium tracker.
There’s one rider left.
She stands at the top longer than anyone else has today. She’s taking her time. Helmet tilted slightly downward. Shoulders loose. She’s not fidgeting or bouncing, no psych-up routine. She’s the reigning world champion. Ice in her veins. She’s owning the moment before it even begins.
You realize the entire venue is holding its breath with her. Then she drops.
Explosive. Immediate. No hesitation, no testing the speed, just full commitment straight out of the gate. Her approach is impossibly smooth, board tracking like it’s locked to rails beneath the snow. She hits the jump. And the world tilts. The takeoff is enormous — bigger than anyone else today, bigger than you thought was even on the table. The crowd gasps all at once, a sharp collective inhale that snaps through the air like a crack of thunder.
The spin is effortless. Like gravity forgot to apply to her. Her board slices clean arcs through the sky, every axis perfectly controlled, every movement deliberate but somehow weightless. It doesn’t look like rotation — it looks like drifting. Like orbit. You know, mid-air, that it’s massive.
She spots the landing early. Clean contact, her knees deep but in absolute control. The board tracks out smoothly, no chatter, no fight, no recovery needed. Just power and certainty carving straight down the landing. The sound hits next — the roar of the crowd crashing over the slope in waves.
She knows. You know. Everyone knows.,By the time she reaches the bottom, she’s already celebrating — one fist in the air, a sharp shout swallowed by the noise around her. Pure confidence. The kind that comes from delivering exactly what you meant to deliver.
You feel your stomach drop anyway. Because that was… unreal. She glides into the waiting area, still breathing hard, still buzzing. You catch her eye for a split second. There’s adrenaline there — but underneath it, certainty.
You both think she has it. The scoreboard stays blank. Seconds pass. Then more.
You feel like screaming as the impatience bubbles inside you. You try to run the math in your head. You know her first run score. You know what that jump looked like. You try to calculate what you need, what she needs, what this means —
90.00
A fresh surge of cheers rolls through the venue. Then the combined score flashes beneath it.
89.75 + 90.00 = 179.75
And suddenly the air feels very, very thin. You almost don’t believe it for a second. You just stare at it like your brain is refusing to process what it’s seeing. Then, the realization hits like a freight train.
You did it. You didn’t crash, you didn’t hesitate, you didn’t ride scared. You won.
A sound tears out of you before you even know it’s coming — sharp, raw, completely disbelieving. Half scream, half laugh, all emotion. Your board slips from your hand and clatters against the snow as both hands fly to your helmet, fingers pressing hard like you need something solid to hold onto or you might float away.
Your vision blurs instantly. Tears spill faster than you can blink them back. The lights smear into streaks. The scoreboard becomes nothing but glowing gold through water.
Someone slams into you from the side — arms wrapping tight around your shoulders. Then another. And another. Your fellow riders, laughing, shouting, and grabbing you as they celebrate for you. There’s a flurry of voices congratulating you and praising your comeback, but they just flow together.
You can’t even answer. You’re laughing and crying at the same time, breath coming in shaky bursts that don’t quite feel like enough air. Your chest hurts from smiling too hard.
When your fellow riders step back, you see him halfway over the rail, moving faster than any security guard can react. Sidney Crosby evading security, rushing towards you. He doesn’t care about the cameras. He doesn’t care about the flashing lights or the commentary, trying to make sense of what’s happening. He doesn’t even blink at the shouts from his teammates behind him—cheers, laughs, half-panicked calls.
He reaches you in a heartbeat, arms strong and certain. He pulls you in like you’re the one who just carried the weight of the world on your shoulders, like you’re the hero of this moment. You stumble slightly, but he steadies you, the press of his chest warm against yours. His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing away a lingering tear, gentle enough to make your heart thrum like it might leap from your chest.
It’s strange. Terrifying, even. To be this close to him in public—here, in front of everyone. Cameras capturing every millisecond, commentators whispering into mics, the internet already lighting up. And yet… none of it matters. None of it exists. He leans in, just enough, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead. His voice is soft, almost reverent, and it shakes something loose inside you.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says. You hear your name being called by someone, and suddenly, you’re being whisked away for the medal ceremony.
You step forward, heart pounding in a rhythm that feels louder than the crowd itself. When they place the gold medal around your neck, it feels heavier than you ever imagined—not just the weight of metal, but the weight of four years of rehab, the crash that almost ended everything, the nights you doubted yourself, the whispers that maybe you’d never be the same.
You lift it, letting it catch the sunlight, the reflection scattering like tiny fireflies over the crowd. And they respond—chanting your name, clapping, screaming. Every cheer lands like a pulse against your chest. You feel it all, but somewhere deep inside, you feel something else too: a quiet, unwavering pride that no one can see but you.
When you step down from the podium, you look straight for Sidney again.
He’s at the side where you left him, with a wide smile and clapping for you. You walk straight into his arms again—this time, less hesitant, more sure. The world has already seen you fall. Let them see you win, too.
He laughs softly against your temple, warm and real. “Gold medalist,” he says, testing the title on your shoulders like it belongs to you more than anyone else ever could.
You tilt your head up to meet him, eyes still shining, medal glinting between your collarbones. “Feels better than I imagined,” you whisper. And for the first time in years, it really does.
DAY SIX
You were supposed to be halfway home right now.
Your alarm had been set for five-thirty that morning, the flight info saved in a groupchat, and your boarding pass slotted safely in your passport. All your media obligations had been completed, including your sit-down interview with CBC. Your medal was in an inner pocket of your carry-on, ready to be taken out and explained to the Italian airport security. Everything was done. You had done what you came here to do.
But Sidney’s finals were tonight. So you changed your flight.
It was practical, really. Logical. Teammates stay for teammates. Olympians support Olympians. The Games are about unity, about standing together across sports, across disciplines, across pressure and sacrifice. That’s what you told yourself while clicking confirm change, while absorbing the painful rebooking fee without blinking.
It had nothing to do with the way his voice had softened when he told you he was proud of you. Nothing to do with how that moment had replayed in your head more times than your winning run. Nothing at all.
The arena feels wrong compared to the mountain. Mountains hold sound differently. They swallow it, stretch it thin, let cheers scatter into the sky like snow blown off a ridge. Even at their loudest, there’s space.
This place is pressure. Noise stacks on noise until it presses against your ribs. The roar rolls through the seats like thunder trapped indoors. Every chant reverberates in the metal bones of the building. The air smells sharp — ice, adrenaline, spilled beer, anticipation wound so tight it hums.
Canada vs. USA always feels big. Olympic gold makes it seismic. You sit a few rows up from the glass, wedged between family members, friends, staff — an ecosystem of quiet nerves wrapped in red and white.
When the red and white jerseys flow onto the ice, the arena swells with noise. You spot the ‘87’ skating around the edges. From up here, most people probably see composure, a man who’s fully in control. But you know better now. You see it in the tiny things. The way his stick taps impatiently on the ice, his eyes scanning every inch of the ice. His glove hand flexes once. Twice. A slow breath through his nose. A subtle roll of his shoulders like he’s resetting himself from the inside out.
And as the arena roars and the pressure builds, you feel it too — the weight of how badly he needs this. Not just to win. To carry everything that comes with being the one everyone believes will.
It’s chaos from the opening faceoff. No testing the ice. No cautious circling. Just immediate and violent speed, like both teams have been holding this in for years and finally let it go all at once.
The U.S. forecheck hits first and keeps hitting. They swarm in pairs, then threes, sticks snapping into passing lanes, bodies slamming through checks that rattle the glass. They’re younger — it shows in the quick accelerations and sharp direction changes.
Canada barely gets clean exits. Every breakout feels contested. Every touch pressured. The crowd noise never settles — it just shifts, rising and dipping like waves in a storm. Halfway through the period, it happens fast enough that your brain struggles to track it.
There’s a turnover at the blue line, and someone is just a fraction too slow handling the puck. The Americans pounce instantly — one stride, two, and suddenly it’s an odd-man rush slicing straight through center ice. The defense scrambles back, skates clawing for position, but the lane is already open. The shot comes off the stick in full stride. The net snaps back. American fans detonate. Flags are waving in the air, horns blast, and the chants start.
1–0.
Your stomach drops so hard it feels physical, like missing a step in the dark. The noise presses in on you, suffocating. You grip the handrails of the seat without realizing it. On the ice, though — no panic. Sidney doesn’t slam his stick. Doesn’t glare. Doesn’t even look frustrated. He skates straight to the crease, calm and purposeful, and taps the goalie’s pads — once, twice. Leans in close. Says something short. Quiet. Steady. Whatever it is, it isn’t dramatic or emotional. Just words of calm encouragement. And somehow, that calm radiates. You can see it in the posture of the players gathering for the next faceoff. Shoulders settle, sticks steady. They’re not rattled.
The clock bleeds out to the end of the period, then, with 3 minutes left, Canada goes to the power play. The shift in momentum is immediate. They set up cleanly, each player falling into their slot like a puzzle piece. The puck moves fast and crisp, tape to tape. The Americans chase, collapsing inward, sticks darting, trying to break the rhythm. But it stays intact. The puck slides to Sidney on the halfwall.
He lifts his head, scanning the field in front of him. One defender shades toward him. Then another. He holds the puck just long enough — just patient enough — that their structure bends. The space shifts. Lanes stretch open where none existed a second ago. He snaps the puck through the lane, right to the tape of Connor. The puck is in the back of the net in a flash. The red light flashes and the building erupts — a completely different sound now, deeper, fuller, relief exploding into joy all at once.
1–1.
You’re on your feet before you even realize you moved, screaming so loudly your throat burns. The people beside you are laughing, yelling, grabbing each other, the tension breaking like a snapped wire. On the ice, he barely celebrates. Just a tight fist pump and a helmet tap for Connor. And as the teams reset for the final seconds of the period, the energy has shifted completely. It’s no longer frantic or wild. The game has found its footing.
The second period doesn’t start so much as it tightens. Like someone pulled invisible wires through the rink and is slowly cranking them in.
There’s less glide now. Less space. Every puck battle lasts a second longer, every check lands a little harder, every turn of a skate blade sounds sharper, like the ice itself is under pressure. Players finish their hits with purpose, shoulders driving through bodies instead of brushing past them. Sticks clash. Glass rattles. The benches are louder too — shorter shouts, sharper instructions, constant motion.
You feel it in your chest every time the puck changes possession — that quick jolt of something could happen right now. Nobody is coasting anymore. Even line changes feel urgent, players launching over the boards like they’ve been forced off the ice for too long.
Halfway through the period, Canada carries the puck into the O-zone. It’s a clean entry that gets everybody set up. A shot is sent towards the net and is batted down by a stick. It drops in front of the crease, and suddenly, it’s a melee in front of the net. Sticks are jabbing at the puck, bodies are crashing into one another. Someone’s stick pokes the puck, and it kicks free. Somehow the puck finds Sidney—or maybe he finds it—and it’s on his stick and gone in a heartbeat, past the blocker of a goalie lunging in desperation. The light flashes red.
2-1.
You’re on your feet before you even realize you’ve moved, the cheer tearing straight out of your chest. Beside you, Stephanie grabs you like she’s known you your entire life, arms wrapping tight around your shoulders, shaking you as she cheers straight into your ear. You’re both laughing, shouting, bouncing. You were strangers less than an hour ago, and now you’re clinging to each other like lifelong friends because nothing else makes sense in a moment like this.
Down on the ice, his teammates swarm him instantly, enveloping him in a cluster of red and white. When Sidney breaks out of the pile, you watch his face. There’s no wild grin, there’s no disbelief. His jaw is set, his eyes are sharp. It’s determination.
The third period starts the game back where everything stopped. The Americans come in wave after wave after wave. If the puck is on a Canadian stick, an American jersey swarms them in less than a second. There’s no room out there, no room to breathe.
Your fingers curl tighter around the cold metal railing in front of you. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your lungs start to burn. The game begins to cycle. Clear, re-entry, shot, save, scramble, clear again, repeat. Every time Canada gets the puck out, the relief lasts maybe three seconds before it comes rushing right back in the other direction.
Then it happens. Eight minutes left. A shot from the blue line — harmless at first glance. Just a low, heavy drive through bodies stacked in front of the net. But someone’s stick catches it. The puck changes direction in an instant, a sharp, impossible deflection that sends it snapping past the goalie and into the back of the net.
2-2
The American section explodes into obnoxious chants, the kind that pound into your skull like a dull headache. Your stomach drops so fast it feels physical. For one wild second, the arena feels tilted. Unsteady. Like everything is about to slide out from under you. You look at Sidney. He doesn’t look afraid; there’s no panic in his eyes. He looks stubborn. His jaw is clenched tight, his shoulder pulled back. It’s refusal on his face. He will not lose today.
With five minutes left on the clock, Canada takes an o-zone draw. Sidney steps in to take it, snapping it back cleanly to his defenseman. The puck moves a lot, going back and forth between each defenseman, up to the winger, back to them again. Suddenly, one of them winds up and fires. The puck goes wide but rebounds loudly off the glass and drops in front of the net.
Sticks smack against one another, sending the puck free into the high slot. Perfectly placed. Nathan is right there when it comes free. He steps into it and unloads everything he has — a clean, violent slap shot that cracks through the noise like splitting wood.
Bar down. The sound is sharp and undeniable. Red explodes everywhere.
3-2.
He didn’t score the goal, but he’s the first one to Nathan's side. Sidney’s arms are around Nathan, shaking him. His face is lit up, wide and wild and fierce, like he’s twenty again and experiencing the joys of hockey for the first time.
Once everyone settles again, the game gets back underway. USA pulls its goalie, so they have six attackers on the ice. It becomes the longest two minutes of your life. Every clear feels like oxygen flooding your lungs after being underwater too long. Every blocked shot feels heroic. Every bounce feels dangerous.
With thirty-seconds left, the puck bounces towards the crease. A scramble ensues immediately. Red jerseys panic to clear the puck, blue jerseys clamber to shove it in the net. Someone dives, literally dives towards the puck. Fully outstretched, they smack the puck towards the blue line.
The clock ticks down. Everyone’s standing. The horn sounds. There’s no overtime, no dramatics. Just a pure, deserved win.
You spot Sidney on the bench. He rips his helmet off like he can’t get it off soon enough. His hair is damp and flattened, his face flushed deep with exertion and adrenaline, but his smile — his smile is blinding. Wide and bright and completely unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before. He floods the ice with the others.
One second, he’s visible, cutting hard across the surface, arms thrown wide, and the next, he vanishes into a crush of jerseys and limbs and shouting voices. They pile into him, around him, over him. He disappears entirely for a moment beneath the weight of it.
The swarm loosens, everyone hugging each other and basking in the moment together. Sidney doesn’t rush away. He moves from teammate to teammate with intention, gripping shoulders, pulling them into fierce hugs. He says something to each of them — short, quiet things you can’t even come close to hearing— but you can see what it does. The way their faces change. The way their laughter softens. The way some of them blink quickly and look away before grabbing him again.
He takes his time. Like he knows exactly what this moment means. Like he wants them all to carry it with them. You don’t realize you’re crying until Steph’s voice enters your ear.
“You’re not staying up here.”
You blink, turning as Stephanie grabs your wrist, already tugging you toward the aisle. Lauren Kyle appears at your other side like backup, smiling like she’s in on Stephanie’s plan. “Family and friends are going down,” Stephanie says, matter-of-fact.
“I— no, I don’t think—”
“He’d want you down there,” Lauren cuts in gently, but firmly. “Come on.”
You can’t even hesitate because then they’re pulling you down the steps, through the tunnel, and past security who are too busy managing the surge of people to question anything. The air shifts immediately — colder, sharper, filled with the smell of ice and sweat.
Your shoes hit the rink surface carefully, gripping the rubber mat laid across it. Players are everywhere — hugging parents, lifting siblings, laughing with teammates. Cameras sweep constantly, flashes bursting like tiny lightning strikes. The noise is overwhelming, but you barely hear any of it.
Stephanie and Lauren leave your side quickly, finding their husbands and jumping into their arms, and suddenly, you’re alone. Not physically — the ice is crowded, loud, bursting with movement — but the moment Stephanie and Lauren disappear into their husbands’ arms, the world seems to open around you, leaving you exposed.
You stand there for a second, heart hammering, hands cold despite the heat flooding your chest. Families and friends drift onto the ice in waves, careful steps turning into hurried ones as they reach the people they came for. You scan the chaos, trying to find him again.
Your fingers twist together in front of you, nerves creeping in now that the moment is real. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to be on a flight this morning, wheels up before warmups even started. He hugged you goodbye last night, thinking that was it — that you’d be watching from somewhere miles away. You never told him you stayed. You didn’t want to distract him. You wanted him to focus on the game he’s worked his entire life for.
For a second, doubt presses heavily in your chest. Maybe you should just watch from here. Maybe this is enough. You don’t belong in the middle of all that joy when he isn’t expecting you.
Then you see Sidney.
He’s skating slow circles through the chaos, still in full gear except for his helmet, hair damp and messy, face flushed from effort and adrenaline. But above all that, you can tell he’s happy. People keep stopping him. Teammates grab his shoulders. Staff pull him into hugs. Someone claps him on the back hard enough that he laughs. He thanks everyone — you can see it in the way his mouth moves, in the way he leans in, present with each person for a moment before moving again.
But he keeps looking around. Scanning. Searching for someone. For you? Sidney turns again, smiling at something someone says when he passes by. His eyes look around, then suddenly stop on you. A smile breaks out on his face. He weaves between groups of people, his focus never leaving you, and suddenly he’s right there, his arms around you.
The impact of him is warm and overwhelming — gear pressing against you, arms tight around your back, the faint smell of cold air and sweat and ice and something unmistakably him. He pulls you fully off balance, lifting you slightly. You cling to him just as tightly.
“I—” His voice is rough against your ear, breath uneven. “You stayed?”
You nod into his shoulder, laughing softly even as your throat tightens. “I stayed.”
His grip tightens. For a moment, Sidney just holds you. No movement. No awareness of anything else. His face presses into the side of your head, and you feel the way his chest rises and falls — fast, like he ran a mile instead of skated a few seconds. You barely take in the cameras that have settled around you. You don’t care, honestly. You don’t care about all the eyes on you, all the people jeering and whistling at the captain embracing the snowboarder. All you care about is him in this moment. He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still anchored at your waist. His eyes search your face — disbelieving, bright, overwhelmed in a way you rarely see.
“I thought you’d gone back to Canada,” Sidney says softly.
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
He laughs softly. “Best distraction I’ve ever had.”
His hand comes up to your cheek, gently swiping away a tear you didn’t even know had fallen. Then he kisses you. Right there on the ice. There’s no hesitation. He’s so certain in this moment that all he wants is you.
His lips are still a little cool from the ice, but the heat of him follows instantly — breath, adrenaline, the lingering rush of the game still humming through his body. You can feel it in the way Sidney holds you, hands firm at your waist like letting go isn’t even an option his mind can process.
The kiss deepens without thought. His grip shifts — one hand sliding up your back, spreading between your shoulder blades, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between you at all. The hard edges of his gear dig in, grounding everything, anchoring you to the solid reality of him. When he finally pulls back, and not just to take a quick breath, it’s reluctant. His hands don’t leave your waist. His thumbs brush small, absent circles against your sides. His eyes come up to yours, and they’re softer than you’ve ever seen.
His hand slides up from your waist, coming to rest gently at the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. “Hey,” he murmurs softly. You hum in response, still close enough that your noses almost touch. His voice drops even quieter, nearly lost beneath the noise of celebration around you. “Thank you for staying.”
The words land heavier than anything else tonight. They’re sincere. Full of warmth and relief and something that feels almost like vulnerability. Your chest tightens instantly. “Of course I stayed.”
LAST DAY
The next morning is the calmest and quietest it’s been since you arrived in Italy. Your suitcase wheels hum against the airport floor beside you. Sidney walks half a step behind, one hand hooked around the handle of his own bag, the other brushing yours every few strides like he keeps forgetting — or remembering — that he can.
Neither of you has said much since the car ride. There’s a lot to say, and it’s hard to find the right words.The departure board glows overhead, splitting the world into directions. Different gates. Different times. Different cities.
Your gate is 7. His gate is 16. You stop outside of your gate.
For a moment, people flow around you like water around a rock. Rolling suitcases. Coffee cups. Boarding passes. Someone is laughing too loudly nearby. A child is whining. An announcement echoes overhead that neither of you registers. You don’t want this to feel like an ending. But you also don’t want to pretend it isn’t something. Sidney shifts his weight, one hand sliding into his jacket pocket before coming back out again.
“I don’t really know what the… protocol is here,” he admits, voice low. “For… whatever this is.”
His gaze flicks between your eyes like he’s searching for the right answer there. You step a little closer without thinking. “I don’t think there is one.” He lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds relieved.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t want this to be…” He gestures vaguely between you. “…a really nice moment that just… stays here.”
Your chest tightens. “Me neither.”
“Okay,” he says softly. “So… we don’t let it stay here.”
You nod. “We don’t let it stay here.”
“I’ve um… I’ve still got like two months left in the season, so if you’re ever in Pittsburgh…”
“And if you’re ever in the mountains in northern Quebec.”
Sidney huffs a soft laugh. He studies you for another long second… then steps forward and pulls you into him. It’s not the kind of hug people give when they’re already halfway turned toward leaving. It’s full. Solid arms around your back, one hand spreading between your shoulder blades like he’s anchoring you there. Your cheek presses against the front of his jacket, cool fabric over the steady warmth of him underneath. You can feel his breathing — deep, slow, controlled in the way he gets when he’s trying to keep something from showing. Your arms slide around his waist and hold him just as tightly. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head.
He doesn’t let go right away, but the hold softens — not loosening yet, just changing. Like he knows he has to release you eventually, but hasn’t decided when that moment becomes unavoidable. When he does lean back, it’s slow. His hands slide down your arms but don’t drop away — they settle around your elbows, still holding you close enough that there’s barely space between you.
He looks at you like he’s trying to fix every detail in his memory. Your face. Your eyes. The way you’re looking back at him. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. Whatever he almost says stays suspended somewhere behind his ribs. Your boarding group gets called over the speaker. You both hear it this time, but neither of you moves. His thumb brushes just under your cheekbone, slow enough to send warmth rushing through your chest.
“Can I…?” Sidney asks quietly. You nod before he finishes.
He leans in — unhurried, giving you every chance to meet him halfway. His forehead brushes yours first, a soft, grounding touch. You can feel his breath, warm and steady, mingling with yours. Then his lips find yours.
It’s slow at first, but when you lean in to him, that’s all it takes. The kiss deepens, your lips moving in perfect time with Sidney's. His hand shifts into your hair, fingers threading gently through the strands near the nape of your neck, holding you close but never pressing too hard. Your hands curl into the front of his jacket, grounding yourself in the steady warmth of him.
People move around you. Voices rise and fall. Another boarding announcement echoes. None of it matters. When you finally part, it’s only because breathing becomes necessary. Your boarding group gets called again — final call this time. Reality presses in. His hands slide down slowly, reluctantly, until they rest around yours. He squeezes once. Firm. Meaningful.
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“I’ll answer.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I should hope so.” You give his hand a squeeze before letting go and stepping away. You turn toward the gate, boarding pass clutched in your hand — but before you reach the line, you glance back. He’s still there, exactly where you left him. He doesn’t move or check his phone; he just watches you walk to your gate. You lift your hand in a small wave. He mirrors it, but softer — more like a promise than a goodbye.
When you finally disappear down the jet bridge, something settles quietly in your chest. Because even as the distance finally starts to stretch between you, it doesn’t feel like something being lost — only something beginning to reach.
SUMMARY Levi Rivers never thought he needed to tell his friends that his younger sister was off limits. That was a given, all things considered. He especially didn't think Joe, of all people, would need to be told that.
WORD COUNT 24k
WARNINGS/TROPES Brother's best friend, everyone being freaks through music, deafness + sign language (maybe some incorrect terminology relating to those, but I really tried), heavy religious themes, a little angst, hurt/comfort, vulgar (and perhaps a little misplaced yet good-intentioned) jokes, short mention of puking, name-calling, Elsie is openly bisexual but also holds some form of internalized homophobia that stems from her religious upbringing and it isn't addressed
AUTHOR'S NOTE Honestly, I don’t find this age gap (22-23 & 27) particularly controversial, but I’m sticking to the request (I know I said I don't take requests, but the idea was stuck in my head and it clearly got a little way too out of hand haha). Instead, the way they met is more of the questionable part?? I don’t know, Joe and Elsie beat themselves up about it pretty badly, though. Anyway, for the most part, italics are dialogue using sign language.
OCTOBER
"I'm bored."
"I'm sorry, princess," Elsie Rivers deadpanned. "Is my presence not entertaining enough?"
Camille didn't lift her head from the decorative pillow on her couch, voice muffled against the beige woven fabric. "I forgot the Leafs weren't playing tonight. Can't let you experience the bars when there's no collective suffering to be had."
"Every day, I thank God for not being a Leafs fan." Elsie bit back a laugh when Camille shoved her foot off the couch.
"Like the Blues are any better."
"At least they've won something in the last fifty years."
Camille groaned and rolled onto her back. It was a dark, mid-autumnal night, and the comforting hum of the air circulating the small apartment was broken by the boisterous nature of the city beyond the walls that roused a restlessness in her bones, one that Elsie seemed immune to.
"What's your brother up to?" asked Camille. "Think he and his friend would mind if we dropped by?"
Elsie shrugged. It had played out as one big coincidence that she and her older brother's respective best friends lived in the same city, that they could time their visits so perfectly without sending their parents into a state of worry that their kids were alone in a different country, even if they spent their entire trip so far removed from one another: Elsie hadn't seen Levi since they grabbed their bags at the airport, and she had no plans to see him again until their flight home was called to board.
"At a bar, it seems like," she said, turning her screen toward Camille to show the unflattering contact photo running loose in the city. "Feel like getting dressed up?"
Camille grinned, all mischief. "Guess we're going to a bar after all."
The bar was crowded, bodies pressed together like they were squished into a club, and music pounded through the speakers until it rang uncomfortably in their heads. Elsie walked on the tips of her toes, peering over people's heads and shoulders in search of her brother, and Camille clung onto her like a child would their mother.
Finally, she spotted him—the God-awful bleached, buzzed hair, dyed with faded leopard spots like a beacon of light in this dim establishment—and each nearing step revealed the lines of ink scattered along his arms. His back was turned to them, and Elsie's lips crimped with diablerie. Her footsteps slowed, prowling like a predator scouring its prey, and she waited until she was just a hair's breadth from him to blow air into his ear.
Levi flinched, whipping around with a curse flying from his mouth. His expression hardened when he heard his little sister cackling at his distress. He rubbed his ear. "You're not funny."
"I'm hurt, Jeans," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Hey, Camille," Levi greeted, earning a distracted one in return. "What're you doing here?"
"If you don't want your little sister showing up at the same places, then you should probably turn your location off," said Elsie, snatching his beer for a quick sip before he could smack her hand away.
"I share my location with you so you know I'm not dead in a ditch when I don't answer."
"We were bored." Elsie turned to Camille, whose silence drew concern. She followed her best friend's gaze, roaming over the faces she had seen on TV before, and understood. "Quit staring."
"I can't," Camille whispered, wide-eyed.
Levi lifted an eyebrow as he placed his beer on the table surrounded by his best friend's friends. "She's a Leafs fan, right?" he signed dexterously. "Does she know?"
"I guess not. Must have forgotten."
"Oh, this will be fun," Levi smirked when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a presence returning from the bathroom. "Hey, man, look who showed up."
Joseph took a second glance at the woman standing in front of his childhood friend—the same eyes sparkling beneath the lousy lighting, the same crooked smile that spoke only of mischief, even the same bend in their noses like they'd broken it in the same spot. Recognition widened his eyes. "Elsie?" He brought her into a friendly, yet gauche hug. "Almost didn't recognise you without the blue hair."
"God, has it been that long?" she asked before introducing Camille to him, nudging her out of her stupor. Joseph had extended the same gesture to his teammates who made it out to the bars for the night, and their thin smiles had eased at the newfound familiarity.
"Hey, kid!" Levi called before Camille could yank her too far away from the crowded booth and toward the bartenders. He handed her some cash, the corners of his lips curving slightly when she thanked him and ran off.
"Okay, what the hell?" Camille asked at the bar. "Why did you never mention that you know Joseph freaking Woll? You know how much of a Leafs fan I am."
"Sorry," Elsie said sheepishly. "To be fair, in my head, he's just Joey. Half the time, I forget he exists."
Elsie managed to flag a bartender and put down enough money to cover her and Camille's drinks—courtesy of Levi, of course. They took a shot in gratitude for his generosity, then ordered another. She could feel a pair of eyes burning into her as she tipped her head back, and as she brought the lime to her mouth, her gaze couldn't help but skirt past Camille and toward the group of hockey players in the distance until she found the charming blues of her brother's best friend.
Her heart flipped—so quickly, she thought it was from the way the liquor went down her throat.
The flashing lights hid the moment Joseph snapped his attention away with his lip trapped between his teeth.
As time plunged deeper into the night, and it became abundantly clear that Camille was not going to hold her alcohol as she had in college, Elsie put a stopper on her drinks. The stranger who wanted to buy her a drink had raised an eyebrow when she settled for a water and a basket of fries.
Camille's eyes lit up when a basket of fries was shoved into her hands. Elsie laughed, then returned to the stranger—Hailey, she'd come to learn her name was. She took her forwardness with stride, leaning into the touches on her arm and returning the flirty glint in her eyes that seemed to devour every curve and dip of her figure.
It was no surprise that she had ended up with Hailey's mouth on hers not long after.
But a coldness washed over Hailey when a stern throat clearing sliced through the pounding bass of the music.
Their heads turned, and Elsie furrowed her brows.
"Your brother's looking for you," Joseph said with a slight edge in his tone.
Elsie didn't think she'd ever seen him so serious. Her gaze flickered between him and Hailey, who seemed equally as twiddled, before she excused herself and allowed the crowd to swallow her whole. She felt like a fish weaving between threads of seagrass: turning, lingering, observing, with no destination in sight.
Instead, she waited until the familiar mop of dark hair slipped past her a few feet over. Jumping forward, her hand curled around the bend of Joseph's elbow.
The alarm on his face quickly fell. "Jesus, Els."
"What's up?"
Joseph had said something, and Elsie tried her best to decipher it, eyebrows cinching together as she stared hard at his lips—a habit too hard to snap despite the years that had passed. He noticed, then—the focused expression, just how loudly the music was blaring at them, the drunken racket of voices—and glanced around for an emptier part of the bar.
Elsie smiled gratefully when he led her away, on the fringes of the booth with his friends, distant enough to avoid their own clamor. And although everything was still so loud, when he gestured to ask if she was okay, she nodded.
"Do you wanna tell me what's up?" she decided to ask again. "I know my brother's not looking for me."
"Yeah, he is."
A chuckle rolled off her tongue as she raised her phone, revealing the last text she'd received from her brother—a short few minutes ago, but enough time to crumble Joseph's narrative—about leaving with someone.
Joseph inhaled deeply, tried to ignore the faint waft of her vanilla perfume that infiltrated his senses, and rubbed his jaw. "I meant that he wanted me to look after you."
"Levi doesn't ask anyone to do that," Elsie said easily. "Besides, you didn't have to tell me that."
"Wanted to make sure you knew."
Amusement crawled up her face. She stood on her toes to alleviate the scratch of her throat over the music. "You know, if you're gonna lie, at least try to do a better job at it."
Joseph's hand steadied her hip as he leaned down. It had been an innocent move, one to ease the strain on her ears and abate the unsteady stance that came with being on her toes, but he saw it—the wave of goosebumps undulating across her skin as his breath fanned her ear. "You're my best friend's little sister," he said. "I have that responsibility to him to make sure you're safe."
And there it was—the eureka moment, the unfortunate rewrite in her memory that the heady staring from across the room and the seemingly fueled interruption had been nothing but an obligation to the person who bound them together and not born from an excitement seeking danger that sparked all the right spots in her head.
With the slightest turn of her head, Elsie met his eyes, then glanced at his lips. If it weren't for all the noise around her, she might have convinced herself she heard the slight hitch in his breath, but she had never been good at listening to more than one thing at a time. "I'm not a kid," she muttered, somewhat sourly. "I don't need protection."
"Seems like you do," he said, and the seriousness from before returned, masked with a little more mastery until it was nothing more than a drop in his tone. His posture, too, had straightened like he was trying to appear larger than he was. "You could at least pick someone different, Els. Seen her here before; she's friends with this guy who tried to get into a fight with Kniesy."
"Oh, really?" Elsie couldn't help but bark out a laugh. "Thank you, my knight in shining armor. Would you like to screen everyone I talk to?"
Joseph rolled his eyes. "She had her tongue shoved in your mouth. I don't think there was a lot of talking going on."
"Jealous?"
"What?"
Elsie's lips twitched with repressed amusement at the sight of his scandalized expression. "Then, what? You don't fuck with the gays?"
Joseph stammered over his words. "What—no! I fuck with the gays."
"Have you seen who your best friend is? I'm fucking with you." Elsie patted his chest, a little taken aback by the sturdiness she was met with (Of course, he would'd be well-muscled. Why wouldn't he be? Fucking athlete.). "I'm headed back to the bar. You're off the clock, Joey."
"Joey," he said in disbelief. "Your brother doesn't even call me that anymore."
Elsie hadn't expected him to follow her, but when she ordered another water, his voice rang behind her for one more. Then she dipped her head with a laugh when he asked for some chicken tenders and handed his card over to go with it.
"I have one memory of us, Joey," she said. "The only time we ever hung out. This kinda feels like it." She turned around with something reminiscent sparkling in her eyes. "You had to pick me up from piano lessons because someone rear-ended Levi. God, I felt like the coolest girl around, catching a ride with a high schooler who wasn't my brother. Of course, that being the only time it ever happened, the 'cool girl' status didn't really stick around for very long."
Joseph looked almost apologetic. "I honestly forgot that happened."
"I would be surprised if you hadn't," said Elsie, sipping her water. "I never could remember where you took me to get food on the way home, though."
"Could've been Town Square," he said, running his hand over his neck and jaw like he was trying to soothe himself. "I went through a phase when that was all I wanted."
"Huh." Elsie pondered his answer before her face twisted with disbelief. "Really?"
"I hear they changed the recipe for the chicken tenders, though, so I don't think you should go in with the same expectations."
Elsie blew a raspberry, earning a laugh—full-hearted and meaningfully like it'd been the funniest thing he'd seen all day. She couldn't help but smile at the sound, much kinder to her ears than the bass droning from the speakers.
"Do you have your phone on you?" she asked.
Joseph held it out.
"You're incredibly trusting considering who you are in this city."
"You're not a stranger, Els," he said.
Elsie turned her back to him, holding his phone up. "C'mere."
Their mirrored faces stared back at them. Joseph didn't contest when she snapped a photo of them—eyes crinkled with their wide grins, lighting as egregious as the music playing, his posture curved horribly to fit into the frame—finding it almost endearing.
"There," said Elsie, returning his phone. "So you have proof that you didn't let me run wild like hooker over there."
Joseph followed her thumb jutting toward Camille, who was dancing on a table. He shook his head with amusement, both at Camille's antics and at Elsie's jesting tone. She was worse than Levi in that regard, never a serious bone in her body. Levi liked to complain about that sometimes.
A basket of chicken tenders was placed between them. Joseph watched her stuff her mouth, probably faster than she could chew, and something new passed through his eyes—a fondness, perhaps. He sucked in a sharp breath when the realization flickered through his head and looked away, pushing a thin coaster around with his finger.
Elsie swallowed loudly as she watched his calloused, yet lithe fingers twirl the coaster around. She was glad she had a mouthful of chicken right now.
"Shouldn't you be with your teammates?" she decided to ask, wiping the corner of her lips with the back of her hand. A smear of grease-stained red blemished her skin.
"Is all I am to you a wallet?"
Elsie snickered. "No, that's all my brother is. You, on the other hand, I told you that you were off the clock."
Joseph tilted his head. "Do you really want me to leave you alone?"
The quick little flip of her heart happened again. Elsie vigorously shook her head.
Joseph smiled softly, reaching for a napkin. "Alright," he said. "Hold still."
Elsie froze when he held her chin in place between his thumb and pointer finger. Gently, he wiped away the smudged lipstick, careful not to remove what was barely clinging to your lips. Elsie wondered if he could sense the fried brain cells, the disorder she could only describe as highly entropic, the stilted breath that should've pelted against his skin.
Joseph released his hold on her to scrub the back of her hand.
"I could've done that myself," she said. "I'm not a kid."
"You're welcome." Joseph grinned, ruffling her hair.
"Thank you," Elsie said softly.
"Oh, fries!" Camille squeaked out, stumbling into Elsie, who caught her with ease after years of drunken excursions together.
Elsie mourned the bubble that had popped with a laugh that told nothing of it. She flipped Camille's hair out of her face. "Did you have fun dancing on the tables?"
Camille nodded, grabbing a fistful of fries. "So much fun! God, I'm so glad we stalked Levi."
"How about we skip the ranch, yeah?" Elsie said calmly. "I don't think you can stomach it right now."
"Sounds like a dare."
Elsie pulled Camille away from the bartop by her waist. "I think that's our sign to head home."
Joseph reached for his car keys. "Need a ride?" he asked. "You know, for old time's sake. I'll try to remember this one this time."
A smile curved at Elsie's lips. "Yeah, that would be great."
Camille snatched one last portion of fries from the tender-less basket and shoved them into her purse. She cried out in complaint as Elsie dragged her away like she was nothing more than a tantrumming toddler.
"You got her?" asked Joseph.
Elsie couldn't get a letter past her lips when Camille folded over her arms like dead weight. The sudden shift nearly tripped her, and a panicked yelp straggled past her lips. "I don't got her!"
Joseph laughed as he so easily brought Camille into his grasp, her body draped over his arms like a cut of silk. The sound died on his tongue when Elsie slipped her finger into his belt loop, tightening and loosening depending on the thickness of the crowd.
For a short moment, they stopped at the booth with what was left of his teammates to say their goodbyes, and maybe for that short moment, they had fooled his teammates into believing that they had known each other well—beyond the passing pleasantries when they caught rare glimpses of each other over the years, beyond the brief mentions they heard from Levi.
"Go Leafs Go!" Camille shouted over Joseph's shoulder, earning a myriad of responses from patrons throughout the bar.
"How 'bout 'go home go', hm?" Elsie asked with a teasing lilt.
Once they got Camille strapped into the backseat, Joseph and Elsie filled the front. He handed his phone over for her to type in Camille's address and gave her the freedom to browse through an extensive number of playlists.
Part of it felt oddly vulnerable, some sort of translation of his soul laid out for her to judge, but he also felt it was unfair to assume that she was as pretentious about music as her brother was. After all, between the two siblings, only one of them studied music, and it hadn't been her.
"EDM, folk, classical, country," Elsie read out. "Wow, a little bit of everything here."
Joseph turned out of the parking garage as a soft ballad drifted into Je te laisserai des mots—from his playlist of songs he'd bookmarked to learn on the piano, he recognized. A slow smile tugged at his lips. "Do you still play?"
"Not so much anymore," she said remorsefully, thumbing along the base of her hand. "It was one thing that I lost my hearing, but I also broke my wrist in high school. Never been the same since. But it's alright; my brother has all the talent anyway."
"That's funny: Levi always says you had the talent," said Joseph. "Think he was jealous of how easily it came to you."
Elsie smiled at that. "Do you play?"
Joseph was suddenly shy, the tips of his ears burning bright red. "Here and there."
"You'll have to show me one day."
"I really don't think that's something you wanna hear," he said with a dismissive laugh.
"But what if I did? It could be fun."
Ding!
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Elsie couldn't help but steal a glance at Joseph's screen as the notifications piled in and interrupted the tranquil atmosphere.
Levi Rivers
Sorry to ditch
Staying the night
Is my sister still there? I think her phone's dead
Can I put you on babysitting duty? I'll shovel your parents' driveway when it snows
Thanks man
See ya in the morning
Elsie stared at the series of texts that came through before it hit her that she was actively peeping at someone else's phone. Her attention darted, rather, to the passing Toronto skyline she was growing familiar with, fingers thrumming against her thighs.
A chuckle came through. "Subtle, Els. Who was it?"
Crimson spilled across her cheeks. "Levi," she answered, turning her head. Her throat grew dry: Of course, he looked good while driving, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift, body loose and comfortable like he'd settled in a well-worn chair. "Said he'd clear your parents' driveway when it snows if you'll babysit me for the night."
"Told you," Joseph all but sang.
"Right, but this doesn't seem like it was sent before you cockblocked me," Elsie said with a quirked brow.
"I really don't think cockblocked is the right word."
"Of course, on account of neither of us having cocks. Pussyblocked then."
Joseph took his eyes off the road for a moment, just long enough to send her a flat look that melted when she cracked a cheeky grin. "You've got a mouth on you now," he said. "Did you really think Levi wouldn't ask at all?"
Elsie sank into the red leather seat, suddenly curling into herself. "He never really had to," she said, fiddling with the crucifix hanging from her neck. "I mean, he moved out for college when I was still in middle school. Our circles are pretty fucking distant, if you ask me."
It was as though a bucket of ice had been dumped over his head. Revulsion wormed through Joseph's mind—not at her, but at himself. "God, I forgot how young you are."
"You make it sound like it's a curse," said Elsie. "I'm only five years younger than you. I'm 22."
"In one mile, turn right," his phone announced, and the conversation simmered.
The car seemed to grow colder without Elsie and Joseph talking, and a shiver eventually racked through her body.
"Cold?"
"A little," said Elsie, her voice small, because there was something about him actually looking out for her, vocalizing her needs because she wouldn't, that seemed to reiterate just how childish she appeared to him.
"I can turn the air down," he said, "or there should be a sweater in the back."
"I'll take the sweater." Elsie stretched her body like a cat, blinding pawing for the thick lump of fabric somewhere beside an unconscious Camille. She slipped it on, shielding the world from viewing the deep plunge of her shirt, and shuddered as a warmth and lingering scent of his cologne cradled her.
"Are you doing anything tomorrow night?"
Elsie kept her head down, picking at her nails. She hadn't felt the need to keep them trimmed and neat since she stopped performing all those years ago. "Camille was gonna take me to a bar to watch y'all play. Something about collective suffering." Her eyes jumped up. "No offence."
Joseph huffed out his amusement. "I've heard worse—a lot worse." His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, contemplative, something close to hesitant. "Would you two wanna go to the game?"
Camille suddenly lurched forward, like one final breath of life had possessed her, and Elsie nearly screamed. "You better say yes, Els, I swear to God," she whispered hotly, though her inebriation had let Joseph hear the slurred words loud and clear.
Elsie wished the passenger seat would swallow her whole when Joseph's laughter rang through the car, and for that split second in time, she felt like a little child again—the subject of her brother's teasing, her body flimsy without a confident bone to hold her up, cheeks a permanent shade of red.
"Alright, sit back down," she told Camille. "Have some decorum."
"I'll have Levi send you the tickets in the morning," said Joseph.
Elsie offered a simple smile, yet appreciative all the same. "Thank you."
She turned back to the cityscape, streaks of warm building lights and headlights going the other way blurring together, and remained oblivious to the skin on Joseph's hand blanching as it gripped the gear shift a little tighter—as though he was battling with himself and the little voice in his head that'd been deeply ingrained since his youth, since he first stepped foot into church.
"When'd you stop dying your hair?" he decided to ask. She and Levi always seemed to have layers of colors in their hair for as long as he could remember.
"Right before college," she answered. "Figured I should have a go at being a little 'normal,' I guess."
"Normal can be overrated."
"Coming from the clean-cut, golden child? How you ended up being friends with someone like my brother still astounds me."
Joseph couldn't help but smile. "You know, I play hockey for a living. I wouldn't say that's a very normal job."
"I guess not. You're a goalie, too. Makes you even weirder by default." Elsie grinned when he sent a playful flick to her thigh. It faltered at the edges for a moment, and she shifted in her seat, her voice small. "Did you like it? The hair, I mean."
"I thought it was cool," he said with a casual shrug.
"Really?"
A half-chuckle rolled off his tongue. "Really, Els."
Elsie played with the ends of her hair, clamping them between her pointer and middle fingers like a cigarette as if to examine its stiffness and gauge if the strands could handle going through rounds of bleach and color again. Maybe one of these days, she'd show up to a family function with a head of neon green like she did at sixteen, and she and Levi could battle it out for the largest disappointment in the eyes of their grandparents.
Yeah, one of these days. Maybe the next time she'd get to see Joseph. Whenever that was.
And how juvenile she felt for that, seeking everything in her power to be perceived as cool in the eyes of someone older. She thought she'd gotten over that phase long ago.
Fuck, she just wanted to beg for some semblance of fierce confidence she'd channeled in the bar—even if only an ounce of it. Faintly, she could feel the beads of her seldom-used rosary between her fingers, and a faded prayer sprout at the tip of her tongue, as though God had personally crept into her mind to provide an answer to her wishful pleading.
The reminder of how ineptly she had kept up with the faith she grew up in left a bad taste in her mouth, and something wilted deep within her soul under its weight. She felt like a horrible person. No, scratch that, she was a horrible person for it.
She might even consider having Joseph drive her to the nearest church so she could spill her guilt through the familiar latticed grate.
They hadn't made it through the door before Camille threw a panicky finger toward the bathroom. Joseph held Camille's hair back as Elsie scrambled around for the cleaning products, careful to avoid the splotch of vomit on the floor that failed to make it into the toilet bowl.
Joseph's eyes widened when Camille leaned her weight on him, sending him flopping against the bathtub. He looked down at her, slumped against his chest with a low rumbling snore, and breathed out, giving her a gentle pat on her waist as though she were a baby he had no idea how to hold.
Elsie had chuckled and continued cleaning. "You probably didn't have your night planned out like this."
"Can't say I did. Need any help?"
"Just make sure she makes it to the toilet if she has to throw up again."
Elsie finally settled beside Joseph with a heavy sigh, slouching until she was partly against his arm and the bathtub. "I'm so glad I'm not drunk right now."
Joseph leaned his head on hers, unable to see her eyes flutter shut as though she was bathing under the summer sun, and enjoyed the few moments of silence. He could fall asleep here, he thought, even with Camille passed out on his lap, even with his butt going numb against the tiled floor. If he moved just a few inches, he might reach the cushiony bathmat, but that would mean moving away from Elsie's touch—a soft undercurrent like an old lullaby his mother might have sang to him.
Five minutes had passed, and Joseph nearly thought he was trapped there for the rest of the night when Elsie tilted her head back enough to see the top of his head. "Can you help me put Cami to bed?"
Even if he could say no, the sweetened glimmer in her eyes, all stripped down by the late hour of the night, would have been a very hard refusal, for she looked as a puppy begging for scraps off the table would. And so he did, and he remained by the bedroom door to watch as Elsie gently wiped away the makeup off her friend's face, with something soft etched into his expression.
He was grateful that the dim lighting had cast disguising shadows, so Elsie could never see the cracks in his mind nor the shame that came with it.
Elsie settled on the kitchen counter, legs dangling over the edge, as she observed Joseph, from the way his eyes seemed to roam Camille's apartment—he could recognize the smiley face on the tape of the hockey stick slanted against a corner—to the twiddling of his shirt. Anything, it seemed, to avoid looking at her.
"Do you live far from here?" she asked to make conversation. "Despite what it sounds like, I don't check my brother's location all the time."
"I don't think it matters how far I live from anywhere," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "The city's a nightmare to drive through."
"So I've heard." Elsie tilted her head. "Why're you standing all the way there? Come here."
Joseph audibly gulped when he finally spared her a glance—how prettily the warm overhead lights shone down on her, like an altar worthy of reverence, and how the air seemed to calm against the cityscape beyond the windows. "I don't think that's a good idea."
The easy expression on her face fell.
She guessed why: The sweeping gaze, the looming presence, the unneeded interference. He'd even let slip the turmoil eating at him when they were in the car, the exasperated and nearly abhorrent hiss of how young she was, like he couldn't sit with the thought that he saw her as any bit more than just his best friend's little sister.
"I didn't mean—" Elsie shook her head, small, as though to herself. "Just 'cause," she gestured to her ears, "you know."
Joseph felt like a major jackass, then, but he didn't think he was imagining something forlorn in the way she looked at him. He took a few steps forward, but nothing beyond that, almost hoping it would be enough. All it seemed to do, however, was cement the damnation coursing through his head, how easily he wanted to crumble under her gaze and close every inch of distance between them, and it left him in fear of saying something that would scare her off—or just as scarily, make its way to Levi's ears.
Levi, who was his best friend. Levi, who was just as, if not more, muscular than him, could pound his face in with a simple swing. Levi, who was deathly protective of his younger sister, even if she believed otherwise. Levi, who never had to consider telling his friends not to try anything with her, least of all his best friend, because it was a given, all things considered.
Was this messed up? It felt messed up.
"Hey," Elsie said softly, leaping off the counter. "I can tell your mind's going a million miles an hour." She looked up at him with a gentle tilt of her head. "Are you stressing yourself out because you think I'm hot?"
Joseph's chest filled with air, lots of it. "You're not one to beat around the bush, are you?"
The corner of her lips curved just the tiniest amount, for just the shortest moment. "Is it really so bad?"
"Yeah," he said, "it is. You're my best friend's baby sister. I've known you since you were a kid."
"It's not like you ever paid any real attention to me back then," she said, curling her arms around herself.
Joseph couldn't stand the feeble crack in her voice. He kind of wanted to take it all back, then—wished he'd never gone up to her at the bar at all. Maybe he would save them both from this moment—the inquiry, the shame, the fluster, the dejection. Still, he couldn't help but ask, "Is that supposed to make things better?"
"I think so. Do you even know my birthday?"
Joseph furrowed his brows. "Uh...March 5th?"
"February 17th," Elsie corrected. "Did I ever have braces?"
"Seriously?"
"Timer's tickin', Joey."
He nearly rolled his eyes. "I don't know."
"You would if you ever got close enough to me to pay attention," said Elsie. "I had them for years. C'mon, what do I have to do to get this moral dilemma out of your head?"
"Be the second coming of Christ."
Elsie huffed out a laugh before she reached for his jaw. A spark jolted between them. Joseph swallowed thickly, felt her gently pelting against the armor protecting his dignity, the shred of virtue tearing him apart. Moment by moment, he felt it waver, under her soft stare, under the patience she stood with, under the delicate touch that spoke of nothing more.
It took everything in him to keep his feet planted, to keep himself contained despite the seams of his restraint unraveling. He was starting to believe it was harder than any Game 7 he would ever have to face, and he would be deemed a failure once again when his palm splayed against her hip, the denim of her jeans rough against his calluses as he walked her toward the counter.
The corner of Elsie's mouth lifted in a devilish half-smirk as the base of her spine hit granite. Her heart thundered against her ribs, her chest heavy with his overwhelming presence, caging her against the counter. She glanced at his lips. "It's your move."
For a moment, Joseph leaned forward, felt the faintest, most feather-light brush of her lips against his, felt her breath against his, felt the heat of her body against his, but just as quickly as he'd given up on his restraint, the thought of her brother spurred in his head again, and he pulled his head back.
"Fuck," he hissed, "I can't do this to Levi."
Elsie bit into the inside of her cheek, dejectedly tipping her chin away.
And maybe it was just how sad she looked, defeated like she'd just watched the very last thing keeping her going slip from her fingers, that had him slotting his hand against her neck, nearly searing to the touch. The hope in her eyes was palpable, a bright speck in the dim ambience enveloping them, and suddenly, he felt cruel.
God, messed up and cruel. He was discovering new ways of beating himself up tonight.
"I'm sorry," he said, stepping away from her, away from the chokehold she had on him. "I should go."
Elsie watched him as he crossed the open-plan of Camille's apartment, collecting his keys on the counter, then stumbling as he shoved his feet back into his shoes. She felt naïve, she supposed, in believing that he would indulge her in something like a kiss when he was beating himself up over the mere prospect of even finding her attractive.
It was like she had become every bit the kid he claimed she was—so gullible and easily fond.
"Wait—" Joseph swiveled around, reached into his front pocket, and took his credit card out. "Take this. Use it at the arena, if you or Camille want anything from the store or the concession stands. I don't really care."
"You're crazy," Elsie said. "You don't know me well enough to trust me with your card. I could buy a car, for all you know."
"Your brother asked me to look after you," he said, and something about the way he said it felt pointed.
"Yeah, for the night, not financially. Besides, you've done more than enough by helping me with Camille. We'll be okay. We have grown-up jobs."
"Just—take it," he said. "If you end up with a car, then, fuck, I don't know, you somehow end up with a car."
In some ways, it felt cheap, maybe a little degrading, to accept his credit card after the blow to her dignity his little rejection had managed to inflict—like this was his way of palliating the burn and mending the damage with a bandage made of dollar bills. Still, she plucked the card from between his fingers with no intention of ever using it and walked him to the door.
Joseph was halfway past the doorway when he paused. "Are you gonna tell Levi?"
"Tell him what?" she asked. "That his best friend thinks his sister is hot? That he wanted to kiss her? I really doubt this hasn't happened in history before, but don't worry, Joey, your secret's safe with me."
And despite how scornfully he could've taken her words, the ghost of a smile he noticed revealed something earnest, something sweet, something entirely dangerous for his frenzied mind. He figured even a puck to the head wouldn't shake it out of him.
"Hey, stop beating yourself up over it," she said, a lot less teasingly. "Nothing happened. You just dropped me and Camille off."
Joseph nodded.
"Drive safe, okay?" Elsie told him like they were words she'd always said. "Text me when you get home."
Joseph blinked at her. "You're gonna be the death of me."
Mirth flickered in her eyes. "Should we look for plots together?"
"Goodnight, Els," he said over his shoulder.
Elsie waited until he got into the elevator before retreating.
Once morning came, all Camille could remember from the night before was seeing her favorite team's players before she blacked out—from shock or the insurmountable amount of alcohol she consumed, she was yet to determine—with the minor exception of accepting Joseph's invitation to see the game live.
She would be damned if she forgot that.
Elsie laughed when Camille finally showed face in the morning, eyes barely open as a pounding headache rang obnoxiously against her skull as though a death metal concert was being held there and her feet dragging like her muscles were made of concrete.
Camille could only flip her off before flopping onto the couch. "Don't tell me I embarrassed myself."
A snort sounded, and Camille groaned.
"Alright, let's go whoop these Krakens," Camille said with the most enthusiasm she could force herself to project, which was to say, not very much.
Levi, too, had laughed once Elsie and Camille found their seats beside him, a few rows from the glass. "The sunglasses, Camille?"
She lazily shoved her hand in his face, as if to shush him for speaking so loudly. They hadn't been there for very long, taking a straight path from the parking garage to the lower bowl, but already the pulsing music was worming through her head with the right amount of suffering. "Earplugs, too."
"How hard did y'all go last night?"
"You, singular," said Elsie. "Only one of us went hard last night. Though I'm glad to see you're alive and well."
Levi nudged her. "Hey, that's why I share my location with you." He finally took note of what his sister was wearing, lips curling with disgust with each pass. "Where the hell did you get all that Leafs shit?"
"Cami's closet." Elsie pulled the sleeves of Joseph's sweater over her hands. It hadn't been a total lie—she'd raided the hat and logo-printed socks hidden by her dark-wash jeans back in the apartment—but Levi didn't need to know that the Drew House crew neck, way too large for her or Camille's frame, belonged to his best friend. "Where's yours?"
"I'm a Blues fan." He looked at her like she'd grown a second head, for it had never been a secret. In fact, it was very loudly proclaimed, and his childhood bedroom, decorated with pennant flags and banners and one-of-a-kind memorabilia collected over the years, had been all the evidence she needed. "I'm not wearing another team's gear. You shouldn't either. I thought I raised you better than that."
"But he's Joey." Elsie all but pouted.
"And he knows where my loyalties lie. Who else goes through the hassle of collecting all of his cards?"
Elsie rolled her eyes before scanning the ice. They were about halfway through warm-ups, pucks bouncing off the posts and skidding along the boards while the team glided throughout their zone with envious ease, sharpened blades scratching perfectly over the ice. She turned to Levi, and even if he wore his mask well, she could see it—the longing twisting into the edges of his mouth, the dimmed spark in his eyes, something that could've been a wiry green monster in his heart if she didn't know him as well as she did.
"Do you miss it?" she asked.
"Miss what?"
"Being out there?"
Levi huffed out a laugh, tightening with defensiveness. "I still play beer league. It's not like I've given it all up."
Elsie chewed on the inside of her cheek, tongue soothing over the tender tissue. "I know, but it's not the same as playing with your best friend."
"What are you trying to get at?" Levi nearly snapped. His glare softened almost immediately when he saw her rub her finger along the back of her ear, like the external parts of her cochlear implants had suddenly grown ten times heavier. "I don't blame you, you know," he said gently, draping his arm around her shoulders. "I'd do it all over again. Besides, I like what I do now."
The game started and quickly plunged into a bloodbath of anxiety, neither team ever allowing a lead for very long. Elsie went to grasp her necklace, as though she had hoped for a holy presence to swing the game in their favor—as stupid as she might've called herself for it—but when the cold metal never came to know her fingertips, her heart sank.
She could've sworn she just had it.
Levi raised an eyebrow when she looked under her seat. He asked if she was okay, to which she signed her frustration that she was, indeed, not okay. He raised his hands and let her be.
With an overtime loss for the Leafs, Levi, Else, and Camille filed through the corridors, passes hanging from their necks, until they found the family room, filled with wives, girlfriends, relatives, and children. They had felt a little out of place there, falling into none of the categories that really validated their presence there, so they remained huddled in a corner, waiting for Joseph to find them, as though he were a parent picking their children up from daycare.
"There he is!" Levi exclaimed.
Elsie looked over her shoulder, the hand that was soothing the front of her bare neck coming to a slow halt as her eyes brazenly scanned over the suit fitted against his figure. His tie, colorful and loose around his collar, looked like he couldn't be bothered to knot the fabric together again after the loss looming in the air. A thin smile blossomed on her lips, one that came off a little stilted, yet had painted her restraint fairly well to him.
"Not even a water?" Joseph said to her. He tried not to think too hard about how comfortable she looked in his sweater. "Really?"
"I did appreciate the sentiment," she returned his card, ignoring the spark jumping between their fingers as they brushed against each other, "but one of us is majorly hungover and can't be within a three-foot radius of a drink without wanting to throw up, and the other overpacked her carry-on and can't fit anything she'd want to buy."
Levi seemed offended. "Why didn't I get a card?"
"What?" Joseph furrowed his brows. "You said to take care of your sister."
Elsie smiled sheepishly under her brother's wry glare.
"Need another ride?" asked Joseph.
This time around, things were different: Levi, with his long legs and sinewy build, had claimed the passenger seat, forcing Elsie and Camille to the back, and considering her brother's charisma seemed to crowd the car like there were more than four people inside it, the tranquility that once threaded through the space failed to burgeon. Elsie internally bewailed it, wishing that, for a fragment of a second, it was just her and Joseph again.
But sometimes it felt like it was—in the stolen glances in the rearview mirror, in the little ways he had roped her into the conversation, like he had only wanted to listen to what she had to say.
Elsie knew she was being stupid, knew that he was just being Joseph—kind, attentive, caring, funny without meaning to be—but there was a part of her that believed that maybe, just maybe, he actually did like her beyond the intimacy of a bar and the unraveling cloak of night, saw her as more than she was, thought of her as someone worth being selfish for.
She wondered what it'd take to break his resolve, then she realized how behemoth of a task that seemed to be, for how did one tempt someone who possessed the mental fortitude to play at the highest level his sport had to offer?
She could try. She wanted to try.
Even as tortured as he seemed to be last night. That had only enticed her more. The almost flawless gift that kept on giving, coming apart at the seams at a single bat of her eyelashes.
She could reap the consequences of her beguiling before the altar. Surely, God would understand the desire He so put forth in her heart.
"Thanks for the ride, Joe," said Camille. "Can I call you that?"
Joseph snickered. "I think we're on a first-name basis after last night."
Elsie slotted herself between the front two seats, pressing a chaste kiss on her brother's cheek, then one that lingered, for just a hair longer, on Joseph's. She never let her smirk make headway, not even the slightest twitch or slant at the corner of her lips, when the light shade of pink crawled up his neck.
"Thank you, Joey," she said, "for yesterday and today."
He watched her clamber out of the car. "Anytime, kid."
Elsie's step faltered. She knew what he was trying to do, this last-ditch attempt to talk himself out of his wandering gaze and soft-hearted nature, to keep his best friend entirely oblivious to it, too. She was grateful, then, that her back was turned to the car, so he couldn't see the glimmer in her eyes fade, so Levi wouldn't be privy to anything.
But he did anyway. Because he was Levi, and he was almost too attuned to all of his loved ones' fluctuating emotions.
"Hey, kid," he called out. She turned around. "You okay?" he signed. "You've been quiet."
Elsie offered a faint smile. "Fine. Listening fatigue. I'll see you at the airport. Enjoy the rest of your night."
"Not going to stalk us this time?"
With a quick glance at Camille, she laughed. "No," she said. "Night, Jeans."
"Night, kid." Levi rolled the window up.
Joseph waited until Elsie and Camille made it inside before he drove away.
"So, wanna tell me what that was about?" Camille asked once they crossed the threshold into her apartment unit.
"What was what about?"
"Els," Camille stared blankly, "that sweater's not mine; Joe gave you his card; you can't look him in the eye; he kept looking at you—not subtly, either. What the hell did I miss?"
Elsie collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Tomorrow?" she asked with a sigh. "Implants are running out of juice."
Camille chuckled. "Alright."
It had been a few hours later, Elsie mindlessly scrolling on her phone in silence, when she received a video from her brother that spelled out his inebriation like he was teaching a class of toddlers. She didn't need to assume that there was yelling and music blasting—after all, Levi always knew how to have a good time—and neither did she need to assume that Joseph was with him; the only thing surprising that came out of his presence when Levi flipped the camera around, however, was how intensely he had thrown back his shots.
Like he was trying to drown out every thought in his head.
Elsie left his video unanswered and went to put her phone down when she felt it buzz—once, then twice.
josephwoll is now following you
Joseph Woll
I should've kissed you last night.
NOVEMBER
Levi and Elsie weren't the type of siblings who texted all the time (maybe a meme every few weeks), or made plans to see each other every other weekend (they were on par for a hangout every month and a half), or intermingled their friend groups (Levi was as good as their dad as recognizing her friends), or asked for life updates when it'd been too long (Elsie heard from their mom that he was looking to move). They believed that made them, by definition, not close—not estranged, but not best friends like they'd seen some others.
But every once in a while, when he was bored, Levi would remember that she lived in the same city and show up at her door unannounced.
"Joe's in net today," he said. "They're playing the Blues. Watch the game with me."
Elsie's transmitter snapped into place against her head, and the racket from the TV rushed into her ears. How Levi had found her remote when she had no recollection of where it'd last been placed was beyond her, but she kept her lips sealed.
"You're not giving me much of a choice," she said, joining him on the couch. "What happened to your friends? Oh, wait, you don't have any."
Levi rolled his eyes, pulling her throw blanket over his lap. He always thought she had the comfiest things—a perfectly warm lamp on the end table, festive garlands strung along the underside of her island counter, ready for Thanksgiving, silken cushions propped on her couch, all perfectly lived-in. He might drive home with this blanket later, though, if he can sneak it out.
"Turn the captions on."
"You're actually gonna watch with me?" Levi asked in disbelief. "I figured you were gonna leave me be and fuck off."
"It's the middle of the workweek," she said, sinking deeper into the cushions. "I'm not going anywhere if I can help it."
Levi flashed his bleached eyebrows like he understood.
"Can I dye your hair?" asked Elsie.
"What, this weekend?"
"No, like, right now."
Levi inhaled deeply, palming the grown-out buzzcut plagued with dark, overgrown roots, faded color, and brassy ends. "Fuck it, yeah. Buzz it while you're at it."
Elsie saluted and scurried off to her bathroom, finding her stash of bleach, developers, dyes, and gloves that had yet to see the light of day—all prepatory in case she decided to bite the bullet again. She liked to think it was going to happen sooner rather than later.
"Hey, did you go to Mass on Sunday?" Levi yelled from the living room.
"No!" she called back, brows furrowed with concentration. "I'm not driving forty minutes home to feel guilty. I can do that on my own, thank you very much. Did you?"
"No," he said.
A second passed, and like the answer to a millennium problem sprouting in their heads, their eyes lit up with realization.
"So that's why Mom was pissed," they concluded.
"She acts like it's something new," said Levi. "You and I are Creasters, at best. Joe might even be better about that, and he's not even Catholic."
Elsie snorted, about to bring the supplies over to the living room, when she pulled out her phone instead. Away from Levi's eyes, she could do this, stew in her hesitancy, stew in the fluttery feeling in her stomach. Her manicured thumbs hovered over her screen when she read the drunken text Joseph had sent that she never found a response to, and she wondered if she should've at the time, or if sending something now, entirely unrelated to it, was a good idea.
Before she could stop herself, however, the texts were sent.
els ♒︎
heyyy joey
play well tonight (not that you don't normally)
but i need to rub it in my brother's face
Seen now
Elsie returned to the living room and laid down plastic along her rug and couch before forcing Levi onto the floor. Briefly, she looked at the TV as the national anthems rang out, Levi quietly singing along as though it would mask how good his voice truly was, and waited until the final note sounded before she brought the clippers to his head.
Splinters of hair cascaded along Levi's bare shoulders, and she was tempted to leave him with the shaved strip down the center, but her humored giggles earned her a shove, so she kept going.
By the time she had slathered on the bleach and let it process, they were halfway through the first intermission. Levi rushed through the rinse, shouting from Elsie's bathroom as suds dripped into his eyes from his haste.
"Two minutes, Jeans!"
"Fuck me!"
With heavy stomps, Levi stumbled back into the living room with a towel obscuring his vision, drops of water tracing his path along the floor. He plopped back into his spot in front of Elsie, another string of curses falling from his lips as the jagged edges of his fallen hair speared into his legs, adding to the sharp pain radiating from his spine after sticking only his head beneath the shower stream.
Once the game ended, Elsie wasn't sure whether he was bemoaning the overtime loss the Blues had suffered or the black squiggly, ribbon-like lines now encircling his hair. She assumed it was the former, for he'd slid praise to his childhood best friend at some point, only to lament the string of losses piling on his favorite team's record.
"Hey, wanna order in?"
And it was as though Levi had never watched his team lose. "Yeah, what do you want?"
"Chinese?"
"Chinese."
A few minutes later, Elsie's phone vibrated. Her gaze slid to her brother, who was entirely encapsulated by the post-game panel breakdown of the game, before she angled her phone ever so slightly.
Joseph Woll
Was that good enough?
els ♒︎
i was joking, by the way
seeing you get to play is more than enough for me :)
but yes, jeans is a mess
Seen now
Elsie frowned when it appeared that she would receive no additional response. Had she been too much? She didn't think so—just a friend expressing her pride in his accomplishments.
That was what they were now. Friends.
Maybe.
They didn't talk all that much, and she didn't ask Levi about him, just as he didn't ask Levi about her. But they weren't as peripheral anymore, and maybe acquaintances was a better choice of words, but she didn't like the sound of that.
She didn't think it explained the way his hands brushed against hers as they walked to his car, or the way his eyes lingered, or the care with which he handled her, or how desperately he wanted to kiss her.
But with her brother just a few feet away, too perceptive a person for any change in her mood to go unnoticed, she tossed her phone aside.
"Oh, by the way, you got some bleach on your hair," said Levi. "Might be a sign, kid."
DECEMBER
"You couldn't have picked a different color?" Dana Rivers cried when her son showed up on her doorstep on Christmas Eve with neon pink stars drawn on his hair. "Jesus, Levi! What about something Christmas-y, like green or red?"
Levi ducked away from his mother's hands. "I'm not walking around looking like a bloody tampon."
Elsie barked out a laugh. She stood in the foyer, equipped with a spray can, the same chocolatey shade of her hair. She gave the can a few shakes, mixing balls clacking loudly against the calm hum of Christmas hymns warming the old suburban home.
"Oh, you came prepared, huh?" Levi narrowed his eyes.
Dana looked like she was one moment away from letting out a sob. "This is all your fault, Steve! If you had never let..."
Elsie tuned out her mother's voice as she pulled her brother into the bathroom.
Levi plopped onto the toilet lid, hissing when the first icy blast of temporary hair color hit his scalp. "What's Mom's problem?"
"Same ol', same ol'," Elsie said. "They've started up again."
A string of silence dragged on—thick, uncomfortable. Distantly, they could hear Steve finally snap at his wife's incessant badgering.
"I know, Jeans," she said, offering a thin-lipped smile. "The walls spoke."
"How long has it been going on for now?"
Elsie continued spraying his hair. "Started to pick up a few weeks ago, I think. Been especially bad lately. Think it's just the holidays, though."
Levi saw the anxious purse of her lips, the muted spark in her eyes, the bloodied cuticles that juxtaposed the cute and festive designs adorning her nails. "Don't blame yourself for it, kid."
"I don't. Not really. Not this time around."
"Okay. Good."
Levi didn't critique the blotchy work Elsie had done on his hair, not when their parents were ushering them into the car to make it to midnight mass in time to secure their seats after his little color debacle had set them back a few minutes. But he was wholly privy to it when she let out a giggle every once in a while, like it'd been her intention the entire time.
"Joe saved us a spot," he announced.
"Oh, you invited him?" Dana asked. "Well, bless him."
Elsie had slid into the shellacked pew first, flashing Joseph a quick smile when she settled beside him. The air was stiff between them, like they hadn't quite known how to exist around one another beyond the boundless thoughts of what could've happened between them, and perhaps they didn't—not in the way they should, at least.
But how could they when the longing came rushing back to the forefront of their minds?
The moonlight passed through the stained glass with a reverent glow befitting the altar that stood high and mighty, but all Elsie could think was that it illuminated like a spotlight meant to shame her for the temptation flowing through her body, the gravitation that had her seeking Joseph's touch, no matter how slight.
The guilt that followed consumed her like rot when she subtly knocked her knee into his, almost like an accident if neither of them knew any better. But he made no attempt to move away, and the nervous wire stretched tight in her spine loosened.
For a brief moment, their eyes connected, and the faintest smiles danced across their faces.
Despite the relatively lax stance she and her brother had taken toward their faith, each procession came to them like a breath of air—easy, familiar, long-held. Each move taken to stand, to sit, to make the sign of the cross, to recite each prayer, response, and creed—all of it, Elsie swore, she could do even in death.
She did not know if, at the depth of her soul, that made her a good person despite it all, or if it worsened the guilt over her lack of discipline, the guilt over the prurience distracting her, the guilt over her wandering eyes to people the Church would never let her marry, the guilt over allowing her mortal feelings and urges to become the driving force in her decisioins over the religious moral teachings ingrained in her from her youth, the guilt over existing as she did.
Her eyes glazed over with something distant and cloudy as she sank to her knees beneath the crushing weight of it all.
And a part of Joseph felt a heaviness in his chest when he watched from the corner of his eyes, past the rim of his glasses—a moment of innocent, hallowed piety that bewitched his mind and soul with something that should send him scrambling for the confessionals. He knelt faster than a flash of lightning, hoping the Eucharistic Prayer could wash him of his thoughts.
Elsie's dad had received the Eucharistic bread in his hand when she decided to tilt back, only marginally, only enough for Joseph to notice. He leaned forward, just a smidge, ready to hear whatever it was she wanted to say.
"Is there anything you'd like to confess before receiving a blessing?" she asked, lips barely moving, voice even less distinguishable.
But Joseph heard, and all he could do was nudge her forward.
Elsie's cheeks inflated with the laugh she kept contained.
In the chaos of families making their escape after Mass had concluded, Elsie had found her place before the votive candles by one of the alcoves, the gentle candlelight softly dancing against the delicate curves and edges of Mary's statue. It was just her there. She felt small, like a little child seeking the comfort of her mother, and a sudden solace mended her heart when she thought of this as no different.
Still, it was overwhelming, the feeling that gutted her from within—a fearfulness trembling her muscles, a distraughtness stinging behind her eyes.
Elsie couldn't remember the last time she'd clutched her rosary that tightly, fingers blanching like the silvery moonlight high in the sky. Maybe in high school, when she'd been confined to a sling and hoped to play the piano the way she used to, begged God not to take that from her, too. Maybe in middle school, that very day her best friend at the time had innocently grazed her hand, and she felt her heart skip a beat; God, she'd cried and cried and thought something was profoundly wrong with her and hoped she would pray herself into normalcy. Or maybe before that, as a child, pleading to have her hearing back until her knees scarred; she still had the marks to prove it.
It felt a little disingenuous, in all honesty—how she only came before the Lord when she needed something. She wondered if He ever got tired of it, if He thought any less of her for it. But the candlelight continued to burn, and she figured that had to have meant something.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
Elsie had felt Joseph's presence loitering, and she was deeply grateful that he'd let her be for just a few moments. She hastily brushed away the tears trickling down her cheeks and looked back up at Mary's statue, as though for reassurance. "You been standing there this entire time?" she asked.
"I was on my way out," he said. "Had a feeling I should stop by."
Elsie didn't turn to him when he joined her side.
A long silence lapped between them.
Joseph stuffed his hands into his pockets, craning his neck to observe Mary. Her lips were curled softly, her eyes painted with tenderness, and her palms were turned outward, as though inviting all to stand with her, to unshackle the weight of their troubles onto her, to feel the love that Jesus had.
How kind she appeared before them, despite her grandness. A sort of humility that rippled into succor.
He understood why Elsie would go to her when something troubled her.
Lowering his gaze, he noticed the tired breath expelling from her shoulders, like she didn't quite have the strength to stand from her kneeling position. He reached for her back, his fingertips only able to skim the base of her neck, but that had been enough, it seemed, when the tension in her body loosened beneath his touch, sent her leaning against his leg like it was some lifeline keeping her upright when all she wanted to do was lie down.
"Did my brother ever tell you that our dad's starting to lose his hearing?"
"Once," he said, carefully smoothing his palm over her hair. "You know how he is: For someone so attuned to everyone's emotions, he doesn't like talking about his own."
"It seems stupid to say, but I hope it doesn't get worse," she said, toying with the beads of her rosary. "I don't want him to go through what I did. It was hard getting to where I am, and I struggled—still struggle—a lot."
Joseph pressed his lips together in concentration. "I guess I never really considered how much goes into hearing again."
"Most people don't really think about deafness unless they're insulting someone." The corner of Elsie's lips swept up just the tiniest bit, like she was trying to lighten the air, but the weight of Joseph's presence and Mary's knowing stare had quickly snuffed out that attempt. "I'm grateful that I can hear again, I am, and I live a fairly normal life, all things considered," she continued with furrowed brows, "but it's not the same. Festivals, concerts, large gatherings—they're all kind of...muffled and robotic, and I can't really focus on more than one sound, and emotions don't come through the same way. It's like...I can hear, but I can't listen. Not fully.
"But that's why I studied physics in college. I may not be able to hear like I used to, but I can experience sound through numbers and graphs and vibrations, and the more I studied it, the more I realized that...everything sings. That's kind of comforting, isn't it? Poetic, even.
"Even then, that doesn't remove all the envy I feel. The worst part about everything is that I remember what sound was like before I lost my hearing—barely, but enough that I spent a lot of time upset over it, and some days, I consider just taking these suckers off and never putting them back on." Elsie had felt some sort of relief in admitting this to someone, something like stepping out of the confessionals. "But my parents used to get into fights about it, and obviously, I couldn't really hear them by that point, but I'd feel the walls shake sometimes. One night, I wanted to see what was going on, but instead, I found Levi just sitting in front of my door like he was standing guard. He wouldn't tell me what was happening, but he just looked so...sad, and I knew.
"They all put in so much time and money into helping me; it would feel like a waste if I decided to stop using my implants," she said. "I don't know—He and my mom are already starting to argue again, and I can't stand the thought of my dad experiencing what I did, and I guess, that's assuming he'll even get that bad, but it's hard not to think about it when it kind of looms over us, y'know?"
Joseph wasn't quite sure what to say: He didn't think it was right to tell her that it'd all turn out for the better, that she should be overtly optimistic—this overbearing, false sense of positivity that seemed to do more harm than good—because it was obvious that this had been gnawing at her for a while, that she hadn't quite had the chance to sit with everything fully, and he didn't want to brush her emotions off when she was opening up to someone—to him.
But neither would it feel right to tell that she was strong for persevering when everything seemed so bleak, that she should continue to be strong, because she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. It wasn't like she wanted to lose her hearing, like she wanted to sit through hundreds of audiologist and speech therapy appointments, like she wanted to live knowing that she wasn't experiencing life with the depth that sound gave everyone else.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to dump that onto you." Elsie dismissively shook her head, rubbing her eyes. "It's late."
"Hey," Joseph gently coaxed, dropping to his knees at an instant. His gaze softened when she finally spared him a glance, the skin around her eyes puffy like she'd showered in pollen. His chest tightened when they turned glassy again, her lips trembling with each passing second. "C'mere."
Elsie melted into his grasp, his arms snaking around her shoulders—comforting, anchoring, supporting, all at once. She quite liked the feel of it, how her muscles seemed to loosen, like her shoulders no longer carried the weight of the cross she was burdened with, and for a moment, her mind quieted.
Joseph pulled back enough to let his thumb collect the wetness on her cheeks. He studied her face as she leaned into his touch, felt time slow when she mustered up the courage to meet his gaze, all vulnerable and raw emotion. He knew, then, that he wanted to be the one she went to when she needed a moment away from the responsibilities of the world, so he could shield her while she rested.
Briefly, his gaze drifted to Mary. The candlelight, still as gentle and as strongly lit, seemed to soften her kind expression even more. It had never felt more heavy-laden, however, like the weight of a mother's expectations had now been bestowed upon him. He turned back to Elsie, then.
"You can talk to me about anything," he said. Before he could stop himself, he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head.
Elsie shifted, tucking herself deeper into Joseph's grasp. "I know I didn't really give you much of an option, but thank you for listening."
"You don't have to thank me." His hand brushed over her hair, careful to avoid the implants on either side of her head, and the way his heart flipped blinded him, temporarily, from all the restraint he felt he owed Levi.
But it came surging back in, left his smile fading and his soul heavy with shame for ever feeling what he did when he thought about her, let alone when she was around. The church, too, seemed to agree, the pietistic lighting within the church haloing around her head, laughing at him for ever thinking he would be worthy of her.
Then came the footfalls echoing softly against the stone floor, and maybe a little too quickly, he seemed to shove some distance between them. "You feeling better, kid?"
Elsie had understood fairly quickly—the turmoil ribbing at him and the approaching presence. Hastily, she wiped away what tears were left on her skin, nodding despite the emptiness now feasting on the warmth he had enveloped her in. She might even say she heard a crack form in her heart if it didn't sound so theatrical.
"There you are," Levi's voice rippled from behind them. His strides grew louder, then softer as he slowed down. "I've been looking all over for you, kid. Oh, hey, man."
Joseph offered a nonchalant acknowledgment, a simple jut of his chin. He saw the slight crinkle of Levi's brows at the sight of them, like each rationalization was passing through his face, before he shook his head dismissively. After all, he had no reason to believe anything else.
"Are we still on with Freddy tomorrow?" Levi asked Joseph, who gave some half-assed response. "Sweet. C'mon, kid; Mom and Dad are getting antsy."
"Night, Joey," Elsie said quietly, unable to meet his eyes, entirely enraptured by the rosary clutched dearly in her hands. She trailed alongside her brother.
"What was that about?" asked Levi.
Elsie shrugged. "Nothing."
Levi came to a halt when he heard the faint sniffle, the raspiness of her voice finally striking something in his mind. His gaze finally swept over, with detail, her mottled skin, then the slightly tumid nature of her eyes. "You were crying."
"Let's go, Jeans." Elsie tugged at his arm, but he remained firmly in place.
"What's wrong?" he asked. Briefly, his eyes flickered when Joseph passed them, and he thought back to the past few moments. "Did Joe do anything?"
Elsie stared at him, long and hard. Then she laughed, slapping her hand over her mouth to mute herself. "Joey? Your best friend, Joey? The guy who won 'Most likely to brighten your day' one year? That Joey?"
"I don't know!" Levi threw his arms up. "You were fine when Mass ended, and then I find you with him, crying. I was just throwing shit out there."
Another laugh, more of a giggle this time, had left Elsie's lips, and the sound seemed to knead away the knots in Levi's shoulders. "Joey didn't do anything. He won that superlative for a reason. We were just talking about Dad."
"Oh." Levi fell into step with his sister, opening the church doors for her. "When did you two become so close?"
"When you ditched us in Toronto," she said.
Levi thinned his lips, glaring when Elsie shot him a teasing grin. "Whatever. You steal my clothes, my pens, my car...Next thing I know, you'll be stealing my friends, starting with Joe."
It had been a joke, but Elsie couldn't help but find Joseph as he reached his car, just two spots over. He seemed to feel the weight of her stare and looked up. "You're not losing your friends to a kid, Jeans."
She climbed into the backseat before she could see the way Joseph winced.
Morning had come quickly, and Elsie stirred awake when her phone buzzed. She cursed at herself, wondering if she'd been too tired to silence her phone before she collapsed into bed when they'd gotten home from church, but she lifted her head, bleary eyes clearing to read the texts coming in.
Joseph Woll
Have something for you. Think you can open the door for me?
Elsie shot out of bed, nearly tripping over her comforter tangled between her legs, and hurried out of her childhood bedroom, uncaring of how she looked—hair sticking in different directions, eyes lined with flakes of mascara she'd failed to remove last night, old pyjamas skewed and crumpled.
The front door swung open, and Joseph bit back an endeared laugh at the sight of her.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
Elsie nodded. "So what's this thing you've got for me?"
"Greedy."
"I know what I want," she said.
Joseph pulled a wrapped box out from behind him, small enough to rest entirely in his palm. "Merry Christmas, Els."
"Merry Christmas, Joey." Elsie smiled softly, even if her heart still stung from last night. Her foot seemed to twitch, like it was wondering if she should step forward to hug him or remain where she was. Instead, she took the gift and lowered her gaze, observing the paper littered with Christmas trees. "Thank you," she said. "And thank you again for last night—for listening."
"Like I said, you don't have to thank me. I meant it—when I said you could talk to me about anything."
Elsie gently cradled the wrapped gift between her interlocked fingers. "You can talk to me, too."
"Els, close the door!" Levi shouted from inside. "You're letting all the cold air in."
"It's sixty degrees outside!" Elsie yelled back. "Now, do you want me to leave Joey inside or outside?"
"In, what the hell?"
Joseph tried to suppress his smile when she shot him a wink. He had grown to accept that his resolve eroded away with each moment he spent with her, and how dangerous was that? He stepped into the house when she opened the door a little more.
Elsie felt her face burn when he squeezed her waist in passing. She closed the door, heard the rattle of his voice with Levi's, then his voice with her parents, how familiar it sounded, like an old vinyl on her father's player, then looked at the present in her hands. A smile crooked her lips, and she ran off to her room with a skip in her step.
Carefully, she peeled the taped corners and edges of the gift, revealing a velvet box. She lifted the lid and read the note slipped in there.
Found this in my car and had it repaired.
Merry Christmas, Els ❤︎
Elsie moved the card aside, wondering if her mind had taken the right path, and a scream left her throat before she slapped her hand over her mouth.
"Els?" her father shouted from the living room.
"I'm fine!" she replied. "Spider!"
Elsie liked to believe she could hear Joseph laughing at her obvious lie. Her thumb brushed over the gold chain leading to the crucifix that'd once hung from her neck a few months ago; she had only just begun accepting that she'd never be reunited with it.
Excitement coursed through her body until all she could do was flop onto her back with a squeal, feet kicking in the air.
els ♒︎
you're godsent joey
MARCH
"What happened with your car?" Elsie asked as her brother climbed into the passenger seat.
"You're never gonna believe me," said Levi. "I got rear-ended again."
"You're joking." Elsie gaped. "Any more, and I'll assume you're talking to me about your sex life, which, please, never do."
Levi snorted.
"So, where are we headed?"
"Joe's. Mom and Dad are there."
Elsie's mouth peeled back with offence. "Why wasn't I invited to this?"
"This is your invite," he said. "Besides, I thought you were going out with what's-her-name."
"Rain checked," said Elsie, setting off on the forty-minute drive to their hometown that she had no idea she'd make that night. Of course, she'd known that Joseph was around—the Leafs were in town, and he'd texted her about it—but she wasn't expecting to see him until the next night, under the arena lights, surrounded by the rest of his family and friends that would keep her on her best behavior.
"Let's get this party started!" Levi exclaimed, barging through the front door.
"Where's a bathroom, Jeans?" Elsie asked quietly. She didn't think she recalled the last time she'd set foot in this house, if she'd ever. Following his directions, she turned down a hallway, counted the doors, and went to open the one she'd hoped was the right one.
The door opened as her hand grazed the doorknob, and a sharp gasp sliced through her throat.
"Jesus, Els!" Joseph flinched. "Didn't know you were coming tonight. Levi said you were busy."
Elsie's cheeks flushed at the thought that he might have asked about her before she cleared her throat. "Levi needed a ride here, and Bells canceled."
Joseph glanced down, smiling softly as the gold chain around her neck glinted under the warm houselights. He reached for the crucifix, letting it rest on his fingertips. "Glad to see it hasn't broken off."
The cool metal of the crucifix hit her skin again. Joseph almost wished he'd skipped meeting her eyes—the soft-edged, doe-like feel of them that nearly sent him to his knees, and the smile it'd brought out had wrecked him, gutted him from within until every inch of him craved being near her.
Fuck, he was so screwed.
Levi was going to kill him.
"I don't know how many times I can thank you for it," Elsie said earnestly. "Seriously, Joey."
"It was nothing," he brushed off. Then, he curled his finger into one of her belt loops, tugging at it and steadying her with his other hand on her hip when she stumbled into his chest, and swapped their places in one fell swoop. There was a flutter in his chest when she regarded him with wide eyes and parted lips, as if he'd just taken away any rational thought. "Dinner's in five."
Elsie closed the door, breath ragged and soft, all at once. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take before her heart exploded. She doubted that it'd be a very pretty sight.
How she had been sandwiched between Matthew and Joseph's younger brother, Michael, at the dinner table, she wasn't quite sure, but she hadn't complained. She knew Michael distantly from the few instances they'd crossed paths in school, and Matthew was charismatic enough to befriend just about anyone.
And maybe it was the sight of it—of Elsie enjoying herself around people closer in age to her—that seemed to tick Joseph off, seemed to set off the same arguments that'd been running through his mind for half a year now. Just when he'd thought he'd begun to quell those thoughts.
Levi and Elsie helped clean up the dining table after everyone had finished their meals, piling on dish after dish.
All it took was the first note, the first press of E on the white piano keys, for Elsie to stop mid-scrub, hot water rolling off her hands. Then the second note rang, and she glanced over her shoulder, finding that her brother was still in the kitchen with her.
So, not Levi.
"Go join the rest of them in the living room," Dana said quietly, taking over at the sink.
Elsie dried her hands on her sweatpants (an unfortunate choice of clothing, because if she'd known where they were going, she would've put in a little more effort to look nicer), then crept toward the archway opening into the living room, where Joseph sat behind an old, upright piano against the wall. Her lips pulled softly with each unraveling of Für Elise that graced her ears, but it quickly fell when it transitioned into another song, as though the opening few notes were simply meant to capture their attention—her attention.
Because it had to be hers that he was chasing when Je te laisserai des mots followed.
And for a moment, she fell through the veil of time, landed back in Toronto, in the front seat of his car as the song gently rippled into the mellow air, the cityscape passing by them in soft blurs, late-night chatter filling in the gaps of knowledge between them. She quite liked that night, liked how calm everything was, even with Camille passed out in the back.
It was sweet, and it was melancholic, and it was tranquil, and it was fun, and it was dejected, and it was far too short, and yet it was something she cherished.
But she was growing to accept that, despite her efforts, she would never get that with him—too devoted to her brother, too embroiled with the thought that she was younger than him.
This fluttering of their hearts, this clandestine dance in the shadows, this rewiring of their minds each time they saw each other that left them breathless and frozen—even as he played his heart out in ways only obvious to them, she would let what simmered between them fizzle out if that was what he wanted.
She knew when to stop. Enacting it would be much harder, however.
As the last few notes dragged out, it seemed like everyone had turned to Levi, who stood behind Elsie. Everyone knew how much of a prodigy he was—how each note flowed through him like they were his life force, how the world seemed to disappear around him once he touched an instrument. It was only right to have him display his talent in front of an audience.
But his gaze had jumped to Elsie.
She shook her head like her life depended on it.
"I haven't played in so long," she said, something like a plea.
Still, Levi nudged her forward, toward Joseph, who had walked over. Her throat bobbed before she latched onto his outstretched hand, letting him pull her toward the piano. He squeezed her shoulders before stepping back, watching, first, with amusement when she tied her hair up, revealing the blue hidden underneath, then, with admiration as she inhaled deeply, eyes sliding shut like she could already feel each bar of music weaving through her soul before her fingertips had even touched the sleek keys.
He'd understood, then, what Levi had meant all those years ago—that this seemed to come easily to her. Because, despite how she'd claimed it'd been ages since she'd played, each note, each slur, each accidental, each break, each pedal mark came to her like a long lost friend—a gentle tune into the good night that required nothing but the heart and soul.
She breathed life into the second movement of the Pathétique Sonata in ways he never believed he could ever do, no matter how much he practiced. He felt it, though—the hauntingly beautiful bittersweetness of the song, like a balm for a troubled spirit—and something remorseful swept him away.
Then came the weight of a stare—Levi's stare—and Joseph wiped away any trace of fondness from his face, replaced with a shameful dip of his head to remain as avoidant of his best friend's dissecting attention as he could.
And Levi was...confused?
His gaze flipped between Joseph and Elsie, like the pieces were starting to fall into place, and questions began to bludgeon him with the force entirely contradictory to the reposeful air around them.
The piece had come to an end before he could sort out his thoughts, and he watched in deliberate silence as Joseph's mother suggested they do a duet, watched as they shared the bench and sat shoulder-to-shoulder as they browsed his phone for songs to try.
They laughed, heartily and unrestrained, with their eyes crinkled fondly and mouths wide. Even as chatter resumed around them, Levi couldn't help but hear their liveliness over it—the excited gasps and pushiness from Elsie when she found a song she liked, and the rejecting cry from Joseph, who had very little faith in his sight-reading skills. It was like they were in a world of their own, trapped in orbit, an instantaneous repulsion of everything else in the room; God, Elsie would laugh at the knowledge that he actually listened to her physics-speak and retained any of it.
"C'mon, Joey," said Elsie. "You know this one. It could be fun."
Levi saw something shift in his best friend, like Elsie had ceased any sense of fight from his body with a simple bat of her eyes.
Joseph gave in embarrassingly quickly, leaving to print off the sheet music they'd found online. In his absence, Elsie had taken to playing a string of keys in the background—softly, then a dip in mood like something in her mind had fallen, before she'd picked it back up again in time to see him return.
Elsie turned her head, and her lips parted with shock, fingers slipping from the keys when Joseph resorted to signing: "Which side of you want to sit on?"
Her eyes snapped up, found the sheepish smile on his face, and returned it softly. "It's your move."
Joseph took the spot to her left, unclamping the sheets of paper between his arm and ribs, spreading them out along the music desk. He'd felt somewhat cowardly taking the easier set of notes, but he felt even more selfish for it, too—for wanting to hear Elsie commandeer control of the melody with her nimble fingers and soulful interpretation, because he didn't think there was anything more angelic and deserving of reverence than hearing her play.
He'd almost missed his cue because of it, and he'd heard the faintest chuckle of hers that told him she'd noticed. His face flushed hot, but he still grinned.
It was a funny little thing—how Interstellar had become associated with him—but he could play the theme in his sleep, he thought, and it sounded otherworldly with Elsie beside him. It would never sound the same after this.
Applause had followed the conclusion of the song, and Elsie briefly hid her gleeful expression against Joseph's shoulder, like she didn't quite know how to receive praise after all these years. He curled his arms around hers—a side-hug just as brief as the slight nuzzle she'd given him, yet it lingered in the gentle sear against her skin.
"You okay?" he asked quietly when he noticed her rubbing her wrist. He'd felt guilty, then.
Elsie nodded, the heat of his gaze easing the throbbing pain spreading to her hand. "Just haven't played like that in a while."
"Do you need anything? I'm sure we have Advil somewhere."
"I'll be fine," she assured softly. "Thank you."
And how could she stop feeling what she did when he treated her so tenderly?
Dana and Steve had decided to go home shortly after, but they'd insisted that their children could stay without them, which Levi had planned to do anyway—and with Elsie being his ride home, she had followed whatever he said.
Everyone spread themselves across the couches and floor, with a movie humming into the dimmed living room. The energy had calmed as time plunged deeper into the night, and Elsie felt her eyelids grow heavy.
"Can I?" she whispered to Joseph, who nodded. She let her head drop to his shoulder, which grew wiry with each passing second, and it didn't take much for her to understand why: She had sensed something radiating from her brother—something unsettling that didn't allow her, or Joseph, to unwind the way everyone else had.
Elsie shifted, her eyes flickering up to find the apprehensive bite of Joseph's lips, the forced unwavering attention on the TV.
"I'm gonna get some water. Do you want any?" he asked quietly, sparing her a glance.
"Sure." Her gaze didn't follow as he stood up and left, something distant taking over. It was barely there, but Levi caught it—the downturn of her lips, the quiet purse of it—from across the couch, and that had been enough. She noticed him follow Joseph into the kitchen.
A few minutes passed before she slinked through the shadows.
"She's a kid!" Levi whispered hotly.
Joseph sighed exasperatedly, skirting his palm over his jaw, because he'd had this conversation before—with himself, countless times.
"I don't believe 23-year-olds are considered children," Elsie inserted herself casually, not bothering to apologize when Joseph's shoulders jumped. She came to his side and grabbed one of the filled glasses of water. "Unless there's someone even younger I don't know about, in which case, wow, you like your women young."
"Els," Joseph sighed again, earning a sheepish smile.
"Hey!" Levi snapped his finger at him from across the island counter. "Don't talk to my fucking sister like that."
Elsie furrowed her brows. "Like what, Jeans? He just said my name."
Levi inhaled deeply, eyes sliding shut for only a moment. "Joe. Really?"
"What about him?" she asked with a tilt of her head.
"You don't have to hide it anymore."
"Hide what? We're not hiding anything."
"Oh, so my best friend hasn't been screwing my baby sister behind my back?"
Elsie's face pinched. "Why'd you say it like that?"
A tired plea leaked into Levi's stare. "You said you two got close in Toronto. What happened?"
"Nothing," said Elsie. Her eyes slipped to Joseph, whose eyebrows scrunched together like he was trying to slow the conversation before him with what little he knew of sign language. "He just dropped me and Camille off at home. There was no secret rendezvous that you think happened."
"Really?" Levi gibed. "I find it really hard to believe that when you were throwing yourself around that night."
Elsie returned a scoff, just as scorned. She gripped the edge of the counter and leaned forward to hiss, "You are un-fucking-believable, you misogynistic pig! You were whoring it out, too."
"Dude!" Joseph looked at Levi in disbelief. "What the hell?"
Levi went to point a firm finger at him when the floorboards creaked.
Their heads whipped around just as the new set of footsteps came to a halt. Matthew's gaze swept over the kitchen—the rollercoaster of emotions etched on everyone's faces, the way Levi's jabbing finger and Elsie's iron-clad grip on the counter didn't speak of a peaceful confrontation, the apprehension corded through Joseph as he looked on, the tense air that stilled the heater circulating through the house.
"I'm just gonna..." Matthew crept on his tiptoes toward the cupboards, but Joseph had shoved his untouched glass of water in his direction with an apologetic look and sent him off.
Elsie turned to Joseph when his hand soothed along her back, as though the space above the spine of her scapula had been worn away by his touch. It was subconscious, she knew, because he'd stopped once she laid eyes on him, but it'd worked—softening the harsh edges that wanted to serrate through the conversation—because it wasn't a string of argumentative words that she'd thrown at her brother this time, it was a defeated sigh that returned the color to her fingers.
"Why?" she asked. "What set this off, Jeans?"
"I have eyes, kid," he said. He also had the awareness of an omniscient being—attuned to every change in the air, to every oscillation and battle in his loved ones' eyes and hearts—and everyone knew that, knew that there was very little they could get by him without him sniffing it out.
Perhaps the most impressive feat was how long it had taken him to notice something bubbling between the two people closest to him, but that, too, could have been boiled down to the simple idea that he never thought he needed to consider it.
"Do you like him?" he asked, something earnest swirling in the depths of his eyes.
Hesitation seized the use of Elsie's hands for a second, as though she was unsure if she wanted to put it all out there for Levi to pick apart, but the momentary silence was enough, and the way he looked at her—a cross between disappointment, moreso in himself than her, and remorse, like he'd wished he'd broached this differently—had her seeking comfort elsewhere.
The soft stare she received from Joseph seemed to erode the tension in her muscles, seemed to slow her heart that was coiling with anxiety. Because he knew, truly, what nestled in her chest, and if she couldn't get the words out to announce it to the rest of the world, at the very least, he knew.
And maybe that was all that mattered to her.
"Of course you do," Levi muttered, hands sliding down his face. "You're my sister, Els, and he's known you since you were a kid. You were still in middle school when we left for college, for Christ's sake!"
"Jesus, Jeans, it's not like anything happened back then, and nothing happened in Toronto because he shut me down that night!" she snapped, watching the way his face morphed with something else, something less fueled. "If you're gonna get mad at someone, it should've never been at him, because he was thinking of you. He cares about you, Jeans, and he knows what it looks like. Trust me, I've heard it all."
Levi blew a long breath past his lips. "Just—give me a moment."
He left the kitchen without so much as a glance, footsteps heavy with the intensity of his emotions.
Elsie expelled a heavy breath, cradling her head in her hands, a sharp pain radiating up from her elbows as they hit the counter. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Joseph squeezed her waist, but the initial shock had faded quickly. Still, she couldn't muster up the courage to look at him. "How long have you been learning sign language?"
"A few months," he admitted quietly.
"How much of it did you understand?"
"Not all of it, but enough." Joseph rubbed her back, finally drawing a gentle tilt of her head. He leaned down slightly, tried to get their eyes level. "I care about you, too, Els."
"I know," she hummed, "but not enough to risk your friendship with my brother, and I get it. Really. No hard feelings."
Joseph didn't say anything. Not yet. Because he did care, more than enough, and that'd been what sparked the fuse that left the kitchen a pile of rubble. He cared so much that he was willing to test the foundation of his friendship with Levi, willing to risk it for even a chance with her.
Because he'd accepted that this rush of warmth, this constant warring between his heart and his ribs, this lingering ghost of her perfume that followed him everywhere—all of it had taken root like an ancient tree, fortified, unrelenting, spreading. It wasn't going away, no matter how much he'd tried to rid himself of it.
But it felt entirely opportunistic to sweep into Elsie's life as something more after this—as a strange silence befell them, as the exchange with Levi remained fresh in their minds, as the emotions went unregulated in their bodies, as he stood as the trigger between the two people he loved.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Elsie shook her head dismissively, a large rush of air entering through her nose as she shoved her hair out of her face. "I'm sorry for starting this whole thing."
She left without giving him any room to speak.
Joseph closed his eyes with his head thrown back, a heavy sigh weighing his shoulders down. He dreaded returning to the living room, in all honesty, exposed to the all-knowing eyes of his best friend, his mother, and the girl who seemed to consume every thought of his.
But he knew he had no other choice but to join everyone else, and with a new glass of water and the one Elsie had left on the counter, he hoped his strides didn't quite show his unease as he slinked back to his spot on the couch.
Elsie glanced up when the cushion beside her dipped. She offered a slight smile when Joseph held her water out, hand spelling out her gratitude in a way that told him she wasn't in the mood to hear anything. The implants lying on her lap only confirmed that.
"You'll be okay?" he asked.
The corners of Elsie's mouth couldn't help but tug wider. How exciting that he was speaking to her in her language when no one else she'd been with had ever bothered to, not when her implants seemed to patch up that small bump in communication. Maybe they'd work in a separate universe; maybe she'd go back to school to research the possibility of a multiverse just to find the one that was true in.
"Don't you worry about me, Saint Joseph."
The joke had nearly written itself: the holy father of Christ—the protector, ever the worrier, the model of faith, of obedience, of humility, even when confusion grabbed hold of him. Elsie had seen all of that in Joseph, even as he shook the nickname off like he didn't think so, like it was too sacrilegious to believe otherwise.
As the movie droned on, the quiet and calm hum of silence surrounding her gently pulled Elsie back to a sleepy state. She shifted, and as though it'd been a puck flying at him, Joseph caught the exterior parts of her implants sliding off her thigh before they could hit the cushions, before she could accidentally roll over them amidst her slumber, the way she seemed to roll onto him.
Joseph stilled, then relaxed when he spared her a cursory glance, noticed the way the wrinkles between her brows smoothed, the soft breaths pelting against his sweater, the almost purring hum rumbling from her as she nuzzled against him. For a moment, he'd forgotten what transpired after dinner and let his fingers twirl the ends of her hair, the edges of his lips lifted when he collected the chunks of blue hidden beneath a mop of brown.
He'd always thought she and Levi were so much cooler than him for that, even with all the bad color choices over the years, the strange mixes that didn't quite blend together, or the bold and experimental choices that left him looking like a toddler had taken a paintbrush to their hair with free rein.
Then he felt the heavy stare from across the living room—dissecting, studying, frowning. And maybe, for a split second, he'd considered moving Elsie off of him, so Levi would relent the piercing examination he was inflicting on them, but their hearts had already been laid out before them, and there was no use in pretending that he wasn't at his most tender state of mind when he was with her when the one person he was most scared of knowing already knew.
So, he let her be.
But Elsie had been the kind to be attuned to every shift in the air in a way that wasn't lauded like her brother, and even in her sleep, that seemed to ring true, for she moved again, turned so her back was to Joseph, body slumped over the arm of the couch, curled up in her little corner of the sectional like a feline basking under the long summer sun.
Joseph pulled the hem of her rumpled sweater down to cover the sliver of skin across her back that'd been exposed amidst her tossing and turning, then draped one of the throw blankets over her. He didn't dare look anywhere but the screen after that.
Then came the time when everyone decided to call it a night.
Levi had volunteered to be Joseph and Matthew's ride back into the city, so not Shelley nor Bob nor Michael nor Emma had to make the back and forth through the dark abyss.
Michael snorted. "Does Els know you're offering her car up?"
"Well, she's dead asleep," said Levi, sifting through her purse for her car keys. "I don't think she really has much of a say."
"Just don't get rear-ended again, kid," Shelley snickered, grabbing Elsie's glass off the coffee table. She pressed a kiss on Levi's head. "I don't think she'd appreciate that."
Elsie stirred awake, feeling the subtle vibrations through the cushions. She blearily looked around, her heart rate skipping when clarity revealed the numerous eyes on her. She might've made a sound, perhaps a squeak, if the chests shaking with laughter was anything to go by. "What is going on?"
"I'm driving us home," said Levi, head cocking toward Matthew and Joseph.
Elsie shot up, attention flickering, searching. She shot Joseph an appreciative glance when he handed over her implants. Sound assailed her from every direction once the external transmitter snapped into place against her head. "Like Hell you are, Jeans. Not on God's green fucking Earth are you going anywhere near my fucking car."
A string of laughter echoed through the living room as offence marred Levi's face.
"Sorry for my language, Mrs. Woll."
Shelley waved her off, leaving for the kitchen.
"Is it okay if I use the bathroom before we go?" Elsie asked.
She had nearly screamed when she opened the door to leave the bathroom and was met with her brother's towering figure.
"I'm sorry," said Levi.
"It's fine," Elsie mumbled, ready to slip past him when he shoved his arm out in front of her.
"Not for scaring you," he said. "About Joe."
"Oh."
"You really want him?"
Elsie looked down with a nod, picking at her nails. She had been doing so well at leaving them alone. "Yeah," she said. "I do." She inhaled so sharply that it nearly hurt. "He's kind, and he's thoughtful, and he's funny, and he took care of me before you asked him to, even helped put Camille to bed when she was too drunk to remember her own name, and he had my necklace fixed and returned, and he listens when I tell him things I'd never told anyone else, and he's been learning sign language, and he puts up with all my teaisng, and—"
"And he likes you, too," said Levi.
"And it kills him," she added with a sigh, letting her forehead fall against his outstretched arm. "What the fuck am I doing, Jeans? I don't wanna get in between you and him. He's your best friend, and I don't want you to get angry at him."
"Hey, he and I are good. I'm not angry at him." Levi bent his arm, using the crease of his elbow to pull Elsie in. "You know, I still see you as a kid," he said, eyes closing as her grasp snaked around his torso. "You're my baby sister, and that's not changing, not even fifty years from now. I'll always hate the guys and girls you bring home, because no one could possibly be good enough for you. Except maybe Joe."
Elsie stilled.
"He takes care of you, kid, and he makes you happy." Levi rubbed her back until the tension faded from her muscles. "That's all I could ask for, and I'm sorry that neither of you felt like you could tell me, and I'm sorry for getting all up in your faces about it, and I'm sorry for what I said in the kitchen."
"I love you, Jeans," mumbled Elsie. "But I'm not apologizing for saying you were whoring it out."
Levi smiled to himself. "It's what started this anyway, wasn't it?"
"Oh, yeah," she said easily, pulling away from the hug. "He came up to me after you'd left."
"Opportunistic prick."
Elsie smacked his stomach, earning a pained grunt.
Levi ruffled her hair. "I love you, too, kid. Now, get. I really gotta piss."
Elsie stumbled past the doorframe with a laugh—a soft sound that promptly died on her tongue when she spotted Joseph at the end of the hallway, talking to Matthew by the front door. Her shoulders felt a little lighter, a little less weighed down with guilt and shame and secrecy for who had her wrapped around their finger, but none of that mattered when the person in question had cemented the notion that they could never be.
So, with feet as heavy as lead, she dragged herself over, holding her breath as she walked past him to grab her purse and bid her final farewells to Joseph's family. She came to Joseph and Matthew's side with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers twiddling with the crucifix on her chest like it'd alleviate the tension whorling in her body.
"Do you want me to drive?" asked Joseph.
Elsie loosened her grasp around herself. "No, it's okay. Thank you, though." Her gaze flickered. "So, before my brother comes back, which one of you wants shotgun?"
Matthew's hand shot up. "Dibs!"
Levi eventually made his way over to the sedan parked curbside. Elsie grinned when he went to open the passenger seat door, only to find Matthew there instead. He sighed and stuffed himself into the back beside Joseph, their knees flush against the front seats and spines hunched to avoid smacking their heads against the ceiling. "You need a bigger car."
"I don't normally have three giants in here," she said. "My car is perfect for normal-sized people."
"Whatever happened to that car you said you were gonna buy with my card?" asked Joseph. "Bill never came in for that."
Elsie met his gaze through the rearview mirror and smirked. "Declined when I tried."
Matthew barked out a laugh, and Levi dragged a tired hand down his face, like he was dreading the thought of his sister's teasing infiltrating his best friend's life. Maybe his protectiveness had been all screwed up, twisted to shield the wrong person; maybe he should've been protecting Joseph from Elsie instead.
Levi's apartment had been the first stop, the closest to the suburbs out of the three of them.
"Don't worry about tomorrow," he told her. "I'll catch an Uber or something or have Mom and Dad pick me up on their way to the game."
"You sure, Jeans?"
Levi nodded, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He had nearly slipped out of the car when he turned his head. "You know, I should've said this earlier, but you two seem to forget that I studied music at Juilliard." His face twisted. "You absolute freaks. That's what gave you away."
"Get out of my car," Elsie said, cheeks flamed.
"Alright, see you tomorrow!" Joseph reached over and closed the door, muffling Levi's laughter as he waved and headed inside. "Hit the gas, Els."
"One step ahead of you."
In the silent hum of the night, tires trekking over the asphalt into the depths of the city, Matthew's fingers tapped against the center console. "So...you two...when did that, you know..."
Joseph hid his face in his hands. "Oh, God."
"Good going, Matt," said Elsie. "You've got the ol' saint saying the Lord's name in vain."
"Jesus, Els."
"Sorry." She smiled sheepishly before going on some tangent that managed to distract Matthew for long enough.
Matthew thanked her for the ride once she pulled into the hotel lobby, receiving a kind smile in return.
"Hey, you go ahead," Joseph told him. The passenger side door closed gently, and Joseph slid to the middle, leaning his forearms against the center console, eyes carefully tracing the side of Elsie's face—the slight tilt of her head to look at him, the slow drag of her eyelids over her eyes, the straightened line of her lips. "Stay the night. You're tired."
"I'll be fine," she said. "It's a ten-minute drive at most."
Joseph sucked in a sharp breath. "Let me rephrase that: Stay. Because I want you to."
Elsie wanted to cave—because this sort of admission had seemed impossible all those months ago—but she couldn't get the image out of her head, the pained twist of his face when he thought of her, the casualness with which he brushed her off when her brother was around. "Have you reconciled with the fact that you like me?"
"Yeah, I have," he said easily. "I like you a lot, Elsie Rivers, and I want to be with you, if you'll have me."
"Are you saying that because my brother says he's okay with it?"
"It certainly helps," he said, "but no. I was planning on asking you out while I was home—tomorrow, mostly, but tonight works, too."
Elsie pursed her lips, ponderous. This was all she wanted, wasn't it? After all these months, it could finally happen, free of the shackles that'd tied them with guilt. She could have what she wanted, could even have a hand at a relationship that the Church would bless. Why should she deprive herself of such a thing when it was practically begging on its hands and knees?
After all, hadn't she always been a greedy little thing?
Joseph silently watched as she reached across for the glove box, browsing its contents.
"You're lucky I have a spare charger in here. Now, move up front; I feel like a chauffeur."
Joseph was there in a split second.
The ride up the elevator felt too long, steeped in silence that grew thick until Joseph let his hand brush against hers; then, it was calm. Elsie glanced at the small space between them, then turned her palm out, smiling to herself when he twined their fingers together.
For only a moment, the room was shrouded in darkness, and Elsie hoped the whir of the air conditioner masked the ferocity with which her heart pounded. She followed him in, thanked him when he gave her some clothes to change into, and locked herself in the bathroom.
Not even the coldest water from the faucet could clear her mind. It was incredible how easily he'd reduced her to a nervous wreck.
"I can't breathe."
Joseph's head shot up from the mountain of pillows on the bed. "What?"
Elsie plopped her clothes over her purse near a corner of the room. "My heart's beating so quickly, I think it might actually jump out of my chest, and my hands won't stop shaking, and I'm starting to sweat, and—" She inhaled deeply. "I just never thought this would happen. I mean, are you sure you want me?" she asked, somewhat pitifully. "Ever since Toronto, I kept going back and forth between wanting to tempt you into betraying everything that makes you you, and accepting that it would never lead anywhere, that I was just being a stupid kid trying to seduce the lifeguard at the pool all over again, that this was just a little crush I needed to get over."
Joseph climbed out of bed, scrambling to reach her. His hand carefully slotted against her jaw, feeling the warm skin and thunderous rushing of her blood beneath his fingers. "Please don't get over it," he said, eyes flickering between hers, catching the subtle dilation and contraction of her pupils. "I want you, Els. I want you so bad, it scares me. I thought I fucked it all up tonight—with you, with Levi—and I'm sorry for putting you through the wringer while I came to terms with it."
A loud gulp constricted her throat, her trembling hands gliding over his chest and nestling into the hairs near the nape of his neck. Her heart stammered when he leaned into her touch, like he was entirely at her mercy.
"I forgive you," she whispered.
Joseph breathed a little heavier now, pulse throbbing in his throat. He leaned in, like he wanted to show his gratefulness in a million little kisses across her skin, before he stopped just shy of her lips. "It's your move."
"Hey, that's my line. You can't steal my line."
"What're you gonna do about it?"
The corner of Elsie's mouth twitched before their lips met—softly, at first, then again in a rushed and messy collision, all teeth and tongue and desperation. A gasp sliced through the air when her back hit the wall.
"Fuck," he groaned into her mouth when her fingers tangled in his hair.
"Knew you had a filthy mouth behind all that sweet talk," she said as he dragged his lips down her neck, nipping a path but not sharp enough to leave any marks.
"Jump." Joseph easily caught her as her legs wrapped around his waist, his large hands sprawled along the underside of her thighs. He blindly walked them away from the wall, cursing, when his toe stubbed against one of the legs supporting the bed.
Elsie erupted in laughter at how quickly Joseph had dropped her onto the mattress, his balance knocked off-center until he had no other choice but to fall atop her.
"Fuck, that actually hurts," he said, laughter leaking into his tone.
"The poor bed," she joked, hands gently cradling his face. Her breaths slowed as she glanced at his lips, a gently bitten pink, before bringing him in for another kiss—softer, this time, less urgent and desperate, less frenzied, like everything had started to quiet.
Joseph pulled away only to tug his shirt off, revealing the ridges of toned muscle and the smattering of hair that dipped beneath his pants.
"You should go tarps off in an interview one day," she said, looping her arms around his neck as he came back down. Her legs twined around his hips, and she felt him shiver as her cold hands found his back, mapping out the texture and dips and curves of his body.
"How do you know I haven't?" he asked, lips tracing a path from the collar of her shirt and up her neck, past the delicate necklace that abhorred the thoughts running through his mind.
"Trust me," she whispered, "I would know."
Joseph amusedly raised his eyebrows, a chuckle rolling off his tongue when she looped her finger around his chain to kiss him again. By then, they'd lost the feverish rush and simmered in something gentler, something as patient as the feelings they'd stewed on for months.
"Can I take you out for breakfast tomorrow?" he asked between kisses, fingers laced with hers beside her head like he needed to anchor himself to the moment.
"I was wondering if you were gonna bring that up before or after you fucked me," she said.
Joseph hid his face against the crook of her neck, his shoulders shaking with laughter.
"I'm being so serious right now." But even Elsie couldn't stop herself from joining in.
"See, I was getting the impression that sex wasn't on the table tonight," he said, his palm smoothing over the skin of her thigh, creeping up her hip and under her shirt to hold her ribs. He was met with a soft sigh as his thumb caressed her, and her eyes slipped shut, struggled to open back up. That only strengthened his belief. "You can barely keep your eyes open."
Elsie smiled, slow and lazy, staring into his too-blue eyes with a loud fondness. She couldn't stop herself from brushing her thumb along the ends of his eyelashes, feeling them flutter gently. She leaned up to connect their lips, like she never wanted to deprive herself of feeling them ever again. "Breakfast sounds good."
"Good," hummed Joseph. He pulled away slightly, still close enough that their noses could brush, still close enough to greedily pick apart every detail of her face. "You're so fucking beautiful."
With beet-red cheeks, Elsie bit her lip, as though she thought just showing how wide her smile wanted to be would scare him off, and looked away.
"Oh, you're shy now?"
"It's different when it's from you," she said, pushing a loose lock of hair out of his face. "It's actually so embarrassing how shy and giddy you make me."
"It's cute," he said, kissing the corner of her mouth, then the tip of her nose, then her cheek, his stubble scratching against her skin in the most perfect way.
"Did you really think you fucked it up tonight?"
Joseph pushed his tongue against his cheek, nodding. "I did," he said. "I thought you'd had enough of the way I'd been treating you these past few months, and—"
"How have you been treating me?" asked Elsie. "Because I remember you taking care of me and my best friend. I remember you listening to me at church. I remember the happy birthday text at midnight. I remember the times you've checked up on me, over the phone or in person."
"I've been mean, Els," he said. "Don't pretend like I haven't been. Pushing you away when it felt a little too real, or when your brother was around, or when that little voice in my head cursed at me for thinking about you. I've seen the frowns, so has your brother, and that's why he cornered me in the kitchen, and after that, I thought I'd lost my best friend and any chance with you."
Elsie's stare lingered, her chest rising and falling gently against his, quiet and minty breaths calm as they hit his face. "You're never going to lose Levi; there has never been a Levi Rivers without a Joseph Woll. He was just being my brother," she said, thumb brushing over his lip. "And you're right: The good doesn't erase the bad, but are you gonna go cold on me again?"
Joseph shook his head. "Never," he said. "I want you, and I'll never let anything come between that."
A slow grin danced across Elsie's face. "Then that's all I care about."
She nudged her leg into his hip, pushing him onto his back. He looked pretty like this—beneath her, wide eyes staring up at her, swollen lips parted to let his ragged breaths through, his hair tousled from the way she'd played with it, his hands holding her steady against him. Hands raking up his torso, she leaned down and let her lips drag over his chest, neck, and jaw, committing it all to memory.
Joseph tightened his hold around her waist, a contented sigh shedding weight from his soul as she melted into his grasp. He thought he could stay like this for the rest of his days—with Elsie in his arms, her legs tangled with his, her finger tracing amorphous blobs along his skin.
Propping her chin on his chest, she innocently batted her eyelashes. "Can I ask you to grab the charger for my implants?"
He squeezed her waist before gently maneuvering her aside. "Give me a second," he said, lips soft against her forehead. "I'll be back."
Elsie kept her eyes trained on his back—the muscles that rippled with each swing of his arms—as he walked to the bathroom. The door closed behind him, and her body collapsed against the mattress with a smile that burned her cheeks as she stared at the ceiling. It took everything in her to keep her squeal in.
Joseph returned with his glasses on. Amusement knit through his face when he found her with her teeth digging into her fist. "You okay?"
An affirmative hum sounded. "Just giddy."
"I see that," he said with a laugh, turning to the TV stand, where a cable rested tangled on the surface. He settled on the side of the bed as Elsie braced herself on her forearm, squeezing into the space between his arm and ribs, humming when he made room for her.
"Wanna get your last words in before I take these suckers off?" she asked.
"Hardly my last words," he signed.
"You're gonna regret learning sign language," she said. "Set yourself up for a whole new world of shit my brother will say in public."
Joseph breathed out a laugh through his nose. "Mr. Pottymouth right there. We all know where you learned your vibrant vocabulary."
Elsie smiled. She reached for the external pieces on the sides of her head, but before she could pluck them off, Joseph's voice rang through.
"Wait, one last thing," he said, earning an inquisitive stare that widened her eyes like a doe. "I think the hair's cool. I didn't get to tell you that earlier."
A moment passed. Elsie reached for the underside of her hair, blue strands twirling around her finger. Her mouth curved upward.
She snatched her implants off, and the world went blissfully silent.
There was no whirring of the air conditioner, no rare honk from outside, no rustling of the sheets beneath them, not even the rush of blood in her head. But she felt them—felt the hum of night rumble through the walls, in the springs of the mattress, in the fibres of her clothes.
It was a sensation she wasn't sure she could describe—not quite nothingness, but perhaps something like a hollow oblivion.
Joseph watched intently as Elsie twisted the battery modules off the processor and plugged them into the Y-shaped charging port. There was a flashing green light.
Elsie canted her head slightly, noticed the attentive gleam in his eyes. "It'll be a steady green light when it's fully charged," she said slowly. "Takes about four hours."
Joseph didn't feel embarrassed that he'd been caught watching her—no, now that everything had been left out in the open, he felt very little shame in his actions and thoughts. His bottom lip slipped between his teeth, and he eagerly followed as Elsie shuffled across the bed with a crooked finger.
She had barely dropped her head onto the pillow when he kissed her again, like he couldn't quite get enough of her, not when he'd deprived himself of it for so long. Her hand slotted against his neck and felt the vibrations of a groan against her skin; she could imagine how low and raspy it was as the night draped heavier against them.
Elsie waited for him to slip under the covers before nestling into his side again, her chin set against his chest as she stared up at him. He ran his fingers through her hair, watched her eyes slip shut contentedly, heard the little purr again.
Joseph wondered what it was like—to not hear anything, not even the birds chirping on a calm summer morning, except maybe her stream of consciousness. Maybe he'd grow to hate the silence, constantly seeking any chance he could to have sound wiggle into his head, or maybe he'd grow to love it, the way she had, and maybe he'd even find peace in it.
Toying with his chain, Elsie pushed it around his chest until her fingertips found the heavy thumping of his heart. She laid her palm there, felt the stuttering and racing beat that mirrored the one against her ribcage, feeling the very force that kept him running, kept him alive.
It was an oddly vulnerable thing, something he couldn't hide like he could a smile or glance, but he was alright with that.
Joseph tightened his hold on her, pulled her closer against him like she'd get absorbed into his side and fill the missing spaces in his ribs. His skin prickled as her minty breath fanned against his neck, her lips ghosting over his pulse. She pressed a chaste peck there before shifting, tucking her head under his chin. He'd nearly chuckled, his hand rubbing up and down her back.
The feel of his fingers lightly tracing along her shoulders, her arms, and her neck, as if he were trying to memorize the curves of her body, like he might a new song, had lulled Elsie into a peaceful slumber, the drumming of his heart a steady rhythm against her ear.
In the back of her mind, she might have believed she'd listened to it bouncing around in her skull like a lullaby.
It was a few minutes later when Joseph went to sleep, feeling like his soul had been freed of condemnation.
APRIL
To no one's surprise, Elsie had grown to like Toronto. She wasn't oblivious as to why that'd come to be, but it had become a recurring thought with each growing moment she spent in the city.
"Hey, Els, put your stuff with ours," Camille's father told Elsie as they stood in line in the team shop, the crowds of Scotiabank Arena cramming into the small space. She had not demurred, simply accepted the offer like it'd been her plan the entire time, and Camille spared her an inquisitive glance.
They reached the front of the line, jerseys and other apparel stacked onto the counter, each from Camille, her father, her mother, and her two brothers. Elsie watched the total price rack up, sucking in a deep breath before managing to beat Mathieu at putting her card down.
Mathieu looked affronted. "What is wrong with you?"
"What isn't wrong with her?" Camille teased, only to get reprimanded by her mother.
Elsie felt her face heat up like she was face-to-face with the Sun. "Don't worry about it. It's a small birthday gift for you."
"Small?" Mathieu cried out.
Camille had spied Elsie taking her phone out and sending a quick text. Realization clicked in her head, and her hand shot out to Elsie's bicep, subtly shooting her eyes open, only to receive a cheeky smile in return.
"I'm jealous," said Camille. "You probably snagged up the only good guy in this city."
"It probably helps that he's not from this city," said Elsie. "And you're just saying that because he's been hooking you up with tickets for most of this season."
"Yeah, and thank God for that. My parents now think I'm some hockey god for somehow always finding them decently-priced tickets in the lower bowl."
Elsie laughed.
Max, the eldest of the Charbonneau children, had gaped when they inched closer to the glass, the sound of pucks hitting the boards during warmups loud against the hard bass of the music. "Jesus, Cami, how the hell did you manage to get us all seats here?"
"I didn't this time," she said. "Els did."
"Tell me your ways, Els," said Alexis, childish eyes shimmering with awe.
Elsie staved off a smile as she led the group down the row of seats until they found Levi, who rolled his eyes at the beers in their hands and the bags hanging from their arms like they'd gone on a shopping spree at the mall, but he accepted the drink his sister held out for him.
"You're welcome," she said.
"I believe my thanks go to Joe's card, which, knowing you, I don't know why he trusts you with it."
Elsie scoffed. "At least I thought to use it to buy you something."
Levi grumbled out his gratitude before his eyes raked over Elsie's outfit—the blue marbled sweater she'd worn last time, and the ripped jeans revealing her pirckled skin beneath. "That's his, isn't it? The sweater? I thought it looked familiar. Man, I should've known."
Elsie gave a thin-lipped smile. "Guilty. It's mine now, though."
She set her things down before slipping back into the aisle, gesturing for the young Alexis to follow her. They stood just three steps from the glass, exchanging humorous words, and Elsie wondered if this was how Levi felt when talking to her when he was around her age.
Joseph spotted them from the ice and skated over, shoveling a puck onto the blade of his stick. He waited for a moment before flipping it over the glass, grinning beneath his mask when Elsie caught it and immediately handed it over to Alexis, whose face immediately lit up.
Elsie couldn't hide her fond laughter as Alexis jumped up and down, throwing his arms around her shoulders. Her gaze slid briefly to the ice, catching the wink Joseph sent her before he returned to the net.
"Mom, Dad, look!" Alexis exclaimed, nearly tripping his way down the row of seats with the puck held up high.
Camille mouthed a 'thank you' as Elsie slipped past her, earning a dismissive shake of her head in return.
With the way Elsie had cheered throughout the game, it would've been easy to assume that she'd been a lifelong Leafs fan. Camille was a little bitter that it hadn't been her arduous attempts at convincing her to join the dark side that had done it, but she would not complain when the very reason had been generous to her for most of the season.
Adrenaline coursed through their veins when the final horn blew, sealing a win for the home team against the Oilers. Their voices joined the cacophony of other fans as they made their way through the concourse, and as they went further away from the main crowds and toward the little area with several of the family members, Elsie heard the first hushed comment.
"I don't think we're supposed to be here," said Mathieu.
"Oh, wait, passes!" Camille chucked them out of her bag and handed them to her family.
"Seriously, what is going on?"
Elsie grinned, playing with the ends of her hair, now entirely the same shade of blue as the Leafs. "As I said, it's a small birthday thing."
Mathieu was starting to think his daughter's best friend from college was genuinely insane.
"Bet you've started rethinking giving these two your card," Levi said as Joseph approached them.
Joseph laughed, eyes crinkling softly. "I don't mind," he said, squeezing Elsie's waist and pressing a swift kiss to her temple. "Plus, I heard we had a birthday happening?"
Mathieu had looked like every neuron in his brain had short-circuited. His eyes flipped between Camille, Elsie, Levi, Joseph, then all over again. The rest of his family had looked no better.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Charbonneau," said Joseph, leaning past Elsie to shake his hand.
Mathieu's jaw dropped. "Holy shit, you're Joseph Woll."
Joseph's face had flushed a gentle pink.
"Here." Elsie handed a marker over to Joseph as Camille searched through the bags for something he could sign for her father.
Alexis was the first to break out of the spell ensorcelling his family. "So that's how."
Elsie grabbed his shoulders. "Don't go telling my secret now."
Alexis mimed zipping his lips, grinning when Elsie shot him a wink.
"You know, it's crazy to think that he's just Joe to us," Levi said when his sister came to his side, watching his best friend sign memorabilia and take photos with Camille's family. A twang of pride swelled in his chest as he thought back to their early hockey days in St. Louis—all of the dumb fun they got themselves into, all of the drills ingrained in their heads, all the effort that got Joseph to where he was.
Even though their journeys had led them to very different careers, at some point, their humble beginnings were something they kept dear to them.
Elsie noticed the proud glimmer in her brother's eyes and smiled softly as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She, too, had felt an admiration spark in her chest as she observed from the side, got to see him extend his attentive and caring ways to everyone else, and it only blossomed when his gaze flickered to her, his mouth tugging wider, before he looked away.
"Gross," said Levi, but it wasn't hard to pick out the lack of animosity in his tone.
"The only disgusting thing here is your hair," Camille said as she walked over to them, her lips twisting at the sight of his brassy buzz cut.
Levi gasped out her name in offense.
"She's right, brother dearest." Elsie scrunched her nose condescendingly.
"For the millionth time, I ran out of toner!" he defended.
Elsie snuck away as Camille and Levi bickered back and forth like they'd grown up together. She tucked herself into Joseph's side as he talked to Camille's family, his arm draping around her without missing a beat in conversation.
"So you're the reason why Cami's able to get all these tickets," said Sophie.
"All this guy." Elsie patted Joseph's chest, feeling the rumble of his laughter against her fingertips.
Joseph leaned down slightly, unaware of the kaleidoscope of butterflies he'd set off in her stomach. "If you hurry, I think you'll be able to snag the seat up front before your brother does."
Elsie's gaze snapped up. "Give me your keys."
"Hand over the bags."
They swapped items, and Elsie made her way through her goodbyes, wishing Mathieu a happy birthday, before giving Joseph a quick peck on the lips. She bolted through the throng of family members, then, nearly knocking Matthew over in her haste. Joseph's flushed cheeks puffed out with his suppressed laugh when Matthew looked at him with wild eyes and furrowed brows.
"Well, I suppose that's our sign to go," said Max, clasping his little brother's shoulder. "Thank you for today, Joe."
"Yeah, of course," he said. "Camille's one of Elsie's best friends. I'd do anything they asked."
Sophie snorted. "I'd be careful with saying that. Our Cami can be greedy."
Joseph chuckled because Elsie was no better, and he loved her no less for it.
Camille's family had announced to her that they were leaving, and Levi glanced around.
"Where'd my sister go?" he asked.
Joseph scratched the back of his neck. "Toilet. She'll meet us at the car."
"Liar," Alexis sang under his breath, his mouth splitting into a shit-eating grin when he received a gentle nudge from his favorite hockey player. He would be sure to bother his sister about seeing Joseph more.
Camille commandeered the string of farewells, and Joseph led the way out. One of his eyebrows arched when he spotted Elsie in the distance, not tucked away in his car as he'd expected, but locked in a conversation that drew a wide grin and hearty laugh. With each nearing step, the pillar grew less obstructive, and around the corner, Joseph found Trent on the other end of it.
Elsie's head snapped in the direction of growing voices, and her eyes widened. She seemed to give Trent a barely-there bye and darted further into the parking garage.
"A Leafs fan, dude? I thought you taught your sister better than that," Trent said to Levi, who grumbled and threw Joseph a flippant glare.
Joseph merely smiled, head hanging low.
Trent couldn't loiter for long, and after bartering promises of seeing each other when they were all back home, he ran off to get on the team bus.
"I always forget that you know all these people," Camille told Levi. "You're you, and they're them."
"What's the supposed to mean?" Levi asked, flabbergasted.
"Look in the mirror."
Levi rolled his eyes. "Well, the league could use more people with stupid hair and piercings and dumb Pinterest tattoos."
Joseph nodded slowly. "Could've been you."
"It was either hockey or my sister hearing again. I think I made the right choice," he said nonchalantly, like he hadn't just dropped a heavy piece of himself out into the world.
Something passed through Joseph's face—an understanding of some sort, of what Elsie had said back in the church: It wasn't just her parents who'd given so much for her; it was also Levi, who'd one day quit his team without so much as a reason to anyone, and she'd felt indebted to them all for everything they'd sacrificed to allow her a chance at hearing again, even if some days she wished they never did.
"Seriously?" Levi narrowed his eyes when he found his sister in the passenger seat of Joseph's car.
Joseph could only offer a thin-lipped, apologetic smile and shrug.
"Girlfriend privileges," Camille said.
"She wouldn't be his girlfriend if it weren't for me," said Levi, cramming himself into the back seat, red leather soft to the touch.
"Sorry, Jeans," said Elsie.
"No, you're not."
"No, I'm not."
Joseph passed his phone over to Elsie, oblivious to the soft blush on her face when she noticed the new lock screen background—the selfie she'd forced him to take with her at the same bar they were headed to. It looked worse than she remembered it, blurry and of poor lighting, but she could pick out their smiles, not yet laced with affection in the way they were now, yet fond in ways that spoke of what could be, and what did.
Elsie shook her head, as if ridding herself of all the mushy thoughts in her mind, and went to choose a playlist to fill the silence as they drove out of the parking garage.
The bar was as she remembered it to be—loud, busy, trembling with music and laughter against its walls. Elsie and Camille had run off to the bartenders, taking their first round of shots, face curling as the flaming liquid raced down their throats.
Joseph's eyes were a welcome weight against her body as she and Camille bounced between the dance floor and the bar, much less stained with a curling green monster she'd finally got him to admit to housing that very first night.
"You're back, eh?"
Elsie turned her head and burst out in laughter when she met Hailey's eyes.
"Your boy's not gonna jump me for talking to you, is he?" she asked, tossing a glance across the bar. "I'm not really in the mood to be on an NHLer's bad side today."
"You know, he's probably the least scary person on the team."
"I don't know," Hailey said with inflection. "I've watched enough games to catch the times he's lost his cool on the ice."
Elsie smiled with a small huff.
Hailey returned the smile before tilting her drink toward Elsie, as if to excuse herself, then to an observing Joseph, an unspoken truce. She disappeared into the crowd not long after.
Camille had long gotten lost in the tangle of bodies when Elsie tried to find her again, and she soon gave up. She figured her best friend would show face once she was ready for another drink or to leave, and so she sauntered over to Joseph.
"—leave for the night," Levi had said.
Elsie raised an eyebrow, hand gliding over Joseph's shoulder as she nestled into his side. His touch was light, yet firm, against the dip of her spine. "Ditching us already, Jeans?"
"Just in time, actually," he said, eyes flickering between them before looking over his shoulder.
Following his gaze, Elsie's own softened when she found the guy waiting by the door, his posture reeking of nothing but nervousness. She grabbed her brother's shoulder, gently nudging him away. "Go. Just send me a text of something, so I know you're not dead."
Levi saluted her, his serious expression fading with a laugh. He kissed her cheek. "Camille's on a table, by the way."
"She'll be okay," said Elsie, waving her brother away.
Joseph tightened his hold on Elsie's waist, managing to trade their places on the stool he'd been sitting on in one fell swoop. His stomach fluttered at the sound of her laughter, and again at the look she gave him—tender, despite the rambunctious air around them, and devout, like he was the sun at the center of the solar system she orbited.
"Thank you for today," she said, winding her arms around his neck. "For having me and my brother, for having Camille's family. I think you made their year."
"You and Camille did," he said, pressing his lips against her bicep. "You were the ones to think of it."
"But it wouldn't have worked out if it weren't for you, so thank you, and thank you for this."
Joseph plucked his card from her fingers, swiftly putting it away. "You really don't have to thank me. You know I'd do anything you asked."
"You should learn to tell me no one day," she said.
Joseph hummed, sounding inauthentic in his pondering. "No."
Elsie's expression turned wry. "Funny."
A smile danced along his lips.
The night had slipped from them, the hours bleeding into the early morning before they had made it back to Joseph's car. Camille was safely strapped into the back seat, and Elsie had curled up in the passenger seat, tired eyes locked on Joseph as he steered through the city, one hand interlocked with hers.
Music gently hummed in the background, and Elsie unconsciously drew shapes into his forearm to the beat of the song.
"I'm getting major déjà vu right now," she said. "A few months ago, you would've hated yourself for this."
"I didn't hate myself—" Joseph felt the look he was getting from her. "Yeah, I would've."
Elsie playfully punched his arm. "Look at that. Growth."
Joseph squeezed her thigh, his lips peeling back into a pearly smile as her laughter echoed softly through the air. "As long as you didn't think I hated you."
"I know you didn't," she said, leaning forward to kiss his shoulder. "You were so into me, you creep."
Putting Camille to sleep had been easy this time around, and with a glass of water on her bedside table, Elsie and Joseph left her alone. The door closed with a soft click, masking the exhausted snores rippling from deep within the room.
A simple slant came to Elsie's lips, one that didn't quite carry any of the haughtiness a smirk did, as Joseph's arms bracketed her against the kitchen counter. Her heart flipped in her chest, disturbed the electrical pulses that kept each pump of blood steady, under his watchful and tender stare. "It's your move."
Joseph chuckled, leaning forward, sure of every move as he kissed her.
Yeah, he didn't know why he ever thought he could deprive himself of what felt like the closest coming of heaven on earth.
alright buckle up everyone because i finally came to terms with my decision:
i will not be writing for players on the 2026 men’s olympic team. there will be no new fics for them. however, the ones that are posted will remain posted, even if i feel a little sick every time a notification comes in for them. they’re out there, they’re written, i have no qualms about that.
i still have fics for players on that team that haven’t been reuploaded yet from when i went ghost. i will still have them posted on ao3 for archival purposes.
TMS will get updated only on ao3 for the same reason, as i can change the dates to the original publishing dates from 2023/24 (i know tumblr allows me to do that too but only one platform serves as an archive so......). i put in a lot of time and effort into the story, and it pains me to see it marred by everything, but i’m still proud to have finished it. since it is a completed story, i don’t feel as bad about having it out there as barely anyone will interact with it anymore anyway as most of you know how it goes.
evidently, i haven’t come up with many new stories lately, but i have two on my drive that i really, really wanna get out there, so bear with me. i’ll try to get those completed and out there. what happens after is still beyond me, but here's a little hint for what you can expect: nh13 & jw60 :)
okay i think that’s everything i wanted to say. sorry if i’ve disappointed some of you, but i think it’s a relatively win-win solution.
content: 18+ mdni, widow!jack abbot, fake dating, sexually explicit content, age gap, discussions of miscarriage, discussions of surgical miscarriage, discussions of infidelity, dysfunctional family, discussions of divorce, wedding, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, mild violence, some named family members and ex significant other
words: 26.7k
synopsis: when the wedding invitation arrives for your ex husband's marriage to your little sister, you're tempted to set fire to your entire life. your attending, jack abbot, has other ideas.
a/n: i had a blast writing this all the drama all the love all the hurt all the pining!! it's been a while since i wrote something for jack and i'm really happy to be putting this out just in time for dr abbot to be back on our tv screens!! title is based on the song me before you by bleachers. i hope you love it <3 syd (also i know i did not edit this well so i apologize in advance for the typos)
The night had already started off badly enough before you checked the mail. You'd slept through three alarms, stubbed your toe on the dresser in your rush to get dressed, and burnt your coffee all before leaving your apartment. In hindsight, you should have left the overflowing mailbox alone on your way out. You wished you could have foreseen how yanking all the pieces of mail out of the small black box that hung by the door would ruin your whole shift. Would ruin your whole week, really.
Getting into your car, you had tossed the mail into the passenger seat. It wasn't until you were stopped at a light about five minutes away from the hospital that you caught sight of the envelope. Pastel pink bows and your name etched in cursive.
Your heart dropped, eyes glued to the envelope, the rest of your body locking up, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"
Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.
After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?
Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.
Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.
Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.
She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."
"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"
Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"
"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"
"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."
"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"
"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."
You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."
Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."
"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.
"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."
You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."
You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."
"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."
As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.
You sighed, "shit."
As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.
But that wouldn't stop you from trying.
"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"
"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"
She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.
You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.
"Yes."
You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.
"That's it?"
You shrugged, "Yes."
He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."
"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."
"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"
You sighed, "Yes."
He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."
"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."
"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"
You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."
"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.
"I won't," you called back.
Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"
Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."
He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"
"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."
He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."
Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."
Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.
"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.
"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."
Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.
"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"
"You got it."
***
You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.
Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.
"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"
"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."
"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"
Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."
It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.
"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.
You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."
"What is going on with you?"
"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"
"You're too good for triage?"
"I know you're doing it to punish me—"
"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"
"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"
He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."
You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.
But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.
Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.
"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."
"Not now, later."
You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."
"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."
His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"
You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"
"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."
You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."
He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."
You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.
"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."
You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."
You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."
"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."
You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.
You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.
How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.
He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.
In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.
And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.
"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."
You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"
"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."
You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."
"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."
You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."
At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."
You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"
You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."
He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"
He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.
"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."
His grin widened, "Atta girl."
And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.
***
The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.
After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."
Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."
He frowned, "What was that?"
"What?"
"Did you just apologize to me?"
The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."
"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."
You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."
The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"
You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"
"Your sister's wedding."
You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."
His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"
You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."
Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.
"If you don't go, they win."
You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."
He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."
"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"
You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"
He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."
Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"
Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."
You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"
He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."
You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"
He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."
You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."
"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"
You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."
After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.
"I left my car at the hospital."
He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."
As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"
Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."
His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"
You snorted, "Seriously?"
He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."
Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."
"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.
You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.
But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.
"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.
Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.
You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"
"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."
"Mom—"
"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"
"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."
"He seemed nice. Handsome."
You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."
Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."
Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.
Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.
You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.
***
You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.
When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"
You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.
You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"
"You think I didn't already think of all this?"
He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.
You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"
He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."
You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.
He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.
You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"
"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.
"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."
He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"
You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."
The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."
You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."
He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."
You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.
***
As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.
You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.
"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."
It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.
"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.
"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."
Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.
But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.
Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.
You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.
When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"
You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."
"Yes you can and yes you are."
"Abbot—"
"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."
You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.
He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"
You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."
He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"
Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."
You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"
You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.
"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."
***
As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—
"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.
He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"
You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."
After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"
You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."
He frowned, "What about your parents?"
"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."
His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"
You nodded, "Yep."
"And they're… Fine with that?"
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."
Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"
"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."
He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."
You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."
After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."
You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?
So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.
***
A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.
You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.
What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.
He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.
And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.
He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."
You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"
"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."
He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."
Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."
"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.
He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."
"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."
"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.
He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.
"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.
"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?
"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.
"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."
He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.
But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."
Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.
"Mom, you remember Jack."
He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.
"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."
"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."
You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.
"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."
You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"
"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."
You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"
Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."
"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."
Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.
"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"
"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."
The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."
You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.
Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—
"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"
You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.
"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"
"Your cane or crutches or something—"
He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."
"But—"
"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"
You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.
Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.
"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.
He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."
"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."
Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."
"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."
Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.
"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."
"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"
Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"
You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"
"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."
You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"
Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."
You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."
Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."
You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."
He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.
"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.
***
Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.
A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.
No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.
Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.
There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.
So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.
Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.
So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.
That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.
You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.
You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?
You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.
***
"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."
Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.
"Do you need to sit down?"
You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.
Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.
"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."
You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."
"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"
"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."
Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"
Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.
Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"
Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."
"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"
You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.
"Could you kiss me, you think?"
Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"
Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.
Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.
It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.
"What do you think? Did it work?"
You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."
Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"
You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"
Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."
You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."
Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.
Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.
But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.
Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.
And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.
"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."
You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.
Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."
You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."
Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"
"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"
He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.
But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.
It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.
***
"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"
Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.
You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.
The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.
You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.
Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.
And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.
"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."
She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.
"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."
Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."
You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."
She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."
Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"
"You're lying!"
"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."
Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"
"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"
"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."
There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.
You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"
"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"
You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."
You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.
Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"
She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."
The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.
"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."
Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.
But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.
"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"
Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.
So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.
"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.
You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."
Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."
You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.
"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.
"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."
When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"
"That's not true—"
"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."
The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.
"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.
In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.
"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."
You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"
"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."
You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."
His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"
He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."
Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."
His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"
You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."
With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.
***
"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."
Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.
"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.
You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."
Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."
You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.
"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"
A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."
For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.
"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.
"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"
You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.
But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.
You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.
***
Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.
But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.
"So, when're you gonna tell her?"
Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.
"Sorry?"
"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"
Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."
Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."
Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."
"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."
He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."
Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."
Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.
He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.
He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.
You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.
***
After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.
Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.
You bit your lip, "Can I help?"
He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"
"I want to. Please."
He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.
You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.
He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"
"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"
He nodded, "Much."
You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.
You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."
He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."
You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."
"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."
You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.
"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."
"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."
He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"
He nodded slowly, "'Course."
As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.
When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.
He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.
***
Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.
When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.
"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.
Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.
You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.
In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.
As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.
The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.
You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.
"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.
"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.
"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."
He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.
"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."
"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."
He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."
You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"
He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."
"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."
As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.
"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."
For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.
You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.
"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"
You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."
That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."
You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.
***
Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.
But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.
He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.
You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.
But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.
When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.
You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.
He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."
David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."
Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."
For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."
When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.
"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.
"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.
You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."
"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"
He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."
"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"
Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."
He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."
You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.
"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"
Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.
"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."
You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."
Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.
"I don't need you picking me apart as well."
He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."
You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"
Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."
There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.
Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.
"Jack?"
"Hm?"
"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."
His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."
He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."
It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.
Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.
But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?
Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"
Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.
You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."
***
Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.
His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.
It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.
He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.
The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.
But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.
When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.
You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.
Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.
When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—
"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.
Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"
You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.
Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.
There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.
But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.
And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.
He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.
"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—
"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"
Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.
Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.
"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"
"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.
"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."
He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.
This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.
At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.
Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?
But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.
After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"
When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.
"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.
"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."
You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.
"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"
He sighed, "That was out of line—"
You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."
Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."
When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.
He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.
You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.
"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think…Could you hold me?"
Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.
You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.
He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.
When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."
He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.
***
Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.
As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.
Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.
You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.
"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.
"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"
"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"
He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"
You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."
He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"
You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"
He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."
You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."
Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"
You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."
He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."
You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.
"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.
Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."
Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.
"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.
Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"
"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."
You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.
And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.
His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."
***
The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.
The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.
Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.
"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"
"Jack—"
"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"
Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"
You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"
He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"
You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."
He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."
You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."
"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"
You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.
After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.
Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."
You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"
His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.
As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.
"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."
Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?
***
You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.
"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.
You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."
And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.
You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.
"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.
You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."
Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."
You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."
You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.
"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."
You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.
Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."
"I'm just trying to help—"
"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.
She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."
You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"
"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"
"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"
"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"
You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"
"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"
"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"
"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"
It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.
"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.
Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.
"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.
"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.
"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.
"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.
Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"
"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.
David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"
You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.
"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"
"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."
David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"
Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"
"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"
"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."
"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."
You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."
"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"
Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."
"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.
You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.
And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.
You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.
You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"
Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.
You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.
"You can talk to me right here."
Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"
"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"
"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"
You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.
Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."
You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."
You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.
You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.
It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.
Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—
"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."
Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.
"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."
Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"
You frowned, "But I—"
"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."
You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."
***
Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.
When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."
David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."
Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"
Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."
Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."
With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.
There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.
"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"
She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."
Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"
God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."
Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"
Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."
She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."
Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."
***
You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.
You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.
It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.
It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.
And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.
So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.
For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"
"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."
You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.
It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.
"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.
"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"
He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"
You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."
His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"
"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."
"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"
"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."
Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"
"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."
You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.
"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"
"Yes."
He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"
You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"
He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"
"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."
His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"
He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.
"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.
Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.
"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."
Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.
You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.
The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.
Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.
So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.
***
Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.
On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.
"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."
Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"
"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."
Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."
She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."
Jack frowned, "I don't follow."
Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."
She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.
He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.
He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.
Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.
The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
The third night, he snapped.
"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"
"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"
Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."
He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.
As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.
He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.
When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.
You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.
"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"
Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.
You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"
"I'm sick."
Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."
You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."
He tilted his head, "You don't?"
Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"
"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"
"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"
"Scared of what, honey?"
Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."
Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.
"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"
"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."
You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"
He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."
You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."
He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.
With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"
You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."
He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."
You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."
Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.
He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.
"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.
He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."
"Where are we going?"
"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.
He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.
Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.
"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.
"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."
"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"
You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."
He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"
"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"
He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."
***
It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.
You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.
Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.
"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.
His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"
You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."
His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.
Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.
Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.
Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.
When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.
His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.
"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."
Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.
"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"
"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."
There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."
As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"
"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."
"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"
Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"
"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."
You nodded, "Me too."
He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."
Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."
He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."
Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.
"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.
When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.
He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.
Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"
Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.
After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.
He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."
Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.
With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.
You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."
Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."
You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."
You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"
You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.
"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.
You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."
His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.
With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."
Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.
He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"
"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."
He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.
As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.
The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"
You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"
"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."
For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.
Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."
***
With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.
"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"
You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."
He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."
"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."
He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."
As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.
With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.
Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.
Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."
Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."
For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot was looking forward to the sun rising and a new day beginning.
Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”
Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.
Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍
Masterlist
And I could see you being my addiction
You can see me as a secret mission
Jack Abbot needed something sweet.
That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.
Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Whatever.
He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack.
He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform.
“Evening, sir,” she greeted.
“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.
“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle.
“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.”
“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?”
“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?”
The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy.
“Sure.”
She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen.
You needed a stress reliever.
You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow.
New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are.
The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–
Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take.
An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all?
Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.
You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”
“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you.
“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in.
“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time.
His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message.
Come on, play it cool.
“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”
Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?
From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes.
He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble.
“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life.
“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.
He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”
Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going.
“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again.
“Can we get another spoon, please?”
“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over.
He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.
“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”
You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.
“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it.
“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”
“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”
You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off.
Jack shifts in his seat.
“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”
“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.
“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite.
Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying.
“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.
“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.
“Designated driver?”
“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five.
“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.
His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger.
“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you.
“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.
“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone.
“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle.
“You’re staying here?”
“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”
“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”
“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”
He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”
From there, the conversation just flows.
At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool.
And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already.
This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.
Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you.
Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too.
You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.
“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”
For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.
“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps.
Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him.
He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest.
You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both.
You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full.
“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…”
“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused.
Your face warms–again–at the implication.
The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut.
Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant.
You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it.
His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn.
“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.
He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?”
You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there.
So you ogle him too.
He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.
He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room.
“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.
“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”
You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second.
“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.
“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”
You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”
You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is.
His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”
“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him.
You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.
“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him.
He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you.
“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat.
You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp.
“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”
You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you.
“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again.
“Jack I–fuck.”
He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more.
“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”
You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”
“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”
The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different.
You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind.
“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence.
“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster.
When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–
“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”
Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance.
“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”
There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”
He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment.
The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real.
He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.
“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap.
Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.
The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.
“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants.
He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out.
“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way.
And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you.
“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.
You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control.
“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.
The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy.
“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.
He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers.
His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you.
You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.
“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap.
“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.”
You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.
And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours.
“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”
Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy.
It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.
And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.
“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”
You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up.
After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.
“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”
As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you.
Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back.
Fuck it.
Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet.
“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?”
“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”
Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth.
You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair.
“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat.
Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off.
“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh.
“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed.
“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.
He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore.
“Shit.”
“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you.
He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw.
God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him?
Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.
“What?” you ask.
“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”
“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”
“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”
“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this.
He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.
You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.
With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check.
You’re ready to kick ass and save lives.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong.
You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.
You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls.
You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.
Perfect.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”
“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”
“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”
“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly.
You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”
“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”
Oh no.
“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.”
You consider faking your own death.
All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton.
“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”
Redacted.
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”
“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”
“No.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.”
“Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No. I swear, I’m okay.”
“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”
“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”
“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”
“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”
“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds.
“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.”
Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then.
Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye.
All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest.
For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you.
Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms.
Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.
No. No way. Absolutely not.
You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.
You want to die.
“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams.
“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”
Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.
“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay.
“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.
You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.
“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.
He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop?
I might just fake a seizure right now.
“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”
It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.
“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in.
Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word.
Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in.
“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”
“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile.
The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.
“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment.
He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”
Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat.
“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say.
“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”
“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”
“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.
This is the moment you start panicking for real.
“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“
“Whoa okay, no one’s getting killed or fired today. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”
That. Fucking. Tone.
“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”
“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”
You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it.
“What is that?”
“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.”
“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter.
“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”
You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.
“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”
You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head.
“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”
He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.
“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead.
Best sex of your life.
Worst coincidence of your career.
And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨
Please don’t abandon the series!! Even though I am upset with the Hughes as a whole, myself personally I feel like this little Tumblr world is so different then any other app and I would hate to see any writer stop doing what they love because the faceclaim/base of the story is a bad person in real life. At the end of the day it’s all just fiction but I know for a fact people (including myself) would continue to read your amazing work!!
i'm glad to see that you love the story and would continue reading it if i were to keep posting. it's been a few days since i saw this ask come in, and i still haven't come to a decision on what i'll end up doing because frankly, i still can't stomach looking at/thinking about writing for them. but i'll definitely keep your thoughts in mind :)
conflicted between finishing editing and reuploading tms because it's a completed story and i'm proud to have attempted and finished that story or if i abandon it entirely
janainaart
dailybridgerton
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
stormborns
kaledo-art
blakekathryn
dededos
baratheonpilled
