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001. MY GUIDELINES

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[yoursinfulurges]

Touch Me

Introduction:

Dex was unfamiliar with the concept of physical touch and romance until he begins dating a seamstress that has rendered him desperately hungry for more, and he begins to understand why most people found dating enjoyable.

CW: SMUT, Fluff, implied that he's older, readers features are never stated, no use of Y/N, inexperienced Dex but it's not stated, he's a freak. HE'S FILTHYYYY!!!!

Word Count: 7k

AN: I don't have a dad so that probably explains why I like Dex so much... Dex having no play is cannon here.

To Dex, the physical topography of another human being had always been a calculus of vulnerability. His mind was a machine, capable of mapping the dimensions of an enclosed space within milliseconds and identifying the precise trajectory required to sever an artery. He understood the mechanics of the anatomy; he knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a collarbone or drop a grown man to his knees. But touch and affection? Affection was a foreign, deeply distressing dialect. It was a sensory input that rendered his internal programming entirely mute. He knew every ligament in the body, where to assault to cause torment but God forbid he uses his hands for softness.

There was a profound, quiet irony in a man of his age and lethal competence being so utterly paralyzed by the simple proximity of soft skin. Hell, he almost pitied himself for it. For decades, the concept of a romantic relationship hadn’t been relegated in his mind. It had been buried beneath layers of institutional survival, psychological trauma, and the crushing weight of an existence spent entirely on the defensive. Dex was not a lover and he had never been, affection and care was unnatural to him.

He could still recall the sharp, sterile scent of the office belonging to his first therapist, the singular human anchor he had at the fragile age of sixteen. He had cared for her, though his developing mind lacked the emotional framework to define what care actually meant. To Dex, care was synonymous with structure. It was the methodical way she re-aligned his straying thoughts, the unnatural patience she extended far beyond the boundaries of her hourly compensation. That was the closest Dex ever got to care. And when death claimed her, his internal architecture had shattered into something feral and defensive. Standing beside her hospital bed, looking down at her failing form, he had chosen to weaponize his grief, hissing that he hated her. He didn’t hate her for who she was, but for the betrayal of leaving him entirely alone in a world without parameters. After that care became just another word without meaning to him.

Then came Julie.

Julie had been an exercise in aesthetic symmetry. She was safe, correct, and perfectly aligned with the script he desperately tried to perform. Dex had cared for her in the same detached, appreciative manner you might have for a beautiful painting in a museum. Admired from a calculated, safe distance, entirely devoid of genuine visceral heat or want. He never wanted Julie, despite how it might have looked, Dex wanted to be her. How easily life came to her was just so fascinating to a man like him. He remembered the exact moment she had offered him a farewell hug at the Suicide Hotline Center, just before he transitioned into the stark world of the Bureau.

The physical contact had been an absolute shock to his nervous system. And he remembers it even now years later. First came the ice, a sudden, freezing sensation that trickled down his spine the precise millisecond her palms pressed against his biceps, his body mistaking the gesture for an ambush. His muscles had coiled instantly like overwound springs, his vertebrae stiffening in a violent protest against the proximity. But then, right before he could pull away, the ice had thawed into an invasive, confusing warmth. Before his mind could categorize or fixate on the sensation, she had already retreated, leaving him standing in the corridor, thoroughly deregulated by a three-second interaction.

That brief, fleeting embrace had been the absolute zenith of his experience with physical intimacy. Dex didn't do hugs, or anything else for that matter… His subsequent, half-hearted attempts at dating in his early twenties had been a disastrous blur, locked away like radioactive material in the darker corridors of his subconscious. The entire experience had felt extremely uncomfortable, unfulfilling, and complicated in ways that insulted his intelligence.

The sheer volume of unwritten variables was maddening. He had to speak enough to demonstrate engagement, but not so much to appear self-absorbed. Connection required vulnerability, but a fraction too much was classified as forward or desperate. He couldn't request another date too quickly or too frequently without crossing into the territory of predatory. Touch was a minefield; it was deemed acceptable only if initiated by the woman, yet society dictated that a man should assert dominance and assume leadership. Hold her hand, the script said, but don't apply too much pressure to suggest control. Open the door for her, but don't infantilize her or imply incompetence.

By his third official date, Dex had quietly withdrawn from the field entirely. The sheer unpredictability of the social ritual was entirely too volatile for his psychology to parse. He vividly recalled sitting across a woman in a dimly lit restaurant, completely incapable of processing a single syllable falling from her lips because his entire focus had been hijacked by a fork. Her elbow had accidentally nudged the cutlery, leaving it misaligned by less than half an inch from the knife. The asymmetry had screamed in his mind like a siren, drowning out her voice, preventing him from formulating the carefully curated, charming responses necessary to foster romantic banter. He had stared at the silver, suffocated by the lack of order, and realized he was entirely unfit for the performance.

So, he surrendered the idea. He locked his focus onto the FBI, dedicating his life to a rigid, bureaucratic institution that allowed him to believe he was doing good for society while keeping his demons safely behind bars. Years had dissolved into the background of that singular pursuit, and the concept of dating became an obsolete idea of a past life.

Even more now that his world had been violently upended; he had broken out of the prisons meant to contain him, shed the skin of a government puppet, and stripped away the illusions of the system. He was older now, his features hardened by violence, but he was entirely free from the invisible snares that had once dictated his value. Standing in his late thirties, Dex felt a strange sense of selfhood that had completely eluded him in his twenties.

His daily routine remained his mandatory sanctuary, waking up exactly the same hour, executing a flawless military tuck on his bedsheets, consuming a balanced breakfast before physical regimen, and then work. But the internal shift was tectonic. He no longer walked through the streets of New York like a fraudulent actor trying to mimic human behavior and integrate himself into civilization. He knew the truth now: there was no grand order to life. There was only the winding, bloody path he had been carved out to walk. He no longer craved the external validation of a badge or a supervisor’s praise to consider himself a whole entity. He was fucking Bullseye.

And the concept of a "North Star", the desperate need for a perfect, external moral anchor to keep him sane, had been forcibly buried deep within a vault next to his most violent, unpacked trauma. Though sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a phantom tension would ripple through his chest, an instinctual tug toward the comfort of connection, but he would quickly dismiss it as mere human biology. He didn't need a North Star. His life was already perfectly illuminated by his own design. Or so he continuously told himself.

Until he walked into your boutique.

The shop was situated a short distance down the asphalt stretch of Hell’s Kitchen, a stark, hyper-feminine building in an otherwise gritty neighborhood. The interior was an absolute assault of pastel pinks, a visual sensory overload that normally would have triggered his defense mechanisms, but the hand-painted sign outside promised custom tailoring services. And Dex needed his belongings fixed the moment he noticed imperfections.

He carried two specific items across the threshold that afternoon. His utilitarian jacket that had suffered a tear against a rusty fire escape during the previous night's "hero work," and a pair of heavy tactical gloves that needed the seams to be adjusted for a better grip.

You'd been seated behind the polished wooden counter, a needle held between your hand, your hair slightly disheveled as you worked. When you looked up and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in your doorway, your face had broken into a smile so massive, so genuinely warm, that Dex had felt an involuntary, almost evolutionary impulse to mimic the expression. He stood perfectly rigid as your small, incredibly nimble hands took the damaged fabric from his grip, your fingers tracing the torn nylon of the jacket with a professional, practiced ease.

When you looked up and informed him that the repairs would only take sixty minutes, his sharp brows had risen in mild intrigue at your efficiency.

"I work fast," you had offered, your voice bright and entirely unbothered by his silent, imposing intensity.

Dex returned to the shop precisely the sixty-minute mark, not a second early, not a second late. You were already waiting for him at the counter, the jacket neatly pressed and the jagged tear now entirely imperceptible, executed with a level of craftsmanship that deeply satisfied his need for perfection. Then he slid his large hands into the resized tactical gloves, flexing his fingers to test the tension of the thread.

Whether you had recognized the subtle Bullseye emblem stamped into the leather, you made no verbal indication. Instead, you merely bit your lower lip, your gaze tracking the movement of his hands before you boldly, without an ounce of hesitation, reached out and gripped his gloved hand. Your fingers guide his, pointing down to the specific cross-stitch where you had loosened the seams to accommodate his knuckles.

The ice returned instantly. It danced down the length of his spine, a freezing jolt that made his chest tighten. But as your warm skin remained pressed against the heavy material of his glove, the sensation mutated into something remarkably pleasant. Dex let out an involuntary exhale from your touch as your index finger trailed a slow, deliberate line down the length of his hand. Was this flirting? No, this was her job….

"If you need it bigger I can make that possible," you offered softly, your eyes lifting to lock onto his with a quiet, grounded confidence. And Dex paused, taking in the intimacy of your closeness. Okay…. Yeah, this was flirting. He deduced at its baseline before he found himself engaging.

Dex couldn't understand the sequence of events that followed, birthed from that moment alone. His memory, usually so linear and mathematical, became a blur of transitions. And normally the haze would eat away at him till he lost his mind, if it weren't for the fact that the stages that followed were extremely enjoyable. All he knew was that the rigid wall of his isolation had suddenly breached, and he was taking you on a first date. Then a second. A third. A fourth. The unwritten variables that had paralyzed him in his youth seemed to dissolve in your presence; you didn't demand a script, and your effortless need to keep talking filled the awkward silences he usually created. Dex was thankful for it. He was thankful for all of you.

By the time the fifth date happened, you were both standing inside the threshold of your private home. And Dex was fucking ecstatic. The realizations hit him in waves during his nightly routines: life was simply greater, sharper, and infinitely better with your existence woven into it. Within the calculated grid of his mind, he had rapidly come to view you as an essential, non-negotiable component of his daily structure. A connection he needed desperately to maintain that he was fully prepared to execute any measure necessary to ensure you stayed. You were kind, sweet, and giving in a way that defied his understanding of human nature. How were you so willing to offer the world everything you had without demanding anything in return?

Because he couldn't comprehend it, he studied you. He watched you with a hyper-attentive, microscopic focus that would have terrified a normal civilian, tracking the micro-expressions of your face, the cadence of your breaths, and the specific pitch of your laughter. And you let him. To you, that intense, unblinking gaze didn't feel like surveillance; it made you feel entirely seen and warm.

Dex had learned you. He played every single card in his hand with absolute precision to ensure he kept your favor, but you made the act remarkably easy. He found himself wanting to give the world to you, a new directive that lingered constantly. While on missions, he's doing this to make the city better for you. He had to come home safe because you'd be so devastated if anything happened to him. You needed him in your life so he had to make sure no wounds took over his body. These thoughts progressed over time, though they were already brewing the minute he stepped out of your boutique. Dex brought you a perfectly curated bouquet of flowers on your very first date, quickly logging the fact that you flourished when things were done for you. From that moment on, his chivalry became non-negotiable. He opened doors before your hand could even approach the handle; he pulled out chairs to the exact angle required for your comfort; he even leaned across the console of his vehicle to buckle your seatbelt for you, his large frame momentarily shielding you from the world. A thought that appears constantly in his mind at night.

And now, those correctly executed actions had granted him entry into your sanctuary.

Walking through the door of your brownstone, his analytical eyes immediately deduced that you and your work were a singular entity. The space was less a traditional home and more an active studio. A heavy, vintage treadle sewing machine sat prominently in the center of the room, positioned directly in front of the television, while two antique, velvet-upholstered couches framed it on either side. Dex made a silent, permanent mental note of that specific layout: the tool of your labor received absolute priority over comfort.

As he looked around Dex noticed your affinity for older things immediately, your eyes lingering on aged, well-maintained pieces of history. A part of him wondered if that was why you liked him so much and despite himself, the thought amused him. His gaze drifted to the expansive dining room, noting how every single high-backed chair had been pushed flush against the perimeter of the walls, completely away from the central table to maximize workspace. A deep, quiet part of his psychology deeply admired the dedication. He understood the obsession with craft, the way you spoke about fabrics and patterns with radiant love. He was identical to you in that regard, though he remained hyper-vigilant about never revealing the bloodier details of his own craft to you.

Dex paced silently behind you, his broad shoulders squared as his eyes continuously darted around the rooms, absorbing the atmosphere of your home while you led him toward the kitchen by the hand. His frame was tense, his muscles vibrating with a low-grade current of electricity. He still wasn't accustomed to the physical touching. He liked it, he liked it with a terrifying intensity that scared him, but his brain lacked the programming required to properly receive it.

And bless your heart, you were so unbelievably touchy.

You were a creature of constant physical contact. There was always a soft arm looping around his rigid bicep, a gentle palm resting against his. A constant, natural inclination to latch onto his massive frame and cling to him as if he were the only solid object in a moving world. He reciprocated in the only ways he knew how, squeezing your hand back with a carefully measured amount of pressure, standing perfectly still to accept your weight. But Dex still hadn't learned how to articulate or manifest his own physical desires. He didn't know how to be the one to close the distance. He didn't know how to reach out his large, scarred hands, wrap them around your waist, and pull you against his chest without an explicit invitation. The script hadn't given him those lines yet.

So instead, he simply allowed himself to be a passive monument of muscle and bone, letting you pull him toward the kitchen island for wine and cheese after your date. The night got more enjoyable, but then again, every moment was enjoyable with you. But this is even more so. You trusted him enough to let him into your space, liked him so much that you paid attention whenever his glass was empty.

"I have a secret," you admitted suddenly, your face flushing a deep, radiant pink after you drained the remainder of your second glass.

Dex raised a single, sharp brow, holding his own glass perfectly steady as he waited for the disclosure. He ignored the sudden, rhythmic thumping of his own blood pumping violently in his ears. He couldn't quite determine if the sudden spike in his heart rate was the result of the alcohol or a sudden surge of anxiety. Given his high tolerance, it was likely the latter.

"I hate wine," you hiccuped, a small, breathless sound. You didn't feel that inebriated but Dex had a skill for making you feel drunk.

Dex’s cold eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise. Without a word, his large hand reached out and gently but firmly took the crystal glass directly from your fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as the absurdity of the situation caused a bright laugh to break from your lips.

"Why didn't you say anything," he asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave as he placed the glass down on the exact center of a stone coaster.

"Because it was a nice gift and also because I wanted to be with you longer," you reasoned smoothly.

You stepped away from the counter, your short frame moving into his immediate personal space. Slipping effortlessly between his extended legs as he sat perched on the high barstool, your body completely filling the void between his knees. Before he could process the proximity, your arms looped entirely around his broad shoulders, your hands resting against the nape of his neck.

Dex sat up just a fraction straighter, his entire spine locking into a protective line. A hesitant, unpracticed hand rose from his side, his large palm resting against the fabric of your dress to support your lower back, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.

"I like having you around..." you admitted softly, your voice heavily laced with an intoxicated, sleepy haze as you looked up at him.

"I like being around," Dex nodded, his gaze boring into yours with an unblinking, absolute intensity.

It was the most fundamental truth his mouth had ever uttered. He liked being around you so much that the mere concept of physical separation had become an agonizing friction in his daily life. There were moments during his long, solitary hours on a rooftop or following a lethal assignment where the craving to see you grew so violent, so overwhelming, that he had seriously contemplated abandoning his operation just to stand outside your window. But the rational, highly defensive side of his mind, the piece of him that vividly remembered the trembling panic in Julie's face, always managed to reassert control. He wouldn't risk breaking what you two had.

"Will you be around forever?" you asked, your voice dropping into a soft, vulnerable register that sounded almost like a plea.

Dex felt a sudden, blinding flash behind his eyes, a sensation so sharp and radiant it felt as though stars had detonated within his skull. A terrifying wave of duty and existential purpose crashed through his mind, rewriting his internal directives in an instant. This was his calling. This was his permanent assignment.

"I'll be here forever," he nodded, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding finality of a death warrant.

He barely had a single microsecond to process the violent rush of devotion flooding his veins before you leaned in, and your soft lips met his.

Dex froze.

He froze in a way he had never experienced in the heat of lethal gunfire. He hesitated with a sudden, paralyzing vulnerability that his mind was completely unequipped to handle. Bullseye did not hesitate; Bullseye was a creature of pure, instantaneous reaction. But Dex, Dex was entirely lost here in the quiet of your kitchen, his lips pressed flat against yours, his breath catching in the back of his throat as the delicate warmth of your mouth completely shattered his being.

His mind scrambled for data, for a past memory or a set of instructions to tell him what to do with his hands, how to move with you, how to breathe. The sheer sensation of your mouth against his was too vast, too unaligned with any grid he had ever mapped. He wanted to deepen the pressure, wanted to sink his fingers into your hips and drag you so close that the space between you ceased to exist, but the terrifying lack of instructions kept his body entirely locked in stone. He was a starving man paralyzed by the sudden appearance of a feast, terrified that a single incorrect movement would cause the illusion to vanish.

It was only a brief, agonizing second of contact. It was over far too quickly for his liking before you were gently pulling back, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks.

"You never got much love huh?" you hummed out, your voice dipping into a sad, incredibly tender melody.

Your small hands didn't retreat; instead, they began to preen over his tense shoulders, your fingers sliding upward until your nails began to slowly, methodically comb through the short hairs at the base of his scalp.

An involuntary, deeply guttural groan tore itself from the very bottom of Dex’s throat, the sound surprising even himself. His eyes rolled back, his lids fluttering shut as a wave of intense pleasure rippled through his nervous system. He liked that. He liked that with a feral, addictive desperation. Whatever you were doing with your hands, it was dismantling the static in his brain.

"No," he admitted, his voice a broken, raspy whisper in the quiet room, his head naturally sinking into the guiding pressure of your palms as you continued to adore him.

Your lips moved forward again, finding the hard, unyielding line of his cheekbone. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly over the jagged scar near his cheek, the exact spot you always claimed when you were saying goodbye, and Dex felt his entire body shudder under the impact. Then, your kisses migrated downward, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw before your mouth found the sensitive, hot skin of his neck.

Dex’s hands lost their hesitation, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your dress as he decided, with absolute certainty, that he liked this even more.

"Don't worry. I'll fix it," you murmured against his skin, your breath hot and reassuring even in your heavily tipsy state.

“Pretty girl like you gonna fix a man like me,” Dex mused out, exhaling in amusement as he welcomed your kisses by granting you more of his neck. You hummed in delight and he noted that was the correct response.

“I'd do everything for you, Dex,” you admitted into his neck and that seemed to do it. Every rigid order he told himself to act like a gentleman broke as he pulled you into his chest, turning his face as if begging for you to grant him another kiss.

And you do.

This time he reciprocated the contact eagerly, fuck it, thoughts can be damned, Dex let his body lead now. His kisses were harsh and demanding, desperate in its undercurrent but you enjoyed it. You tasted faintly like wine and something minty and he finds himself deepening the kiss. His large calloused hand found the thin straps of your bias-cut dress, hastily pushing it down the slope of your shoulder before he froze. He was being too forward, too much, too–

Before he could spiral, you whined into his mouth at the lack of movement. A harmonious plea that he's never had the privilege of hearing before. And Dex's eyes fluttered, that sound went straight to his straining cock evoking a groan against your skin. Emboldened hands pushing the dress down only to pull back momentarily, breaking the kiss despite not wanting to. He'd rather shoot himself than stop kissing you, but he needed to know that what he was doing was okay. And by the blissful state of your eyes, you were more than okay with this, with him. And so he allowed his gaze to wander, darting down to the exposed skin of your soft breast.

His gaze locked onto your hardened nipple before his hand slowly moved, not giving himself time to overthink. His thumb grazed the sensitive peak in experimentation, irises watching as your chest stuttered, his gaze darting up to meet yours in calculation on how to proceed. You were waiting for him, letting him take the lead and explore, and God did he want to map out every shape of you. He wanted to know what made you arch and squirm, what made you sing his name in praise. But Dex was a man rendered stupid in the unfamiliar vastness of your body, so hands stayed motionless as they had done nothing but take and punish all his life. He'd do it slow, he decided, after all, his hands were not meant for this. For worship and caress.

But his mouth would be.

Not breaking eye contact with you, his lips found home on your skin, latching onto your nipple. Humming as you arched your back, your pliant body gravitating into him. You liked that, he learned, so he did it harder. Teeth grazing the sensitive peak before sucking it into his mouth hard.

His free hand wanders to your other breast, thumb circling the clothed nipple there while he devotes himself to the first with his tongue. It’s messy, uncoordinated, Dex isn’t a gentle lover, he learned as the need progresses. His brave hand slips under your dress, pushing fabric up further to expose more of your body as his kisses migrated down your sternum.

“D-Dex.”

The breathy sound made him freeze and he recoiled immediately as if burned. He waits for the storm only for you to eagerly pat him on his shoulder, signaling you wanted him up.

“Room, please…. I-i don't want it here…” you say almost shy and he obeys immediately, standing up and holding you dear.

“Yeah? Sweet girl,” the term endearment escaping his lips catches him by surprise just as much as him kissing your forehead does. But he doesn't dwell on it long as he grabs hold of your hand and leads you upstairs where he already knows where your room is.

The silence of the space was only intensified once you both entered your bedroom. Dex pauses, taking a moment to appreciate the image of you standing there, waiting with earnest eyes and swollen lips. You looked so vulnerable, your dress wrinkled and breathing heavy as you let him assess. He welcomes your softness and realizes that he owes it to you to be vulnerable as well.

With a firm, certain, grip, he turns your body around, your stomach flutters in expectation as lust filled eyes land on the made bed. Only the inevitable force never came, you weren't shoved face down into the mattress in pure heat, instead Dex is moving your hair aside to fall on one shoulder. And that impacted your core more than any barge ever could. So you remained standing there, ignoring the heat in your stomach as the brooding man you'd come to know gently unzipped the back of your dress. Pushing the fabric down your hips, a hum escapes the claimant as he turns you back around with even kinder hands and you melted.

Sure in your intentions, you begin to unbutton his shirt and he watches you in the moment. Sometimes you often wonder what goes on in Dex's mind, but here you're certain that whatever thoughts that hammered in his head were anything but pure. When the fabric of his shirt meets your dress on the floor, a barely suppressed smile threatens to take over your face and his features silently requested for context, amused in your glow.

“You're so big,” appreciation dripped from your words, reinforced by your hands steady on his chest. Pride and something smug consumes Dex’s internal framework as he reaches for your bare waist, pulling you into him. Fuck. He liked how that felt, loved the feeling of you two skin to skin.

“That why you're always so touchy,” he huffed. It was a poor attempt to regulate himself from these overwhelming emotions. Still riding the dopamine high from your appraisal.

“Yes,” you nodded shamelessly.

At that a raw exhale breaks free from his mouth, falling in ardor before he's guiding you down to the bed. Dex’s gaze is locked on yours, at your body barely covered in cotton underwear as he prowls towards you on the duvet. Your presence was the single grounding planet in the uncharted stars of his nebula, an innate need to keep his focus on you and solely you to avoid getting lost in the orbit of his thoughts. Waiting patiently as exploratory hands trailed over your body, thumbs brushed over your nipples just once, before migrating down to your torso, eventually finding home on your hips.

Lips parted but nothing fell from them as words failed him. Instead his gaze darted up to meet yours as his fingers deliberately tugged your underwear, not fully, not even an inch down, just enough to get your attention and silently ask for permission.

Your body moved on its own, hastily squirming under his broad stature and pushing the thin fabric down your legs. The man over you had been the only thing plaguing the recesses of your brain for the past few weeks, consuming you with such unbidden thoughts. Anything would be done for him at this point. You barely got to kick the drenched cotton off before Dex's palm landed flat on one thigh, pushing it down hard against the bed and spreading you open for him. With a fluttering stomach so intense, your body fell back as you took in his state. Half dressed and tightly coiled, muscles pulling in restrain as he remained pinning your thigh down. His attention was locked onto you, or more so, your dripping cunt and an involuntary need to shut your legs was met with even more resistance from him.

He didn't appreciate you trying to hide from him, evident in his warning gaze. Without a word, his palm trailed up, the desire and craving to touch you won out in him. And suddenly hands that had only known violence was caressing you so softly and attentively, figuring out the definition of what it meant to be a lover.

God you were so wet and warm and soft and all the good things in the world…

Dex noticed your breathing growing more labored beneath him and instinctively he leaned back to watch you more, away from the disadvantage of being tucked into your neck. Your pupils were blown out, starry eyed as your brows creased and a pout settled on your lips. His fingers moved on their own as he watched, a new desire to pull more of those darling expressions from you forming. And as he sunk two cruel digits into your slopping wet heat, satisfaction invaded his senses as he took in your reaction. Your mouth parts in ecstasy, a sound Dex immediately knew he loved fell from your lips as your body arched up into him. And then that begging pout graced your features again, looking down at where his fingers fucked you.

So perhaps intimacy was everything people made it out to be, and so much more when it's with you. Dex was beginning to understand it now, the insatiable need to constantly be touching your person. Fuck, he doesn’t think he could ever go back to the way he was before. So fucking hesitant, unsure with anxiety that dibilitated him. He refused to be so rigid again, not when the sounds of your desire and need were music to his ears. He loved this, loved it in a way that was beginning to align with his new idea of normal. He could get used to this, to touching you, to fucking you.

Whining in protest as his fingers pulled away, your hands gripped at his chest in agony. Complains at the tip of your tongue before halting completely as you hear him begin to take his jeans off. Humming in delight as he strips. And fucking hell…. You were well aware of Dex’s large frame, it was one of the first things you noticed about him, second to the attractive scar on his cheek. But seeing him like this was something different entirely and you couldn't help yourself as you preened over his naked form again. Palms gliding the expansive plains of his back, brushing down his abs and strong chest as you sucked on his neck. Though judging by the expression on Dex's face, he didn't mind you playing. He let you have your fun until eventually pulling your lips off of him with a gentle hand at the back of your neck. A protest happened beneath him as you tried to chase after his body before stopping, noticing his hand on his member. And that shut you up real good.

Dex gently guides his hardened cock onto your dripping core. Rubbing his swollen head up and down your drenched skin before slowly sinking into you. A gasp falls from your lips followed by a desperate cry of want. His breath comes in rough bursts through his nose, focused entirely on you beneath him. How you take it, how you sound, how tight you feel with every drag out and push back in. The plains of his anatomy strained with tension as he exhaled in contentment. Dex thought he had come to know comfort, in the way you'd lean onto him during walks, how you raked your nails through his hair earlier. But this exceeded that in every capacity, comfort was a juvenile word to express how this felt like home. He's barely halfway through and already has to stop and compose himself. He let out a hiss, halting all movements as you clenched around him.

The sudden, full stretch makes you mewl out a sharp, startled sound And Dex freezes instantly, his entire body locking up. Has he hurt you? Was something wrong? He’s buried to the hilt now. It’s a lot. Too much all at once. A wave of something almost like guilt hits him, he hadn’t meant to scare you, but the sensation is… God.

"Shhh," he soothes automatically, instinctively brushing your cheek with his thumb despite how wrecked he feels right now.

You leaned into his touch, seeking for more and he's relieved. Needy palms finding a place on his biceps as you squirmed, looking down at where you both meet. Dex follows your gaze, watching his hardened cock buried deep in you. Yeah… that’s a lot.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs, thumb brushing away another stray tear. "We can stop. Or go stupid slow.”

You let out a laugh that bled dangerously too close to a moan and Dex makes the decision of the latter for you. The first thrust is deliberate, deep and controlled, testing your reaction. The second follows, then a third, each one creating a filthy rhythm that fills the quiet room. He slowly fucks into you in a sedate, gentle manner. But gentleness is short-lived. His movements quickly grow faster till he was fucking you in a steady eager pace. Skin slaps against skin, joining the song of moans that you sing. The bed creaks under the weight, every movement is amplified in the hushed space. Rapture floods through you as any other thoughts that weren't Dex quickly subsides, giving way for your focal. Everything felt right in the world as he molded your body to his.

It was almost too much, his body caging yours in as his hips moved relentlessly. You knew you wouldn't last much longer if he kept going like this. But Dex was a man of intention, he took you like it was the only thing worth doing in his life.

The press of your hand against his pelvis, pushing, cunt trying to get him closer yet you were pulling away at the same time, sends conflicting signals straight to his dick. Your thighs around him squirmed, a telltale sign you're overwhelmed. Dex groans but doesn’t let up; if anything, he presses down harder on you with his hips, pinning yours in place.

"Take it," he rasps no room for argument. His skilled thumb lands on your clit, relentless despite the overstimulation threatening both of your bodies. The sound that left you was obscene and filthy as your head lulls back and Dex is quick to grab hold of your thigh and pull you closer towards him.

The new angle hits perfectly, your entire body jerks, a broken moan escaping as you tense around Dex’s hips. He learned you almost immediately from the very first second his fingers were inside you, he found where to target instantly. And now he abused that information.

He feels it, the way you clenched around him, and his own control wavers. But he holds on, focused solely on your pleasure, chasing every twitch and whimper with relentless precision. His lips find yours again in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he pounded into you with controlled hits. A sound so similar to bullets in the air echoed at the impact, the wet sound, obscene, unfiltered, hitting him like a lightning bolt. Every thrust is accompanied by that slick, squelching noise: your arousal mixing with his movements. Dex learns that he loved that sound, it satisfied a part of his brain in a notion he couldn't understand but he knew that it fueled him even more. Dex's hips stutter for half a second at the realization of just how drenched you are for him.

A groan rumbles from his chest as he picks up speed, fucking you till you saw stars. A melody of moans and gasps filled the room with a symphony of skin heard with it. The walls welcome the sound with open arms as the atmosphere feels too hot and too heavy. You try to grab at the bed sheets despite Dex's tight grip on one of your wrists, you need something to ground you as you neared. Too much. It was all too much. Seamlessly, he laced his fingers with yours, still holding you down onto the bed but his grip softened.

You reciprocate the touch, tightly squeezing his hand as you feel the pressure capsize and your thighs shake in hot waves. You cry his name out, your back arching off the bed from the pleasure. His cock still sliding in and out of your dripping cunt, desperate to join you in your release, ignoring the coil of his muscles. He loves the way you say his name, so breathy and blinded by ecstasy. Dex breathes into your neck, the sensations becoming too much before a loud groan breaks his focus and he spills ropes of his cum into you. Immediately you primp under him, satiated and spoiled but your accord for touch remains ever present as you gently brush your nails up and down his back. And that sends him collapsing down onto you. Not that you seemed to mind as he heard a loud gleeful laugh beneath his large frame.

Dex exhales, long and slow, moving to stare at you. He’s not used to aftercare. Not with anyone. But here he is gently moving off you and tucking a throw blanket around your shoulders like you're something fragile. A calloused finger brushes a stray hair from your forehead, an absurdly tender gesture for someone who just fucked you into oblivion but you welcomed it.

He learned an entirely new vocabulary that night, and the education continued to expand exponentially in the weeks that followed.

He discovered, through application and obsessive cataloging, that he liked touch. He liked it an immeasurable, terrifying amount. He grew to absolutely love the specific jolt that occurred when you wake him up in the morning by lazily raking your nails across the broad, scarred expanse of his bare back. He loved the domestic weight of you playing with his hair while he sat on the living room floor, or the frantic, heavy way you would cling onto him when the city noise rattled the brownstone windows.

Methodically, his analytical mind began to solve the puzzle of how to return the same favor. He'd mapped your body with the same precision he applied to his targets, but with an entirely different objective.

He learned how to execute a kiss without needing an explicit verbal invitation, his large hands learning the exact amount of pressure required to tilt your chin upward to meet his mouth. He figured out how to use the immense, terrifying strength in his palms to gently massage the deep knots out of your shoulders after you spent a twelve-hour day hunched over the antique sewing machine. He studied the micro-movements of your muscles, tracking the specific shivers that rippled through your frame when his thumbs traced your collarbones, logging every sigh and hitch in your breath as data.

He figured out, with a profound, quiet sense of internal victory, that you loved every single form of physical touch imaginable, so long as it came entirely from him.

And he decided then, he loved intimacy.

AN: He's so fucking hot like i just can't!!! ! I haven't written smut in like 3 years so I didn't know what I was doing lol. Let me know what you guys think! Also you being a seamstress was entirely self indulgence because I go to fashion school lol.

[francixoxoxo]

• just across the hall masterlist

• Frank Castle x reader

series desc; Frank Castle is starting to be more than a neighbor who does you favors without being asked. He knows it; and it terrifies him as much as it thrills you. It's a strange 'friendship'. sometimes he's making you laugh your ribs thin, and other times you could cut the air with a knife. The biggest challenge is keeping him from backing away, while not risking ruining the only relationship you have in your apartment complex.

notes; slow burn, just-neighbors to friends to lovers! Frank is horrible at feelings, very manly (yes plz fix everything in my house and don’t let me pay you back), curtis hoyle makes an appearance, teeeennnsssioooon, rom com esque, banter, eventual smut

reader moodboard

on ao3!

part 1; don’t like debt

part 2; blueberry muffins

part 3; olive branches, wood bookshelves

part 4; grocery runs and guard dogs

part 5; a night in

part 6; easiest way to a heart

part 7; we will not be lovers

[tomhardysluvr888]

the ghosts we keep - frank castle

a/n: Hi everyone, this will be the series masterlist! I'm so so so excited to write and begin posting this story. I decided a main post where all the chapters are linked would be easiest. I'll reblog every time a new chapter is published!!

Summary: After escaping the Red Room alongside Natasha, you try to disappear into Hell's Kitchen, convinced your past has condemned you to a life in the shadows. But when your path collides with Frank Castle's, you discover the most dangerous battle isn't with the criminals you fight every night—it's believing you're worthy of a future.

00 ⸺ ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴅ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ

[mayfieldss]

Beaten and bruised [ frank castle x reader ]

Summary: When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it's a little more than that...and maybe it always was. Requested; see request here! word count: 4.4k

Warnings; mentions of blood, sexual tension and scenes but no full on smut.

You've just had the longest shift of your life, a shift so long that despite the fact you hate your rundown hells kitchen apartment you're grateful to be home. You fumble with your keys, turning them the wrong way in the lock out of pure exhaustion, and then the right way when your brain kicks back to life. The door creaks with protest that you ignore. You've been told to oil the hinges to stop the squeaking, but you like the sound being there. You live in Hell's Kitchen after all, and if anyone were to break in, you would like to hear them coming.

You close the door behind you and it cries out again as you push it shut and turn the lock. But the hairs on your neck rise before you can turn back to the foyer, and you know out of pure instinct that someone's in here with you. I guess the creaking door does nothing to warn you if you're not home when someone comes knocking.

You reach into your purse for the gun you keep there, just as a voice, gruff and quiet, calls out from behind you.

"just me, sweetheart."

Frank. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you slide your hand out of your purse and turn around. Sure enough, his figure is there, obscured by the dark apartment. You reach over to the wall and flick the lamp on, only to come face to face with the reason Frank is in your home.

"Jesus,"

"No, just me." he mutters absolutely deadpan, as he leans against the wall. He's got blood all over him, and a hand pressed to his right side. There's red seeping out from between his fingers, and when he pushes away from the wall, you can see blood he's left behind on the wallpaper.

You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.

"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"

The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.

"That bad, huh?"

You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."

"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.

"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.

"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.

When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.

"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.

"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.

"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.

"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.

"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.

"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.

"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.

"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.

"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.

"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.

"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."

You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.

"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"

Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.

"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.

"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."

Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.

"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.

You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."

He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.

You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.

"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."

He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.

"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"

"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."

He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."

His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.

"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.

"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.

"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"

He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.

"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.

"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.

His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.

He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.

"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."

Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.

"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.

You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.

"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.

"What're you doing with that?"

You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."

"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.

"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."

Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.

You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.

"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.

You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"

The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.

"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.

As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.

Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.

"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."

He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.

When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.

"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?

He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.

"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.

"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.

"Does that mean you're staying the night?"

Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.

He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."

You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.

The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.

"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.

You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."

He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."

Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.

"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.

"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.

"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.

The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.

"I know you're in there, Frank."

The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.

You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.

"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.

"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.

"I'm busy,"

Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.

"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."

Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"

Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.

"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.

"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.

"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.

"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.

You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.

I'll be back soon. Wait for me.

I love you.

-

reblog and comment to support your writers! (also don't feed my work into ai databases please)

GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu

MARVEL GENERAL: @mellowladyangel @5kyyy @avyannadawn

[dirtylittlediary]

softness under scarred skin- frank castle

pairing : husband material ! frank castle x f!reader

summary : legit none this is basically just a drabble with no plot at all about soft ass frank based on this request

warning : none just some swearing , implied smut and tooth rotting fluff

word count : 3k

a/n : as usual, not proofread !

The sun is bleeding through your flimsy see-through curtains, basking your bed in a hot glow as you twist and turn, your eyes still closed but your body wide awake. The heat coming off of Frank, so tightly wrapped around you does nothing to quell your unfathomably overheating, and you try to wiggle away from him. His grip tightens.

"Nuh uh." He rasps, half asleep into your hair.

"Frank, im sweating." You whine, pushing your hips back against him to try to push him away. He groans, a low sound, and his hand flexes on your hip.

"Keep squirming and you're gonna be sweating for a whole 'nother reason, baby." He mutters, pressing a soft kiss to your hair before settling against you again. You huff, trying again to pry his arm off you, but he just drags you closer, like you weigh nothing.

“Frank,” you complain, voice still thick with sleep. “It’s too hot for this.”

“Mm,” he hums, not moving an inch. “No, it ain’t.”

“It is,” you insist, squirming again, trying to peel his arm off your waist. His grip only tightens, big hand splaying across your stomach like he’s anchoring you there on purpose.

“Stop fightin’ me,” he mumbles, pressing his face deeper into your neck. “You’re fine.”

“I am not fine, I’m melting—”

“Dramatic,” he mutters, voice rough and amused, lips brushing your skin in a lazy apology. You try to roll away again anyway.

Big mistake.

His leg hooks over yours, effectively trapping you, and he exhales like he’s settling in for the long haul.

“Frank,” you warn.

“Nuh uh,” he repeats, firmer this time, but still soft. “You started this.” You blink, confused.

“Started what?”

“All that squirming,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Got me awake now.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Now it’s an us problem.” You feel the faint press of his smile against your shoulder before he presses another slow kiss there, softer this time—less teasing, more habit. Your body relaxes despite yourself.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “But you love me.” You don’t answer right away, but you don’t move either. That’s enough for him. His hand shifts slightly, not grabbing—just resting, thumb dragging slow, absent circles like he’s half-asleep again but still needs to touch you.

“You really that hot?” he asks after a second, voice quieter now.

“Yes,” you groan. There’s a pause. Then, reluctantly—reluctantly—his arm loosens just enough for you to pull forward a few inches. Cool air hits your skin immediately and you sigh in relief.

“Happy?” he murmurs behind you.

“Very.” Another pause. Two seconds.

Three. Then— He moves again. Not pulling you back tight this time, just sliding closer until his chest barely brushes your back, his hand settling on your hip again—light, like he’s trying to compromise.

“Better?” he asks. You huff, but softer now.

“Yeah… that’s fine.”

“Good,” he murmurs. His fingers trace along your side lazily, like he’s mapping you without thinking. Not teasing. Not pushing. Just… familiar. The room goes quiet again, filled with that slow, sleepy morning stillness. You think he’s drifted off.

Then—

“You know,” he says, voice low and rough again, “you keep pushin’ back like that, I’m gonna think you’re doin’ it on purpose.” You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see it.

“I’m literally trying to get away from you.”

“Mm,” he hums. “Don’t feel like it.” You elbow him lightly. He just chuckles under his breath, completely unbothered.

“C’mere,” he mutters, softer again, nudging his nose against your shoulder. You don’t fight him this time when he closes the small gap again—just enough to feel him there without overheating. His hand settles flat against your stomach, warm and steady. After a while of laying in silence, Frank groans and rolls away from you, clearly not able to go back to sleep, rubbing his eyes as he sits up. You stretch your limbs out, making show of kicking him in the process, which just makes him grumpier.

Frank shoots you a look over his shoulder, brows pulled together, still half asleep and already annoyed.

“You tryna start somethin’ this early?” he grumbles, voice gravelly. You grin, stretching again just to be obnoxious, your foot nudging his side.

“You were in my space.”

“My space?” he scoffs, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s my bed.”

“Our bed,” you correct. He glances at you again, eyes narrowing like he’s deciding something.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “C’mere.” Before you can even question it, he reaches over, grabbing you by the waist and hauling you across the mattress with zero effort.

“Frank—!” Too late. In one smooth motion, he swings you up over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

“Frank!” you laugh now, squirming as your hair falls over your face. “Put me down!”

“Nah,” he says, already walking out of the bedroom like this is completely normal. “You were bein’ difficult.”

“I was literally lying there!”

“Mm,” he hums. “Disrespectfully.” You smack lightly at his back, which does absolutely nothing.

“Put me down!”

“Nah, i don't think I will,” he mutters, heading down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Frank!” He ignores you completely. Of course he does. By the time he reaches the kitchen, he finally lowers you—carefully, at least—setting you down on the counter like you weigh nothing. But you barely get a second to adjust before he’s right there again. Hands on your hips. Face buried in your neck.

“Frank—” you start, but it dissolves into a laugh when he starts pressing kisses all over your jaw, your cheek, your temple—messy, warm, completely unbothered.

“You’re annoying in the morning,” he murmurs against your skin, like it’s an accusation.

“You carried me like a sack of potatoes!”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. “And I’ll do it again.” You try to glare at him, but he’s already leaning in again, smothering you in more kisses—quicker now, softer, like he just can’t help it.

“Frank,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Coffee first, affection later.”

“That so?” he mutters, but he finally relents, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before stepping back.

“Don’t move,” he adds, pointing at you like you’re the problem.

“I’m on the counter, where am I gonna go?”

“Exactly,” he says, satisfied. You watch him move around the kitchen, still a little sleepy but purposeful—grabbing mugs, filling the kettle, doing everything like he’s done it a hundred times. Which he has. There’s something about it—quiet, domestic, easy—that makes your chest feel warm in a completely different way. He glances over at you once while the coffee’s brewing.

"You look beautiful, baby." You roll your eyes.

"Liar. I look like a bird's nest."

"A beautiful bird's nest." He corrects. A minute later, he’s back in front of you, handing you a mug. “Careful,” he says. “Hot.” Your fingers brush his as you take it, and he lingers there for just a second longer than necessary. Always does. You take a sip, sighing a little as the warmth settles in. Frank leans against the counter between your legs, looking at you like he’s thinking about something.

“…Karen’s birthday’s comin’ up,” he says after a beat. You blink.

“Already?”

“Yeah.” You hum, thinking.

“We should get her something good this year.”

“Mm,” he nods. “That’s what I was thinkin’.” A pause. Then— “We could head into town,” he adds, casual but watching your reaction. “Grab somethin’. Get outta the house a bit.” You raise a brow.

“You? Suggesting shopping?” He shrugs.

“Don’t get used to it.” You smile into your coffee.

“That actually sounds nice.” Frank nods once, like that settles it.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll go in a bit.” Then, softer, his hand coming up to rest on your knee— “After you wake up properly.” Your heart does that quiet little thing again. You lean forward slightly, bumping your forehead against his.

“Deal.” He huffs a quiet breath, lips twitching. Then presses one more quick kiss to your mouth—like he can’t help himself.

“Finish your coffee,” he murmurs. And he doesn’t move far.

----

By the time you step out of the store, the sky has softened into that golden, late-afternoon glow—and Frank looks like he’s been personally victimized by retail.

Bags. Everywhere.

Paper ones crinkling, plastic ones stretching, one ridiculously oversized box tucked under his arm like it insulted him personally. His forearms are flexed just from holding everything, veins visible, shoulders squared like he’s refusing to admit any of it weighs more than a feather.

You, on the other hand?

Completely empty-handed.

Walking beside him like this was always the plan.

“You said,” Frank starts, slow and deliberate, like he’s building a case, “we were comin’ out for one thing.” You don’t even look at him. Just keep walking, all innocent.

“Mhm.”

“One,” he repeats. You nod.

“Yeah.” He stops walking. Actually stops. You take two more steps before realizing and turning back to him, eyebrows lifting.

“What?” Frank just stares at you, then slowly lifts one of the bags—just one—as if presenting evidence in court.

“…Explain.” You press your lips together like you’re thinking very hard.

“Well,” you start, “Karen’s birthday is important.”

“Mm.”

“And I didn’t know what she’d like.”

“Mm.”

“And then I saw things.” Frank exhales slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Things,” he repeats.

“Things,” you confirm, completely serious. There’s a beat. Then his mouth twitches.

“You’re unbelievable.” You grin, stepping back toward him, reaching up to adjust one of the bags digging into his shoulder like you’re helping.

“You love it.” He watches you do it—really watches you—eyes softening without him even realizing it. The way your fingers brush his arm, the way you’re trying (badly) to look helpful.

“…Yeah,” he mutters. “I do.” That lands quieter than everything else. You pause for half a second—just enough to feel it—before you bump your hip into his.

“Good answer.” He huffs, but there’s no fight in it. You start walking again, and this time he follows without another word, falling into step beside you like it’s instinct. There’s something easy about it now. The rhythm of your steps matching. The occasional brush of your arms. The low hum of the street around you fading into background noise. You glance sideways at him.

“…You weren’t complainin’ inside.” Frank snorts.

“I wasn’t complainin’ out here either.”

“You were grumbling.”

“I was narratin’.” You laugh under your breath.

“Yeah? Narrating what exactly?” His eyes flick to you, slower this time. Intentional.

“…How you kept walkin’ outta that dressing room like you were tryin’ to start somethin’.” Your brows lift.

“Start something?”

“Mm.” He adjusts the bags again, jaw tightening just a little. “That red lil number?” You grin.

“You liked that one.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He glances down at you, unimpressed.

“You almost walked into a wall.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.” He exhales, like he’s tired of being right.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, “you kept turnin’ around in it like that—what’d you expect?” You bite back a smile, clearly pleased with yourself.

“I expect my boyfriend to have some self-control.” That makes him stop again. Not abrupt. Just… still. Slowly, he turns his head toward you.

“…Boyfriend?” You blink.

“…Yeah?” His expression shifts—subtle, but there. Something warmer. Something a little more possessive, a little more amused.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothin’,” he says, but his tone says everything. “Just sounds… light.” You narrow your eyes at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry—what title would you prefer, Frank?” He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Somethin’ a little more permanent." Your stomach flips. You try not to show it.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Like- I dunno- love of your life ? Apple of your eye ?" You hum like you’re considering it, even though your pulse just picked up.

“We’ll workshop it.”

“Mm,” he says. “We will.” You walk a few more steps, and then—because you can’t help yourself—you tilt your head, looking up at him with that familiar, dangerous sweetness.

“And why aren’t you holding my hand?” Frank pauses mid-step. Looks at you. Looks at the mountain of bags. Then back at you.

“…You serious right now?” You shrug, eyes wide.

“I mean… most boyfriends would.” His mouth presses into a thin line, but there’s already a hint of a smile threatening.

“Most boyfriends ain’t carryin’ all this.”

“Excuses,” you sing. He stares at you for a second longer. And then—without another word—he shifts. Every single bag gets pulled into one hand. It’s messy. Slightly ridiculous. You can see the strain in his forearm, the way his fingers tighten to keep everything from slipping.But he does it. Of course he does. His other hand comes free, and before you can even comment, he reaches for you. Takes your hand. Firm. Warm. Certain. Like it belongs there.

“…There,” he says, like it cost him nothing. “Happy?” You look down at your hands, then up at him, blinking.

“You’re insane.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna drop everything.”

“Probably.”

“And you still did it.” He shrugs, like it’s obvious.

“You asked.” Something in your chest tightens. You lace your fingers through his properly this time, squeezing once.

“…Idiot.” He huffs, but his thumb starts brushing against your knuckles automatically—small, absent movements, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You walk like that for a while. Slower now. Closer. Every few steps, the bags shift and crinkle, and you catch the way his jaw tightens, but he never loosens his grip on you. Not once.

“You can let go, you know,” you murmur after a bit. “Before you lose circulation.”

“Nah.”

“Frank.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally turning red.”

“That’s just my face.” You laugh softly, leaning your shoulder into him.

“You’re so stubborn.”

“Only with you.”

“Why?” He glances down at you, something warm and heavy settling in his gaze.

“‘Cause you’re worth it.” That one hits. Harder than you expect. You look away quickly, but your grip on his hand tightens.

“…You’re laying it on thick today.”

“Mm,” he hums. “You're wearing that shirt I like.” You scoff, trying to play it off.

“You're being nice to me because you can see my cleavage ?”

“Don't be crass. I can see much more than just your cleavage, baby.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says again, softer this time. “But you like me.” You roll your eyes.

“Unfortunately.” He chuckles, low and quiet, and this time when your shoulder bumps his, he leans into it just a little more.

“C’mon,” he mutters after a moment, nodding down the street. “Let’s get you home before you find another store.” You grin.

“No promises.” He exhales like he’s already accepted his fate.

“Yeah,” he says, giving your hand another squeeze. “Figured.” You roll your eyes as he pulls you towards the car. He makes a show of opening the door for you, and then shoving the plethora of bags in the trunk before rounding the car to settle in his seat. The second the car starts, his hand finds a solid grip on your thigh- the way it always has- like it's second nature to him now. Warm. Heavy. Certain. You glance down at it, then up at him.

“…You do that every time.” He doesn’t even look over. Just backs out of the parking spot, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting on you like it belongs there.

“Do what?”

“That,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “The… possessive grab.” He huffs, faintly amused.

“Ain’t possessive.”

“Oh, it’s definitely possessive.” Now he glances at you, one brow lifting.

“You complainin’?” You press your lips together, pretending to think.

“…No.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes back on the road. “Didn’t think so.” Your fingers drift down, brushing over his knuckles, tracing the roughness there—the scars, the callouses. He flexes his hand slightly under your touch, thumb dragging slow against your thigh in response. The car fills with something quiet after that. Not silence—just… comfort. You lean your head back against the seat, watching him from the side. The way his jaw moves when he’s focused. The slight furrow between his brows. The way his grip tightens just a little every time he shifts gears, like he’s reminding himself you’re there.

“…You’re a big softie, you know that?” you murmur. That gets his attention.

“A what?”

“A softie,” you repeat, smiling to yourself. “Big, scary Frank Castle—actually just a total softie.” He scoffs immediately.

“Yeah, alright.”

“I’m serious.”

“Uh-huh.” You turn toward him more fully now, propping your elbow on the center console.

“You carried every single bag.”

“Didn’t hear you offer.”

“You held my hand when you literally couldn’t.”

“You asked.”

“You opened my car door.”

“That’s manners.”

“You memorized which shirt I was wearing.” His jaw ticks, just slightly.

“That ain’t—”

“And,” you cut in, poking lightly at his arm, “you’re currently petting my thigh like a golden retriever.” That makes him finally look at you properly.

“…I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m drivin’.”

“With one hand.”

“That’s efficient.” You grin, leaning closer.

“You’re still in love with me, though.” He exhales through his nose, but there’s no denial. Not really.

“…You’re a pain in the ass.”

“That’s not a no.” He shakes his head, but his thumb presses a little more firmly into your thigh, like he’s grounding himself.

“You got a lot to say today.”

“You love it.”

“Mm.” You wait. He doesn’t elaborate. Typical. You smile anyway, settling back into your seat, letting your hand rest over his. For a while, it’s just the road. The soft hum of the car. The occasional brush of his thumb. The warmth of the sun slipping through the windshield.

Then—

“…You get tired in there?” You glance at him.

“In the store?”

“Yeah.” You snort.

“From trying on clothes? No.” He nods, like he expected that.

“Looked tired.”

“That’s because you kept staring at me like you were planning something illegal.” He huffs, a quiet laugh slipping out.

“Was thinkin’, taking you into that storage room and bending you over wouldn't be a bad idea, yeah.”

“Frank.”

“What?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Still got you, though.” You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Barely.” He finally smiles at that—small, but real.

“Mm. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

[agxxb]

Hearing Your Smile .𖥔 ݁ ˖

matt murdock x f!reader

summary: you and matt have been seeing each other for a while. it’s only natural that you’d both want to take the next step.

warnings: fluff. friends-to-lovers. soft, unprotected smut (wrap it before you tap it!). oral (fem!receiving). matt is in love with you. user works at nelson & murdock. use of ‘sweetheart’. [3k]

The sidewalks of Hell’s Kitchen still glistened from the rain that had fallen an hour earlier, reflecting the glow of storefront signs and passing headlights in fractured streaks of gold and red. The city never really slept – not in this neighbourhood – and even this late at night there were voices drifting from bars, distant sirens somewhere farther downtown, the low groan of buses lumbering through intersections.

Matt walked beside you with one hand wrapped around yours and the other loosely holding his cane. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder despite the chill in the air, and his tie was loosened. He looked tired in that familiar way he always did lately – like sleep was something that happened to other people – but tonight there was a lightness to him that hadn’t been there in weeks.

Maybe it was because the case at the office had finally settled.

Maybe it was because Foggy had practically shoved the two of you out the door after catching you lingering by Matt’s desk again.

Or maybe it was simply because the two of you had stopped pretending.

“You know,” you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, “Foggy’s getting way too smug about this.”

Matt smiled immediately, the expression slow and crooked. “About what?”

“You and me.”

“That’s fair.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. “He earned the right to be smug. He spent… what, a year listening to me deny I was in love with you?”

You laughed softly. “You denied it?”

“Oh, aggressively.”

“You are such a liar.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he corrected. “Different profession entirely.”

You snorted under your breath, and Matt’s grin widened at the sound. He always reacted to your laughter like it was something precious — something he wanted to memorise. Even now his head tilted slightly toward you, listening closer than sighted people ever did.

It still amazed you sometimes, how attentive he was. Matt noticed everything: the subtle hitch in your breathing when you were stressed, the way your footsteps changed when you were angry, the difference between your real laugh and the fake polite one you used around difficult clients.

Sometimes it felt impossible to hide from him.

Not that you wanted to.

“I still think Karen knew before either of us did.”

“Oh, Karen definitely knew.”

“And she said nothing.”

“She likes watching people suffer.”

“That explains why she works with you.”

Matt barked out a laugh at that – an actual laugh, warm and unguarded – and your chest tightened at the sound. You loved those moments most because they were rarer than they should’ve been. Matt carried so much tension inside himself all the time, so much guilt and responsibility and exhaustion that seemed woven directly into him. But every now and then, usually late at night when the city quieted enough, he let himself relax around you.

And when he did, he was unbearably charming.

“You’re mean to me,” he said lightly.

“You like it.”

His smile softened. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I do.”

The conversation drifted after that into easier things. Stories from the office. Foggy’s latest disastrous attempt at flirting with a waitress during lunch. Fran cornering Matt in the apartment hallway earlier that week to complain about the laundry machines again. Matt mimicked her perfectly, down to her exasperated sighs and sharp little gestures, and you nearly doubled over laughing.

“Don’t encourage her,” you managed between breaths.

“She likes me.”

“She manipulates you.”

“She gives me empanadas.”

“God, you’re easy.”

“You offering food, too?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Maybe.”

“Then I’m yours forever.”

His voice dipped lower on the last part, teasing but sincere underneath it. Your stomach flipped in that ridiculous way it always did when he said things like that — casual little comments that somehow landed with startling honesty.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the laughter had faded into something softer. The street around you buzzed faintly with distant traffic, but your corner of the block felt oddly still. Matt stopped when you did, cane tapping lightly against the concrete before settling beside him, his other hand remaining wrapped around yours.

For a moment neither of you spoke. You looked up at him beneath the amber wash of the streetlamp. His red-tinted glasses hid his eyes, but you could always tell when his attention narrowed entirely onto you. It was in the slight turn of his head, the stillness that came over him, the way his mouth softened at the corners.

His thumb traced another slow line across your hand. Then, quietly and with a small grin pulling at his mouth, he said, “Alright. I’m gonna kiss you.”

You laughed softly, and so did he before he stepped closer, slowly enough to give you time to close the distance yourself if you wanted to. He always did that. Careful in ways people rarely expected him to be. His free hand found your waist gently. Then he kissed you.

At first it was soft — warm lips brushing yours in a slow, familiar rhythm that immediately melted the lingering chill from your skin. Matt kissed like he did everything else emotionally: cautiously at the beginning, like he was trying not to take more than he deserved. But there was always hunger underneath him, too. You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly against your hip. In the quiet breath he exhaled through his nose when you kissed him back harder. In the subtle shift closer until there wasn’t space left between your bodies anymore.

Your hand slid up into his dark hair, and Matt made a soft sound against your mouth that nearly unravelled you on the spot. “Careful,” you murmured teasingly between kisses. “Someone might see us.”

“Mm.” Another kiss. Slower this time. Deeper. “Let them.”

You laughed softly against his lips, but it dissolved into another breath when he tilted his head and kissed you again with more intention. Matt always seemed slightly surprised by affection, even now. Like part of him still expected tenderness to disappear if he held onto it too tightly. Sometimes after long days at the office you’d catch him going quiet when you touched him first, almost stunned by how naturally you did it. And tonight, standing outside your apartment with his mouth warm against yours and his hand steady at your waist, you could feel that same carefulness giving way to something more vulnerable.

He pulled back only slightly, forehead resting against yours. “You know,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “I had an entire walk-home speech planned.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to it?”

“You laughed at me.”

You grinned. “That sounds fragile for a lawyer.”

“It was a very good speech.”

“You can still give it.”

Matt considered that for a second before leaning in to kiss you once more instead — slower now, lingering. “Nah,” he murmured against your lips. “Think I made my point.”

Your heart felt embarrassingly full. You brushed your thumb lightly along his stubbled jaw. “You wanna come upstairs?”

There was the briefest pause — not hesitation exactly, but consideration. Matt was always thoughtful about boundaries, about making sure you meant what you said. Then his expression softened into something warm enough to make your chest ache. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”

You squeezed his hand and guided him toward the apartment entrance. Matt followed easily beside you, cane tapping lightly against the front steps before folding neatly once you got inside. He slipped off his shoes near the door automatically, setting his cane carefully atop the table beside your front door. There was something deeply intimate about that. Not dramatic intimacy. Not cinematic. Just Matt in your apartment late at night, loosening his tie the rest of the way while you kicked off your shoes beside him.

You watched him shrug out of his dress shirt cuffs, rolling them up his forearms with tired precision, before you asked, “You want something to drink?”

“Water’s good.”

“Boring answer.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

Matt leaned against your kitchen counter, smiling faintly. “Occupational hazard.” You handed him a glass, and his fingers brushed yours when he took it. “Thank you.”

There was that softness again. That quiet sincerity he carried into small moments when nobody else was paying attention. You moved closer without really thinking about it, resting your hand lightly against his chest. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat was steady and strong, and Matt covered your hand with his own immediately.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He nodded once. “Yeah,” he said after a second. “Just… happy.” The honesty in it caught you off guard. Matt ducked his head slightly afterward like he regretted admitting it aloud, but you smiled and stepped closer instead.

“You know,” you murmured, “for someone who planned a whole speech, you’re getting really sentimental.”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

You laughed quietly, and Matt smiled again before reaching for you instinctively, fingertips brushing your waist until he found you completely.

Then he pulled you in gently, pressing another lingering kiss to your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. There was no urgency, no hunger — just a deep, patient affection that made your heart ache. You felt his other hand settle at the small of your back, pulling you against him. The warmth of his body seeped through the layers of your clothes.

You pulled back after a long, languid moment and took his hand. “Come with me.”

He followed without hesitation, his fingers interlaced with yours as you led him through your apartment and into your bedroom. The room was dim, lit only by the city glow filtering through the curtains. You turned to face him, and he stood there, his head tipped slightly downward as if he could see your outline with his other senses.

You reached for the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head. He heard the soft rustle of fabric, and a quiet breath escaped him. “Let me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped forward, his hands finding your shoulders first, then sliding down your arms. He traced the straps of your bra, then hooked his fingers under them, easing them down. Each movement was deliberate, reverent, as if he were memorising every inch of you through touch alone. You undid the clasp of your bra and let it fall, and his hands skimmed over your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples.

You shivered under his touch before you returned the favour, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, pressing kisses to his collarbone as the fabric parted. He let out a low hum of pleasure, his head falling back. You pushed the shirt off his broad shoulders, and soon, you were both naked, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your skin.

Matt reached for you, pulling you into a kiss that turned deep and searching. Then he guided you gently backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, urging you to lean down onto your elbows, then onto your back as he followed you, settling his hips between your thighs. The weight of him was grounding, solid, but there was no rush. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips.

He removed his glasses, setting them on your bedside table, before he began to press a trail of soft kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, between your breasts. His lips travelled lower, his hands caressing your ribs, your stomach. When he reached your thighs, he parted them gently, settling his shoulders between your legs and kissing the inside of your thigh, then the other, each kiss deliberate and tender. When his mouth found the heat between your legs, you gasped, your hand reaching down to grip his hair.

Matt ate you out slowly, his tongue working in long, languid strokes. His fingers parted your slick folds, and he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks through your body. He took his time, drawing out every sensation, learning your rhythms.

“Fuck,” you moaned softly, brows pinching lightly and head falling back against the pillow momentarily before lifting your head again to watch him between your thighs. When he found the spot that made you arch your back, he lingered there, coaxing you higher until you finally shattered — a soft cry escaping your lips as he drank you in, his hands stroking your hips through the aftershocks.

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips tasting of yourself. He found your mouth and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock pressed against your thigh, hard and ready, but he didn’t rush. He reached down between you, his fingers brushing your slick entrance, making sure you were ready, and then he was guiding himself to your opening.

“Okay?” he asked, his forehead against yours.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely, and you both let out a long, shuddering breath. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. Then he began to move — slow, deep, steady thrusts that rocked your body into the mattress. His rhythm was gentle, each roll of his hips a silent declaration of care.

“That’s it, sweetheart…” Matt murmured, his hand coming up to rest on the front of your throat. Not to squeeze, not to exert any pressure — just to feel.

His palm lay flat against your skin, his fingers lightly curving around your neck, and you realised what he was doing. He was feeling the vibrations of your pleasure — the hum of your moans, the pulse of your heartbeat, the tremors that ran through your body. His eyes were closed, his lips parted, his expression one of rapt concentration, as if he were reading you like braille.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I can feel every sound you make. Every little gasp. God, I love that.”

You reached up and threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging gently as he thrust deeper. He groaned, and the sound was raw, honest, unguarded. He lowered his head to bury his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His hand never left your throat, his thumb stroking softly across your pulse point.

The pace built gradually, not frantic but more urgent, more intimate. His hips pressed harder, his breathing grew ragged, and you felt him losing himself in the feel of you. He whispered your name like a prayer, over and over, his movements growing sloppier as his climax approached. You were close again, too, the friction and the heat and the tenderness pushing you toward the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispered against your ear. “Let me feel it.”

His words, his touch, the steady rhythm of his body — it was enough. A few deep thrusts later, his hips angled *just right*, and suddenly he struck that hidden place inside you that unravelled everything at once. The jolt of pleasure was white-hot, tearing through you so swiftly that you couldn’t hold it back. A moan spilled from your pillowed lips as your body clenched around him, pulsing in waves you couldn’t control. He didn’t falter — he drove into you steadily, prolonging the bliss until you were shaking beneath him. Your breath hitched and your thighs trembled as the ecstasy consumed you, your eyes squeezed shut whilst every nerve lit like fire.

That was all he needed. With a low, broken moan, he pressed his face into the crook of your neck and buried himself to the hilt as he emptied himself inside you, spilling inside you with a shudder that seemed to wring every last ounce of tension from his body. His hips ground into yours, his body tense, as he rode out the waves with you, his hips stuttering to a halt.

He collapsed against you, his weight a reassuring pressure, his face buried in your hair. You both lay there, breathing hard, the only sounds your mingled heartbeats and the distant sirens of Hell’s Kitchen. After a long moment, he shifted, pulling out gently and rolling onto his side, one arm wrapping around you and pulling you close.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Thank you,” he said softly, the words full of meaning beyond just the moment.

You turned in his arms to face him, your hand finding his cheek. “For what?”

“For trusting me,” he said, his thumb tracing your spine.

You kissed him, soft and slow, and felt him smile against your lips. The night outside hummed on, but in your small apartment, wrapped in Matt’s arms, time felt like it had no meaning. You were just two people, learning each other, one gentle touch at a time. When you pulled back, Matt’s forehead rested against yours, his breathing finally evening out in the quiet dark. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the radiator hissing softly somewhere across the apartment, but he stayed close like he couldn’t quite bear to put any distance between you yet.

His fingers moved lazily along your arm, memorising you in the absent, affectionate way he always did. You had started noticing it weeks ago — how Matt touched like he was learning a language nobody else could hear.

“You’re smiling,” he murmured suddenly.

You let out a quiet laugh. “You can tell?”

“I can hear it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does to me.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, and you felt him grin faintly before he turned his head, pressing another kiss against your temple this time — slower, sleepier. The kind of kiss that held no urgency at all.

Just affection.

Just Matt.

[noglimpseofvisualaid]

all these faces, all this fun is overrated ▸ college!matt murdock x reader

[ao3]

summary: If you were finally going to allow yourself Matt—allow the indulgence that had you burning for him day after day, night after night—you quickly came to the realization that it would be now. It would be tonight. And it would be before there was any chance you could talk yourself out of it. warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI bc oh god is this smutty. banter as foreplay, mutual pining, matt's an established whore, slightly buzzed but otherwise consenting adults, the porn that grew feelings, fingering (f!receiving), grinding, heavy petting, unintentional edging (if you squint), oral (f!receiving), matt has an oral fixation (if you really squint), unprotected piv sex, creampie(s), overstimulation, general filth, and feelings did I say feelings yet | afab!reader wc: ...28,463 a/n: after god knows how long (3 weeks! sob!) i finally finished this fic. first, it was around 5k and I was like okay! it's taking a bit to get to the vision. then it hit 9k and I went oops okay so this is getting pretty long. next thing i knew, i wasn't writing the fic anymore, it was writing me, and i was just the vessel it chose to get it out onto the internet. that being said, i swear this was literally originally supposed to be like a 3k filth oneshot based off that gd MSI song that went with that tiktok trend bc i couldn't get it out of my head. the exact vibes were lost in the feelings and plot that slapped me across the face, but i ripped the title from it in honour of this fic's humble beginnings. i worked so hard on what is actually like. my first full blown smutty fic ever so. please, i hope everyone enjoys!

It wasn’t fair of you to say Foggy had convinced you to come to this party. That would be giving him too much credit. You did make him beg first.

The worst part was that you unfortunately understood why he was so insistent. That between mid-term preparations, the job you worked to pay for your off-campus apartment, and the fact that it'd take counting more than your fingers—you would need not just another set of hands, but maybe also some feet to accurately portray the amount of days last since you’d been able to spend any time doing anything you wanted—the accusation that you were beyond stressed couldn’t be dismissed without its rightful merits.

But agreeing with him hadn’t been enough to breach your resolve. You and Foggy Nelson had two different definitions when it came to the word ‘break’. Relief came to you in the quiet moments where there was no work to be done; in the time you spent doing what you wanted, or simply in some much neglected self-care. Foggy found his in letting loose with cheap alcohol and loud music, seeking out the right environments to safely let his frustrations and stress shake free until the burden felt lifted. You had originally shot back that you couldn’t afford the headache. Or the hangover. He retorted simply that you were too tense and probably needed to get laid. Maybe you were and maybe you did. You weren’t going to give him that satisfaction simply because it hadn’t been enough to sway your decision.

Then came the preceding week leading up to it, and Foggy's asks became teasingly persistent. The simple yes or no question of whether or not you'd go evolving into increasingly persuasive reasons he thought you should: There'd be non-alcoholic drinks. The house was big enough to have more than enough rooms to duck away and hide in. If you weren’t vibing, there would be no one forcing you to stay. He was your friend and would promise not to leave you alone and that he just wanted to see you have some fun before exams beat both of your asses.

Your ‘no’s’ had become hesitant over time, the reasons against why you shouldn't go quickly being overshadowed by the fact that you not only had the day off from your job the next evening, but also only one afternoon class to worry about. Not to mention that Foggy Nelson had a charm that made it nearly impossible to argue against—that being the tough to swallow truth that he was usually always annoyingly right. 

You began to realize that maybe a party wouldn't be too bad. Maybe it'd be good to be in a place that wasn't your apartment, workplace, or lecture halls. Maybe it'd be good to interact with people other than your friend, even if it was stupid and drunken conversations you might not even remember. Maybe it'd be good to flirt around because he damn sure hit the nail on the head when it came to clocking the pent up sexual frustration you’ve been trying to ignore.

He knew he got you when he’d cornered you in the campus library the day before the party, both hands down on the table in front of you, a mischievous grin glinting against the blue in his eyes and the words ‘Matt will be there’ coming out teasing and far more knowing than you appreciated. You had rolled your eyes, shut your book, and turned to leave him behind before he could only add the flush that quickly rose to your cheeks as fuel to the fire. But it had been no use—he'd caught up to you in no time, matching your step in stride and launching into a victorious animated speech, the sound ringing louder than it had any right to be in his voice. 

“Party starts at seven, but we won't be there until nine or so. I'll text you the address. Wear something comfy. I'm so down to fist fight any weirdos or creeps to defend your honor. And oh! Put on that really subtle perfume Matt likes, he'll go crazy.”

And it didn’t matter how long you’d spent your time getting ready grumbling about Foggy’s audacity. In the end, he had won. In the end, it only took a quick glance at your phone to make sure you were in the right place. In the end, it was now nine-forty at night and you were standing in front of the door that separated you from the party already in full swing inside. 

You didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that the mention of Matt Murdock was the icepick stabbed into the glass that shattered every defense and half-assed excuse that had you stalling your answer for the better part of a week. In defense of your say in the matter, you refused to give any more ammunition to Foggy. The fact that he had not only already picked up on the almost ridiculous sized crush you had on his best friend, but was more than willing to weaponize it against you kept you reeled in, in spite of his unsuccessful attempts. Why he thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to get together, you would never know. Between Matt’s well-known revolving door of commitment issues, and the promise you made to yourself to not to fuck around with anyone not worth it for the long haul, it didn’t matter how attractive you found him: Matt Murdock would be nothing but trouble.

That being said, you told yourself you dug that perfume out from where you’d misplaced it among your other products because you liked it, and not at all because the thought of giving the blind man something else to recognize you by made your chest tighten with a theoretical satisfaction. 

Just as you were telling yourself he had no sway over why you were currently twisting the knob to the front door. You wanted to be there. Have a couple of drinks, relax, and have some of the fun you’d been putting on the back burner for the last month and a half. And if you also had a chance to check Matt out and fantasize about a couple of things, then hey, you were supposed to enjoy yourself tonight anyway.

It was the music that hit you first. Loud, catchy, and with enough bass to remind you of sitting front row during your high school’s orchestra performances whenever the brass sections would be featured, but amped up to twenty. You were already buzzing out of your skin and the door had barely shut behind you. Casting your sight out, you noticed a couple of people you didn’t know wave at your arrival, and you managed to give a polite smile as you began to weave yourself through the crowd of moving bodies. If the outside was anything to go off of, Foggy had been right; this place was huge. You had entered a foyer that opened up to a hall that connected its adjoining rooms with large marble arches that gave the impression of distinction, but allowed for direct sightlines from the hall, living, and dining rooms. All of which were packed to the brim with both people you recognize from and around Columbia, and other faces you wouldn’t even begin to try to remember. You made a mental note to ask Foggy who was throwing this party and if they were a rich socialite or what. 

It was warm, despite your notice of the window air conditioner units and box fans set up in every room you shimmied through, passing through people dancing and chatting. All things considered, with the amount of bodies in the building, the machines were working overtime to keep it as comfortable as it was. The air was thick with that heat as well as the faint smell of weed and heavy fog of alcohol that mingled in every breath you took. Interestingly enough, through the initial overwhelm and nervous jitters, you felt yourself beginning to relax. There were no expectations here. No deadlines, or professors, or bosses. Just the inviting thrum of the music, the beckoning call of a cold drink, and the thought of just maybe being able to let off some steam. 

You followed the trail some people holding cups left, navigating to where you could only hope had a path to a kitchen, passing a flight of stairs that looked like it led up to a hall with an endless amount of rooms until you pushed open a double-action door that revealed a large tiled kitchen. Your eyes scanned over the buffet of chips, finger foods, and other junk meant to be enjoyed before cholesterol caught up in old age spread out appeasingly on an island counter until they swept the room, catching on the stainless steel of the refrigerator. It wasn’t until you were contemplating your choices, bent over to gaze at your pick of poisons, that you realized you weren’t exactly sure what you were looking to get out of the night. So until you figured it out, you were satisfied with grabbing a bottle of water, grateful for something cold and crisp as you shut the fridge, shuffled out of the way so the other people filtering in and out would have room, and leant against the counter, taking a few sips as you pulled your phone from your pocket.

Shooting Foggy a quick message letting him know you made it there easily enough, you sighed into your surroundings, closing your eyes while you tracked the next gulp of water travel through you, welcoming the chill down your spine and the clarity it brought to your mind as you thought. You truly weren’t sure what you were expecting out of your showing up. Having some fun, of course. But when it came down to it, that was only a base level goal. You had options: you could dance until your feet fell off. Drink enough to feel bold and weightless and have to come back to pick up your car in the morning. Do something stupid with someone pretty. You pursed your lips—you could do all of the above.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.” Your head jerked up at the sound of Foggy’s voice, bottle halfway to your lips before you swiveled to see him holding open the door for someone exiting the kitchen as he came in. His smile was infectious, and you felt one mirroring in your own features as a gentle relief filled you, the distant memory of his promise to not leave you alone and enjoy the night with you echoing faintly and you were grateful to have a friend like him as he hopped over to you, swinging the door to the fridge open and pulling out two beers from a brand you didn’t recognize. “What happened to giving that hard-working brain a rest?”

“This hard-working brain needs to form a gameplan, Fog.” You laughed, finishing up your water as he crossed the room, held out a bottle to you and settled into a spot next to your side. “Figure out what I should expect.”

He frowned playfully, poking your shoulder with a firm finger, “You,” his opening statement was emphasised by a wiggle against your arm, “shouldn’t expect anything. You’ve made it to this cool party, so now enjoy the party! Do what you feel is right! Go with the flow! What do you wanna do?”

“Not sure.” You answer honestly, shaking your head with a light chuckle, twisting off the cap to the beer and taking a tentative sip. The taste had you second-guessing whether you should drink it at all, but it was beer and it would get the job done. “What’s going on around here?”

Foggy sighed, following your actions and shrugging. You noticed the pink dotting his face, the tenseness already gone from his shoulders. He’s barely been there more than a half-hour before you arrived, yet he already looked incredibly care-free. Maybe you really should take notes. “Nothing much upstairs, since those are all the bedrooms. Mainly dancing and stuff out there. There’s a few card tables set up on the patio by the pool if strip poker and skinny dipping appeal to you at all.” You snorted into your drink, raising your eyebrows as he continued. “I was planning on heading back down to the basement—bringing you with me, of course.”

“What’s down there?” You groaned slightly as you stood back up straight, the tension you carried yourself cruelly making itself aware in a threatening tease, and followed the nod of Foggy’s head and his lead as the both of you crossed the threshold back into the main party. He raised his voice so you could hear him over the noise. 

“Well for starters, it’s so much quieter. Matt basically made a beeline when he realized he could go down there. But it’s also just chill. Hangout space, mostly. Couple of games going, few joints being passed around, but nothing you don’t have to join if you don’t want.”

You hummed an acknowledging reply as he led you back to the stairs that led to the second floor, and to a door just to the side of them you hadn’t noticed your first go around. You swallowed hard as you descended behind Foggy, shutting the door behind you and feeling for the railing even though the light above the stairs was bright enough for you to see your way. An excitement rose in the pit of your stomach, giddy and childish, at the thought of seeing Matt down there, but you squashed it down just as fast as it came, the words ridiculous and get yourself together slapping across it and you found yourself dragging another mouthful of beer in the moment your feet landed on the basement floor as a means to prime yourself for whatever the night held for you. 

The basement was dimly lit, well furnished, and while still moderately packed, incredibly calmer than the first floor. Most noticeably, it was quieter—quiet enough that a small speaker was able to softly play its own music, a smooth R&B playlist going on to filter in with the background noise of chatter, footsteps thumping from above, and the amicable laughing from the apparent groups of friends clumping together in the space. You started to sweep over the room before you realized that Foggy was moving without you and you wasted no time catching up, trailing behind him until you reached a couple of couches pressed up against the corner. There were a few seats left, one of which Foggy didn’t hesitate taking next to Matt, flopping down onto the couch with a pleased noise that had to be exaggerated, or else that had to be the comfiest couch in existence. 

Your chest tightened for a moment, heart doing a flip in your chest at the sight of him. Matt, with an easy smile on his lips, drink in hand, dark lenses over his eyes, and unbuttoned shirt over a thin white tee. Once upon a time, you balked at Foggy’s confrontation about how you felt about Matt, your instinct to deny, not willing to believe you were that obvious. But as you stood just off to the side of the couch, your eyes shamelessly lingering where his shirt stretched across his chest, almost tight enough to map out the shape of his pecs underneath, and trailing up his neck, you knew for damn sure you were as obvious as fire truck sirens in a burning city—even when your blatant staring led your gaze to where that easy smile was pointed in the direction of a pretty brunette on his other side. Well, you thought mournfully to yourself and pointedly looked away when her eyes flickered to yours, a look of wanting all too familiar on her face because you’ve caught it too often on your own, definitely still attractive. 

Huffing a sigh, you go to take the seat next to Foggy with plans to rest against the arm of the couch and sink into it much like him, but as you approached, you just barely caught the way Foggy’s eyes shifted from you, to Matt, and to the seat you were turning to take before an all too impish smile accompanied the way he suddenly slid into the corner seat and patted the cushion next to him. You stalled for just a moment, surprised betrayal dropping your jaw as Foggy tried to hide his content smile behind a non-chalant sip of beer.

“Gonna sit?” Foggy couldn’t help himself, and you shot him the dirtiest glare you could muster in the split second you had before your loitering would become awkward and you turned to sit in the last spot available to you. Next to Foggy, but also, very purposely—and you would be sure to harbor this grudge as leverage against him for however long you could get away with—next to Matt. 

“Remind me to pencil killing you into my schedule for next week.” You hissed as you sat down, indignation stuttering as in fact, the couch was incredibly comfortable. But your point had been made, you couldn’t enjoy the nice fluffy couch, and Foggy cackled next to you as you were slowly made all too aware of the fact that if you shifted over even slightly, you’d be brushing up against Matt’s side. He has to be trying to make you suffer, you were sure of it. This wasn’t clumsy matchmaking, this was psychological torture. 

Foggy laughed again, louder, when you kicked his leg softly out of the way so you could adjust in your spot. “I’m a little busy then. Do you mind pushing my murder back a few weeks?” 

“Extensions are only for friends who aren’t also trying to kill me.” 

“I literally have no clue what you’re talking about,” He sang under his breath, blissful and entirely perceptive to the way you choked the neck of your bottle.

“Your days are numbered, Nelson. Count them.”

“Who’s committing murder?” 

You jumped at the sound of Matt’s voice, and you turned your head to see his head turned toward you and Foggy. A playful smile tugged his lips as he tilted his face, and your name passed through them in a quiet question; a gentle wonder if he was addressing the right person, and you suddenly felt horrible for not letting him know you were there first. If your offered greeting was sheepish and soft, it was only because you held yourself up to a higher standard. Not at all because you watched Matt lean in ever so slightly, as if being closer could help him discern you. 

“Hi.” His smile widened at the sound of your voice, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped in your chest. 

“Hi.” You returned, unable to help the smile of your own as your eyes quickly darted around his face. It wasn’t like it had been an eternity since you’ve last seen him—being friends with Foggy more often than not meant hanging out with him also meant hanging out with Matt—but it was always nice to check the mental boxes of what made this man so appealing to you. The crinkles by his eyes when he smiled like that. The way his hair swept down onto his face. The fullness of his pink lips. When you felt yourself staring, your heart beginning to race, you cleared your throat and took another sip from your bottle. 

Matt shifted next to you, angling himself closer as he adjusted on the couch. Curious, knowing he was talking to someone, you glanced over his shoulder to find his other side empty. 

“Where’d your friend go?” The question came out before you even thought about it, borne of both a curiosity and masochistic urge to know, and you quickly found her retreating body settling down in a group of people sitting in what looked like a circle on the floor a few yards away. 

Matt’s brow twitched before he sighed, shrugging his shoulders like dismissing beautiful women was a simple pastime he couldn’t be bothered with. “Ah, it wasn’t going anywhere, so I told her she should go enjoy herself.” 

“Oh, let me tell you, she wanted it to go somewhere.” You scoffed against the glass, remembering the look of desire you caught. A little while longer, if you didn’t interrupt, and she might have gotten it. A sliver of green jealousy you couldn’t help rose at the mental image of Matt between her legs—or anyone else's, for that matter—but you quickly stomped that down into the closest recess of your mind you could manage. It would be helping no one, and certainly not you, for you to unpack any of that.

“I know,” Matt said airly, deep breath filling his lungs before letting his head and voice dip toward you. “But you’re here now, and I enjoy talking to you much more.”

You stared Matt down, keeping a straight face your only defense to the way his voice shot straight through you. It was hard to tell if there was an implication he ended that conversation for you or if you were simply losing it. So you ignored the way you felt heat stir in the pit of your belly, ignored the way Matt seemed to wait for you expectantly, head cocked and smile turned teasing, ignored the way Foggy shook silently with laughter next to you—you could handle it. So he wanted to flirt. He’s done this before. You do it too. Yeah…you can handle it.

“Sure you do.” Flippantly, you hummed, and Matt’s leg brushed against yours as he shifted to prop his head up on his hand, elbow on the back of the couch. A tingle washed over you then, light and full of a crackling potential, before it dissipated across the surface of your skin. “You should say goodbye to Foggy, by the way. He might not be here in a few days.”

“Should you be confessing ideals of premeditated crime to me?”

“Oh this isn't a confession. It’s a statement. I’m just telling you everything so there’s no surprises during the trial. Which, you’ll be representing me, of course, Counsellor.”

Matt grinned. “I don’t know, I haven’t quite passed the bar yet. Besides, I might be biased. Considering he’s my best friend and all. Lines get even blurrier when you take into account my prior knowledge of this first-degree murder. I’ll have you know, by telling me this, I’m well within my moral means to stop you.”

You raised your drink, letting the invitation of the alcohol spur you on as it warmed your body. Despite yourself, you were having fun, honeying your words as excitement thrummed through you. “Go ahead.” Slyly, you lowered your voice. “Stop me.”

Admittedly, watching Matt’s reaction did more to you than you thought it would. He paused just for a moment, sitting in the weight of your statement before he wet his lips—an action you followed all too closely—and brought his own bottle up to his mouth, smirk hiding around the edges. You watched the way his throat worked down his drink, unable to stop the thoughts of wanting to kiss down the motion. You knew he couldn’t see, yet it seemed that behind those dark frames, he was fixed entirely onto you. 

Desire loomed just under your skin, itching to strike flint against the kindling, but you were quick to abate. Teasing was fun, but you had to remind yourself that that’s all it was: teasing. For as much as you wanted to grab Matt Murdock’s face and make out with him on his lap right there on the couch, or drag him out to your car and lead him to your apartment, party be damned, you also couldn’t bring yourself to do anything you would regret. And Matt, in all his bed-warming glory, would be something you’d regret. One fun night wouldn’t dull the ache you felt in foolishly wanting to be something more, something meaningful with him. Exclusivity wasn’t a word he knew. Or at least one frequently honoured, if you pieced anything about him together correctly.

A flicker of embarrassment wasn’t the only thing that warmed your face as you sat back against the couch, dropping your head and letting your eyes flutter shut against the picture of the ceiling, but it was what you focused on as you let out a deep breath. Maybe it was silly of you, to want a relationship. You definitely felt silly, knowing that most of your peers—including the ones at this party—most likely weren’t looking for anything serious. It was hard enough, getting into Columbia. And working during your graduate program on top of that…no wonder short-term flings or one night stands were so popular. And as worked up as you were, however tempted you might get, you told yourself you weren’t looking for throwaway easy stress relief. At least, not with Matt. Briefly, you contemplated if you would go home with someone tonight, someone you wouldn’t have to remember the name of, or face again in your small circle of friends. Someone just to help ease the ache that always grew tenfold whenever you let Matt get to you; someone to help you pretend. The thought flickered before you shook it from your mind. You frowned, feeling wrong to even be thinking about it with Matt right there, and stretching your spine as you felt Foggy bounce on the couch by your side.

“That has to be a record, you two,” Foggy threw out casually into the air. “Should I give you the couch? Clear out the basement?”

“You can keep dreaming.” You chuckled as you quickly dragged your hand down your face, sitting back up. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, face screwing up into a frown before he rolled his eyes. “So what’s the plan, gang? Getting wasted? Should we plot world domination? Or—”

“Foggy! Matt!” Your heads swivelled to the sound of the voice calling them, and you spotted a guy with cropped blond hair that’s sitting in the circle you noticed earlier waving his arms up. You didn’t know him, but obviously your friends did. “Come play with us! And bring whoever’s with you, the more people the better.”

Foggy’s face lit up. “Or we could play—”

“No.” Matt said simply.

It dimmed just as fast. 

“Why not! Don’t you wanna feel like a pre-teen again?”

You watched as Matt grimaced, but not without amusement. “Not necessarily, no. I went through enough getting to my twenties. Totally fine not participating in middle school games.”

Glancing between them, and spotting that blond man again as there was a sudden cheer from the circle, you bit the bait. “Okay, so what are they playing over there?”

“Take a guess,” Matt leaned in closer to you, and it took a decent modicum of strength not to study his profile from the angle, holding up his beer like he was scrutinizing it before you realized he was displaying it out in front of him for example. “There’s a bottle, drunk undergrads, and a closet the next room over.”

You felt a laugh bubble up from your chest as you finished off your own drink, squinting over at the circle and watching as someone from the group leant forward to spin a bottle, and two of them were ushered into another room off the basement. “Oh, that is so middle school.” 

“But it could be fun!” Foggy sighed, like he was contemplating but not quite arriving at a decision. “Besides, you don’t gotta go make out with someone. There’s like, truth or dare or something. Unless standing in a cramped space making awkward conversation is your thing.”

Rolling your eyes, you snorted. “I’ll pass.” The idea greeting you with a childish humor—alongside the gut selfish thought of how you’d be a horrible player, and would only choose the closet if that bottle landed on Matt.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed in a soft voice, and you had to tell yourself he wasn’t looking at you. He literally couldn’t. “Me too.”

“So it’s been decided.” Foggy nodded his head once, slashing his hands through the air. “World domination it is, then?”

“Think I might need another drink before I’m meant to get nefarious,” You said, leaning forward and placing your empty bottle on a small coffee table in front of you. “But by all means, where do we start?”

But when Foggy doesn’t answer you, and questioningly, you look over to see his gaze fixed on a group of people that just descended into the basement. As if sensing your question, you hear Matt’s voice close to your ear, his breath hot and low. And even though he didn't even say anything remotely sensual, the shiver that ran down your spine was imagining he did. “Think the NYU 3L’s just got here.”

“Oh no.” An oxymoron, given your grin, watching as Foggy began to frantically smooth out his shirt. “I think—” Your eyes scanned over the new heads dispersing around the room until you spotted the sway of blonde hair tied up high. “Yup, she’s here. And he’ll be gone in three, two…” 

“I um,” Foggy shot up, hands combing nervously through his hair as he turned, torn between addressing the two of you and glancing over to where Marci Stahl just sat down in the spin the bottle circle, “think I might go play afterall. I’ll just be- you know where to find me!” You and Matt erupted into laughter, cheering as Foggy stumbled his way over, hovering only long enough to strategically pick a seat before plopping himself down and sending you a thumbs up. 

“Ugh,” you groaned playfully, and it wasn’t hard to miss the way Matt stretched to rest his arm behind you when he settled back down. And you leant into it, his forearm behind your neck and his fingertips lightly grazing your shoulder in lazy passes. “Young love. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

“If growing up means Foggy still thinking there’s any way she’ll give him a shot, then sure.”

“Put that cynicism aside, Murdock.” You looked over to see his brows shoot up in amusement, then even further when you plucked his bottle out of his hand. “They’re gonna Romeo and Juliet that shit—sans poison, just you wait.”

Matt chuckled. “You can get your own beer, you know.”

“Payment.” You took a sip, watching him from the corner of your eye. “For thinking you were slick enough to pull this off.”

He pressed his fingers into your shoulder purposefully then, caressing a line where he could reach, then back up. “What, this?” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk, a flash of teeth. “Guess I’ll note that a little affection means you wouldn’t be above stealing a blind guy’s drink.”

“Yet somehow, I don’t feel bad at all.”

“Didn’t think so.” Matt shimmied in his seat, getting comfortable when he reached through the air to grab his drink back. You guided it to his hand and watched as he sighed into another swig, licking his lips again and you almost swore he bit back a low groan that still escaped, feeling a rumble where you pressed against his side, despite his effort. “Mm, I actually think you feel pretty good right now.”

“Yeah?” Nonplussed, and completely aware of how your heart beat quickly behind your ribs, “How’d you figure?”

“One can hazard a guess.” He turned toward you, and you met his face with enough conviction to try and see through the black lenses and try to get a glimpse of his eyes behind them. “But also,” he dropped his voice to a whisper as he shifted closer. You’re not sure if he knew just how close he was to your ear or not, but the heat of his words licked down your spine. “You haven’t pulled away from me yet.” 

Unable to help it, your gaze dropped to his lips as you swayed back just to breathe. He was so close to you, it would barely take anything to kiss him. A few inches forward. An upward angle of your head. And it was tempting, as you stared longer than you should have, breath catching in your lungs at how they were parted so prettily, hinging on as if on an unspoken word. Or an invitation. If this were anyone else, they probably would have clocked the intent you beat down and have done it already. But Matt couldn’t see the way your eyes darkened, or the way your chest rose and fell slightly quicker. There was always part of you that thought he had to know, or at least, in his words, be pretty spot on with his guesswork. You supposed Matt knew the effect he had on people, and how you weren’t much different.

You may have thought any different, but you apparently loved the self-punishment that came with declining his every attempt to tempt you into dark corners and private rooms, it seemed. 

“Don’t think anything of it. Just comfy.” You rolled your neck, leaning back against his arm. “Don’t need that head of yours getting any bigger.”

“Oh, but don’t you wanna see how big it can get?”

You groaned, ignoring the traitorous way your stomach fluttered at the double entendre or how the baritone of his voice travelled straight in a quick clean pulse between your legs. You would not think about the size of his dick. You would not look down at the crotch of his jeans. “You ruined it, Matt. Really. Got me going there and everything. Might’ve rerolled your chances.”

He threw his head back and laughed, deep and real. “Sure I did.”

Then, there was a silence. A moment passed between the two of you that was easy to settle in. Found in the overlap of too loud voices, the faint sounds of Mario Kart, the background beat of Frank Ocean, and the creeping alcohol flushing through your bloodstream. It made it easy then, sharing the rest of Matt’s drink and just soaking in the environment. A hum formed in the back of your throat, pleasant and almost content; and for the first time that night, you started to actually feel relaxed, tucked into Matt’s side on a comfy couch in someone’s basement. 

But the thought didn’t linger for long, your brow furrowing at the realization that you could get used to this, to easy comfort and sharing a beer. That you wanted to get used to it. That maybe next time, you could steal his drink away in a bout of distraction, in a kiss, perhaps. That you’d be leaving just as you arrived: together. That you wouldn’t have to suffer showing up to parties you only went to for him just to see him flirting with other people anymore, simply because he would be yours.

But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t be. And you’ve already made your peace with that. Because that’s just how it was, selfish thoughts aside. You could flirt with Matt Murdock, let him flirt with you. But that’s as far as you would ever let it go. Because if you ever gave in, you wouldn’t be able to help yourself from wanting more. You wouldn’t be able to take anything he wouldn’t be willing to give.

You inhaled sharply, sitting up and moving away. An inch. It was truly only an inch. But an inch was more than noticeable when your thigh had been fully pressed into his. You never truly realize just how warm someone is until you lose contact. Or just how cold you leave them.

“Are you okay?” 

Matt followed you to where you sat at the edge of the cushion, straightening his back, and you almost missed the way he hesitated before deciding to place both of his hands in his lap. “Hm?”

“You…you got quiet. Is something wrong?” Your face twitched against a pout at the earnestness in his voice, soft and simple. “Did I- was it the joke? Not feeling it today?”

You shook your head, a dry chuckle escaping. “No, Matt. No it wasn’t you, don’t worry.” He seemed to relax then. You didn’t notice how much he had tensed at the thought of him making you uncomfortable until you saw his shoulders sag. “I…yeah. Don’t worry.”

He frowned. “You’re telling me not to worry, but your entire mood just changed.” He stated pointedly. “I can- I don’t know, it’s like I can feel it. Tell me what’s up.”

You sighed, heavy and full. You didn’t know if you could tell him even if you wanted to. You and Matt were friends—or at least, you thought you were—but you weren’t particularly close despite the fact that Matt tended to be an open book with you. Purposefully, you’ve kept yourself from establishing that return in connection, from wanting to indulge in him to weather your frustrated rants or hold safe a few of your secrets. That kind of connection would only make the way you felt about him worse, if you craved him not only under the sheets but as a confidant. It was bad enough that you wanted him so much based on what you knew of him just from this last year since you’ve met him—being exactly your type in more than just looks and humor. You never could quite find it in yourself to cross that line, because then you knew, you’d truly be lost. 

“I’m fine, Matt.”

“You’re not.”

Defensive, and upset with yourself for not being able to just be normal about him, you couldn't control your tone. “What’s it even matter to you?” You spit back, your eyes widening just as you said it, and a lick of regret stinging the back of your throat from how sharp the words came out. 

You watched Matt, taken aback, confusion and…something else you couldn’t quite place creeping onto his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance. 

“Murdock!” Glaring, your eyes snapped back to that same blond guy that called out to Matt and Foggy earlier. “Bottle landed on you man. Get your ass over here!”

Without even thinking, you called out in his defense. “He’s not even playing. Spin it again.”

“You have to see how clearly it’s pointing to him!” And you did. A quick glance, and you could see over the distance that there was a clean gap between seated bodies, the open bottleneck of a long empty drink pointed barrel straight across the room. There was no doubt, if someone were to draw an arrow from it horizontally until it reached another, the line would hit Matt dead and center. 

For a split second, you watched Matt’s jaw tick with a restraint that you couldn’t decide if it was rooted in anger, annoyance, or a special third thing you just weren’t picking up on, opting safely for all of the above. You went to go roll your eyes, to tell Matt to ignore them. But then suddenly, he grabbed your hand, fingers wrapping around yours as his other one reached down to where his cane was on the ground by his side. 

“Come on,” He murmured, only loud enough for you to hear. “Let's go somewhere quieter.”

Confusion sent a shock through your system, a gentle short-circuit as it felt like you blinked and the dynamic changed drastically. “Aren’t we already somewhere quieter?”

He sent you a small sardonic smile, tugging your hand as he stood up. You tried not to think about how warm his palm felt in this moment that caught you off guard, or the slight callousness of his fingertips where they pressed against your skin as you followed. “Private, then. So we can talk.”

The question sat on your tongue as Matt began to move swifter than you thought he would, dipping out his cane and taking careful, measured, yet confident strides before your brain could even catch up. Talk. He wanted to talk. Your reply came out in a whisper you weren’t sure if he heard. “Okay.”

The both of you were already across the basement floor before you started to hear a sound of a protest. One you intentionally ignored to instead tell Matt about the stairs coming up. The angle ascending was weird, and you didn’t want to inhibit his navigation in any way, so you gently slipped your hand from his, but not without muttering an assurance that you were right behind him. 

The main party was just as loud as ever, and you swore you saw Matt take a deep breath and brace himself before he opened the door that led from the basement, and you couldn’t blame him. He waited until you stepped out, shut the door behind you, before his fingers caught the hem of your shirt and he leant down so you could hear him better. “Upstairs?”

You nodded your head, momentarily forgetting he wouldn’t have picked up on the gesture as you guided him through the luckily sparser crowd in the hallway until you rounded the corner of the staircase. Matt found the railing, and you looked at him. He motioned for you to lead the way. This house really was huge. And the assumption you had earlier when you’d gotten there that the second floor was a neverending assortment of rooms wasn’t far from wrong. You supposed Foggy hadn’t been either, his comments about places you could hide being one of his selling points to you. The first door you had opened was a bathroom. The second, a bedroom that was fully furnished and sheets unmade. The third was when you’d hit the mark, finding unlocked entry into what looked like a long since unused guest room after you’d flipped on the light. There was a full-sized bed in the middle of the room, pressed against the wall with immaculately folded sheets and crisp tucked edges, a small hallway side table that housed a fake potted plant, a lamp at the bedside that was slowly collecting cobwebs, and what looked to be an ornate dresser that had in its past, seen better days. 

The second the door closed, clicking against the latch, Matt wasted no time. 

“Just to get it out of the way, you matter to me, so of course if something upsets you, I want to know.” Your jaw dropped as you watched him trace the wall and navigate a little around the room before leaning his cane up against the dresser, casual all the while you suddenly felt like you were frozen where you stood. “So could you please…If it’s me, I want to know, so I can do better. If it’s not, then if you’re willing to share, I’m willing to help out.”

Your mind raced, suddenly overwhelmed and in a whirlwind state of shock as to how you’ve gotten to here, alone with him, when just five minutes ago everything was normal. Everything was fine. “Matt.”

“Is it me?”

There was a pain in his face, subtle, but tugging just enough to be evident as you studied him. “No it’s…it’s complicated.”

“How?”

You threw your hands up in the air. “It just is! I don’t know!” Squeezing your eyes shut, you continued. “I like what we have Matt, whatever it is. I just. Don’t want to mess it up, with the shit I don’t tell you, I guess.”

“What we have.” He repeated. Slowly. Gently. Then softly, taking a step forward, he asked, “What do we have?”

Suddenly, you felt like you were under a spotlight in an otherwise pitch black room. You always thought the weight of a person's focus came from how they looked at you. But now, in the quiet, music muffled and distant, alone with Matt, you realized just how wrong you were. You could nearly feel the way he was honed in on you, five feet away and steadily approaching in small measured shuffles forward. By all outward appearances, it seemed to be like he knew exactly where you were, featherlight steps that almost seemed feline in nature, and was giving you ample time to make a decision. 

“We’re friends.” You began. “Joking around. Hanging out. It’s easy with you, sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” He nodded. Waited for you to continue. He was three feet away now. “I like…I like messing around with you. Don’t mind it at all. So if you were worried you crossed a line, you didn’t, Matt. You’re okay. Promise. It’s all in good fun.” 

If you weren't so aware of your thoughts right now, you might not have noticed the way that last sentence snagged in a lie against your tongue.

“There.” He stopped just a foot in front of you, a firm set to his face as his brows furrowed in thought. 

“There, what?”

“Your voice wavered, just then.” It was an accusation, but it didn’t make you feel targeted. It was simply as if Matt was sorting through the interference of your mind and plucking out the loose strings. “I know you like the flirting, but it never goes anywhere. And you say it’s only easy with me sometimes. Why?”

“Why does it never go anywhere, or…”

He lowered his head, chin dropping just slightly. “Both.”

You scoffed, and for the first time since this conversation started, you felt like you were ready to throw in the towel and switch topics as your heart flipped in disbelief. He couldn’t seriously be asking about this right now. “Matt, really, you’re getting worked up over a random stray thought that made me go quiet. I’m fine. Everything is fine—”

“Everything is not fine, because you’re all I can think about, and I need to know if I'm about to say something that'll majorly screw things up or not!” And Matt swayed where he stood, like he was torn between stumbling away and reaching forward to you. Your heart thudded in your chest. 

Then it was silent—music, party unheard—save for the roaring in your ears.

“What?”

Matt’s head suddenly shot up. And in an action in which you thought you’d find a breath of clarity, he instead turned sharply toward the door. Briefly, you weren’t sure what impressed you more, the fluid strides in which he made it over, or how he remembered which direction it was in after turning around a couple of times in his pace of the room to find a wall. It also took you by surprise, the inherent trust he had in how he moved, like he was past guessing the space he had to work with and simply acted. But that was a moment quickly pinned to the background, as when you saw Matt’s hand grab the door knob and twist to push it open—it wouldn’t budge. 

Matt tried again, and you heard the jiggle of the knob, and watched, befuddled and disoriented and trying to make sense of the last thirty seconds, while Matt shoved a shoulder into the door to only be met with no give. 

The door was locked. 

“It locks from the inside,” Matt replied, voice low with a dangerous edge of an irritation you've only witnessed from him rarely, and you realized you said that out loud all the while you saw him pathetically twist the lock back and forth as if he were reveling in the cruel joke of it all. “Someone out there blocked the way.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Matt takes a step back, and you wonder if he was contemplating making another pass at the door. His head seemed to tilt around the general direction of the frame as if trying to trace it out mentally, his fingertips splayed on the wood at the end of an extended arm. For a second, it looked as if he were lost in a contemplation under the warm light of the room, studying…whatever it was he could gather. If he was going to throw himself at it again, you realized you should probably stop him. You also realized that somehow, he knew the door was locked before either of you had tried to leave. 

He also had just admitted to thinking about you all the time. And selfishly—or at least in the hierarchy of emotional distress those three things gave you—that seemed like the most pressing thing to address. 

His fists clenched at his side and you saw him take another step back as if to gear up for a charge before you blurted out, “What do you mean I'm all you think about?” He seemed to falter, going stiff and turning away from the door in a shaky glide as he pivoted on his heels. “Because if that's just a line to try and get me to open up, that's so not cool, Murdock. And blind or not, I'll use you as a battering ram to get out of here.”

“Oof.” A little amused huff shook him before he pursed his lips, shaking his head. “No. No that…that wasn't a line. I'm not trying to—” he flung his hands frustratingly down by his sides after they drifted up to rub at his face, shifting his glasses until he replaced them on the bridge of his nose— “It means exactly what you think it means.”

With a shaky confidence, you took a step toward him. “And what did you mean when you said you don't want to say anything that could screw things up?” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you wanna say, Matt?”

He approached slowly. So slow it was almost a prowl, and you might have equated it to one under different circumstances. On instinct, you took a half step back just from the sheer intensity Matt seemed to carry with him, your stomach fluttering with a new craving despite yourself. Again, he paused in front of you, and you noticed the way his chest rose and fell just as violently as yours.

“Tell me what had you freezing up next to me down there first.” 

“Not fair.” 

“I asked you first.” 

“No, you confronted me.” You said stubbornly, deciding to go rambling down that path than to admit he was right. “Very rudely, might I add. Killed my buzz from that crappy beer and everything. And then you dragged—”

“You followed me willingly,” He took another step forward. And another. You moved back if only to keep space between you. 

“—me up here, then go and say an incredibly insane thing to me—”

A smile started to tug the corners of his mouth. “It was a truthful admission.”

“—Then you did that weird and somehow sexy thing with the door.” You felt your heart leap to your throat as the back of your thighs tapped against the blunt edge of wood grain and you let out a soft grunt. Your hands reflexively grabbed onto the sides. Matt grinned at the sound of your surprise. “And now you're…you're backing me into a table, y'know—”

“It was either that or a wall, I figured.” 

“—and it should be threatening, maybe, and I probably could’ve darted around you without you knowing, but it's honestly kinda hot, and—”

“I want you.” Your mouth went dry, parting on an expression that was a mix of shocked and aroused as he stopped in front of you, his knee bumping into your leg and stilling himself only just before he'd have to brace himself on the wall to lean over you. “That's what I was gonna say.” 

As all things lit up in you much like restoring power to a city grid, you swallowed thickly against the hammering of your heart in your throat. If you were a better person, you would roll your eyes and push him away, calling Matt out on what had to be another line and focus on the more pressing issue of getting out of the locked room. If you were a stronger person, you could blame the heat that rolled through your veins like molten magma and primed every nerve on the drinks you had, and come up with some other excuse as to why its epicenter would lead straight to your core. But you were neither, and the long, long months of this game you played were starting to catch up to you. Whether you were winning or losing, it was hard to tell.

“And that's the big thing you were afraid would make shit hit the fan?” You breathed, your hands growing restless as you fought the urge to touch him. You didn’t. That’s how you held your line. That’s how you lasted so long. You could last a little longer.

“Mhm.”

You lifted your chin, emboldened by the forbearance that twitched a muscle in his cheek. “And here I thought it'd be something I didn't already know.”

Matt tilted his head, a slight cant toward his shoulder as a confident lilt yet again infiltrated his words. “You knew, huh?”

“Believe it or not, there is a limit to how many times you can proposition me before I started to suspect you actually might have started to mean it.”

He paused, and briefly, giving way to a sober moment, his face softened, a fragility you were surprised to find, not thinking clearly enough for insight, whispering on the coattails of his question. “So you're saying, I…didn't just catastrophically ruin things?”

“Nope.” The question of ‘why would it?’ carefully lingered at the front of your mind, but the words died before you even had the forethought to speak them; the idea that Matt could have been implying anything more than what seemed to be surface level desire not even crossing into your realm of possibility in this moment. This moment, where all you could think of was how close he was. How warm he was. How every time he shifted on his feet, he bumped into you and it sent a flicker of anticipation that did nothing but join the haze that began to carve out space for the one way track you seemed to be careening toward.

That softness didn't fully disappear, it lingered, only just now hidden behind the zealous intent of his concentration and the unconscious way Matt drew his bottom lip between his teeth. “And you're admitting to knowing I've wanted you for months now and you've just been having your fun brushing me off?”

“Trust me, it's not always fun.” Came your reply, shameless memories flashing behind your eyes of the countless numbers of days you've gone back home with your heart racing from the exercise of your restraint around him. Or the way you'd daydream about Matt while you worked until you often found yourself snapping out of distraction. Or how you'd be unable to sleep sometimes until you got yourself off to the thought of him. 

For a brief moment, you contemplated not being fair in your confession. One final sense of preservation reminding you in alarm bells why you've spent all this time ignoring him—ignoring yourself. Why you've shouldered and toughed through all the flirting, the invitations, and sometimes downright filthy observations. The reason you'd declined him that first time nearly a year ago being the same reason that's held strong over the course of the time that's passed: there was no real way for you to tell, for you to be certain, that you wouldn't just be another notch in Matt's bedpost. That despite the fact that he's been nothing but a gentleman to you otherwise, playing nice by your rules, heeding within the boundaries of the cat and mouse you'd encouraged. It's been months, and you don't think you've ever witnessed Matt Murdock hang on so long to anyone—the fervor that at first felt like him trying to do better, do more to convince you, slowly turning into a comfortable normal. A playful back and forth you two shared in. The both of you truly had been playing a game. Playing a game, and having fun, despite the main reward doing nothing but adding to the pile of tension that in this moment, felt so unrestrained, you were bursting at the seams.

Unable to ignore it any longer, you couldn't even find the will in you to summon the strength you always mustered to stop any risks for escalation. Any opposition that might have bubbled up in the forms of bad idea or you'll regret it dying out like the last burning embers of a flame doused in enough water to flood.

If you were finally going to allow yourself Matt—allow the indulgence that had you burning for him day after day, night after night—you quickly came to the realization that it would be now. It would be tonight. And it would be before there was any chance you could talk yourself out of it.

Your equal admission came mild, words concentrated and accentuated from carrying the truth you've wanted to share for far too long now, and not without its own equity in weight. “I want you too.”

The air turned electric; the silence that bridged the remaining gap between you charging quickly into something thick and heady as active reality was starting to actually settle in. Matt let out a little breath, as did you, shaky and involuntary, as he deliberately pressed closer. His knee found the seam of your legs, and he effortlessly nudged himself between them. Your hand shot out to steady yourself against his arm, nerves producing a slight tremor you couldn't quite control.

Your voice, thick, and seeming all too loud to your ears, tested the waters. “We should get out of here.” Out of this room. Out of the party. You weren’t sure which. You wanted both. You wanted Matt.

Matt gravitated toward you, like he was unable to help the pull anymore, same as you. You froze when his fingers pressed featherlight against the side of your neck, thumb sliding just under your jaw enough to tilt your head the most minute of degrees. He was close enough, his breath fanned distantly against you when he spoke. “After I kiss you first?”

A breath was held, thundering anticipation in your chest, and you let the frantic nod of your head against his touch do the talking. 

You’ve known Matt Murdock for a while now, pulled into the little bubble he shared with Foggy Nelson quickly after stumbling into an unlikely friendship. You’ve been around long enough to know the rumors and which of those actually held truth. To overhear the occasional giggles and whispers every once in a while from men and women around campus. Long enough to know that Matt had steadily built a repertoire well known amongst a select group of the co-eds. But nothing you gathered, assumptions you weighed, and the personal experience you used to supplement your own fantasies could have predicted this. 

Against your expectations, Matt’s kiss was surprisingly soft. It was almost unsure, as if he were on a trepid venture, using the way he moved slowly against you as permission still. You could almost taste the trickle of hesitation intertwined with the sparks behind your eyes and behind the way your brain roared and heart sang with the simple satisfaction of ‘finally’. When you kiss him back, he let out a gentle little sigh, and you felt him smile into you, seemingly enough of an acceptance to abate the incredibly trivial worry he had that once it happened, you would somehow want it to end. And as he pressed closer, deeper, your pulse leaping under your skin as you felt his fingers slide into a delicate cradle around your throat, the thought of wanting it to end was so far removed from your immediate mind, it was easily humbling the version of you that swore you’d never allow this. Allow him.

When Matt pulled back, it was instinct to chase after him. But through the pleasant haze that muddled your thoughts, the gentle passes of pleasure that lazily rolled through you like low tide lapping at the shore, you instead opened your eyes. Through your lidded gaze, blinking, you watched a quiet gratification steadily bloom across his face alongside a grin that was almost boyishly giddy, and settle into a content as he released another deep sigh; an indulgent revel as you both shared in this long awaited moment. 

It might not have been a good look, but after a couple of flips of your heart in your chest, you dictated the moment was over as you impatiently leant forward to wrap your arms around his neck and pulled him back in. You could relish in finalities later. You wanted to kiss him now. And Matt had little objection as he melted back into you.

“So, about the door—” He wisped in the inbetweens, soft laugh interrupted between each press of your lips to his and his hands steadied himself on the table as he leaned into you.

“Mm, not yet.” And Matt grins because he already knew you wouldn’t even entertain the tease. Not when you were like this. Not when you felt like the world was spinning beneath you, weightless, and his kiss dizzying. You responded to him at first equally, before a surge of more overtook you. 

Unbidden, you gave way, relenting to every part of you that craved him; that wanted to take. You’ve dreamt of this for so long: the feel of him close to you, the weight of him as he had you hemmed against the table, his hands by your sides, hot and solid and willing. The taste of him—oh how you wanted the taste of him, whether you found it against his skin, in his mouth or in yours. You didn’t want to stop, despite knowing you should, knowing that maybe this wasn’t the time or place, a distant reminder that you were a guest in somebody’s home locked in a bedroom that wasn’t yours. But you cling tightly onto that flicker of greed, letting it fuel you as you surged forward into him, your fingers curling against the strands of hair at the back of his neck. A surprised little noise escaped Matt then; a soft startled whimper falling from him as you tugged him to you, your kiss insistent as you took the next step, wordlessly telling him what you wanted with a swipe of your tongue against the plush of his lips.

Matt’s hands were on your face faster than you felt him move, warm palms cupping your jaw, fingers pressing into your temples as he held you in place, body leaning forward until his hips pinned your own. There was a reluctance in the way he pulled back, and you felt the shudder that ran through him, a shiver that seemed to crackle through his system and percolate to you where you were skin to skin, raising goosebumps that formed anywhere they could as he parted from you only the smallest fraction. Matt shook, and you gulped, swallowing hardly at the feel of his breath mixing with yours, lightheaded and yearning, as time seemed to slow.

“Fuck,” The curse is breathed against the skin of your lips, hot. Whispered like a resolution; burning like a brand. Your hand curled tight in his shirt collar, shivering with him. Waiting. Restless. Curious.

You understood in the split-second just before it happened, what you must have done. And it was like you could feel in this limbo of space the power in the aftermath of Matt's undoing, restraint unraveling as the fervor you'd fed him convincing enough to turn the lights green and the throttle red. He hovered there, in front of you, ghosting another kiss he was gearing up to give as the cogs in his head turned, inhibitions flicking off one by one. A single second stretched into an agonizing eternity—galvanic and volcanic.

He let go.

Now this…this is what you expected; a kiss full of a hunger and desire so explosive it was nearly overwhelming, static crackling in your ears and a reticent moan freely opening the gates to the roaring flame Matt brought with him. His insistence seeped into you heavy and sudden, reminding you of the swift fury that can come with rain against bare skin during a thunderstorm. His hold on you tightened ever so slightly, trying to pull you impossibly closer as if he wasn’t already pressing bruises onto your lips. You felt a hand card through your hair, a sharp pull that was far from unkind tilting your head back until he was almost on top of you. It was a steady devouring; months of want, of self-control, pouring into you with the press of his body and the surprising nip of his teeth and no apparent plan of stopping until you were made up for lost time. If this were any other person, you might have struggled to keep up with his intensity. Instead, you matched Matt in stride as you parted your lips in a gasp, opened up to the way he eagerly slid into your mouth. You moved without thought, without reason, guided simply by the carnal instinct that sought to fill in its depravity. 

He was everywhere; carding through your hair, tracing down your neck, the curve of your shoulder, like he was mapping out the shape of you under his touch, charting a path he could later reference and follow. His hands fell to the dip of your waist, holding you steady as you tried to lift off from where you were leaning against the wood and into him, your turn with your hands on his face as you swiped over his cheeks and held him against your palms as you dared to drag your tongue over his. You were not at all prepared for the burst of him—beer and slightly sweet with a faint whispering of copper—or the sensual groan that tore from a place deep and ragged, ripped from the stirrings in his chest. He parted for you, a silent ‘again’ as his grip found its banded attention on your hips. He settled there and jolted when you licked into him again with the intent to see what other sounds you could pull from him. The table creaked as the both of you collided firmly with it, and Matt rocked against you, denim catching the side of your hip in a clumsy, unconscious grind. 

You were burning now. This wasn’t enough. Nowhere near. Fingers clawed at Matt’s button up, and you began to yank it off his shoulders before he helped shrug it to the ground and he was on you again like he’d never left, tugging through strands of your hair and kissing you like the only way he could breathe was to siphon the air straight from your lungs. You’re lost for a moment, a delayed shock catching up, running through you, before your mission stirs back into awareness once more. Your touch is unwavering and steady as you stroke down his arm, as you claw gently against the cotton still over his chest. Matt released a quiet growl then, a low rumble from the back of his throat that you couldn’t quite classify—warning or invitation—so you heeded it, flicker of fire igniting through you, as both. 

Frantically, you began to yank up his shirt from where it was tucked into his jeans, tugging at the fabric until you could bare skin. Your goal had been to get it off him, to have Matt shirtless in front of you, but you quickly found out he had a similar idea before you could even swipe across his hipbones, your motions stuttering as you felt a large hand slither under your own shirt, blazing palm sliding up, up, up, against your stomach to your chest. His fingers prodding mildly at the lower curve of your bra. 

“Holy shit,” You gasped, and you tried to push into his hand. “Matt, please.”

There was an appreciation in the way he carefully grazed over the curve of you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the way he grabbed at your breast, kneading you in the palm of his hand and earning him another low moan, that in response, had him rocking into you again. There it is. And you felt more of him this time, your nerves shot and hyperaware, and Matt now hard enough that you could faintly begin to etch out the shape of him growing against your leg. You almost whine when he suddenly stops kissing you, panting heavily, but it catches on a choked gasp when wet lips instead start roaming other skin. Your chin. Your jaw. With a soft chuckle, Matt licked playfully at the lobe of your ear before he pressed a kiss to a spot right beneath it, firm and emphatic. His first move against your neck was lazy, and languid, and you felt yourself susceptible to slipping away as he began to take his time to explore. So you groped around wherever you could reach, your hands sweeping over the muscles in his shoulders, skirting down his back. You passed over cotton and skin and denim until your hands reached their target along the curve of his ass. Briefly, you wondered if you weren’t so distracted if you’d be embarrassed by how much you wanted him. But frankly, you were too turned on to care. Your thoughts came simple, one right after another. Right now, you wanted to feel him again. And your hands helped to prove your point, cupping at him until you had a solid grip, pulling him to you, guiding, encouraging. 

Matt moaned so close to your ear, hot and heavy as his head dropped helplessly into your shoulder, it only stoked the flame. He granted your wish, bucking into you again with a slow roll of his hips and a high, strangled noise against your collar. And this time, you laughed; wild and full of the disbelief that this was actually happening. A lazy pulse of heat coursed a new warmth through you, rocketing intensely through your veins until you couldn’t ignore the ache between your legs any longer. You could probably try and make Matt moan for you all day if you had the patience, but now wouldn’t be the best time for that trial. You’d nearly forgotten, when you tried to squeeze your thighs, tried to relieve some of that pressure in search for some—any—friction, about Matt’s leg. Instead, you found yourself clamping around where his thigh was slotted between yours, thick and strong, and responding in a knee-jerk reaction as it lifted higher, giving you an expanse to find relief on as you twitched instinctively.

“Oh, shit,” Matt all but yanked you down onto him, panting into your skin as his touch, his direction, persuaded you all too easily to grind against him. Relief however wasn’t the only thing you found, your eyes fluttering shut as you rolled your head back at the feel of a soft suction at the column of your throat, skin pulled between lips. The smallest graze of teeth. You wondered if it’d leave a mark. 

Then Matt suddenly startled against you, and just when you had started to chase a rhythm against him, working against the thick solidity of his thigh, he pulled away. This time, you did whine. A protest as you opened your eyes and your jaw dropped. Too worked up, your body kept moving, racing after and wanting. You were just about to speak, whether words would be a snark or a plea unknown to you until they would come out, when you spotted him, face flushed a deep pink and mouth hung open on a hinge. It was hard to choose what exactly you should focus on: the way his tongue pressed out against his bottom lip, curling up slightly as if dragging in the smell of sweat and arousal in the air, or the way his palm again found the plane of your abdomen, pressing flat with his fingers pointing down, grazing the waistband of your pants, dipping ever so criminally slight under them. Despite his cocksure demeanor, Matt trembled before you, like a rubber band strung too tight, ready to snap. And yet again, his touch was hesitant. Waiting for permission. You tried to form a coherent sound, but your body was already reacting to the possibility of what he was offering, an indecent groan falling from your lips instead as you pushed off your toes to try and rock into his touch. That was enough for him to slide down further, not yet under clothes, but your legs spread the best they could from how he’d caged you in to let his hand slip through. 

“Want some help?” Husky, Matt’s voice was so low it rumbled through you like a train on the tracks. He was warm, so warm, as he cupped over you, the sudden heat and pressure making you twitch almost violently as you didn’t even hesitate to grind into the heel of his palm. Flashes of white flickered behind your eyes as you finally got the friction you sought after, pressure enough to make you bite your lip and dig your fingers around the flesh of his arm, a broken cry dying in the well of your chest in a last effort to stay a semblance of quiet. 

“Need more.” You choked out, subject to how his touch stayed firm and consistent, following your motions to keep the stimulation you wanted, but deliberately slow. 

“Can I?” Matt swallowed hard, thumb hooking once again along the edge of your pants, brushing just ever so slightly against the sensitive skin below the belt. Never once in your life, ever, have you seen a man look as wrecked as Matt did now asking to pleasure you. Words stumbled out of his mouth in an eager plea, laced with a genuine excitement, a sincere want, as he rutted against you again, breathing hot into your skin like proximity would compel you further. Like he even needed to convince you more. “Say yes. Please say yes.”

You tugged Matt into a kiss that was hot and messy and uncoordinated, tongue and grazing of teeth, his glasses bumping against you. “Yes.”

To your surprise, Matt didn’t tease. He was swift, deftly slipping his hand under pants and your underwear alike, moving like a man on a mission about to accomplish his goal. He only paused once, heavy breaths from the both of you stirring the air as he took a moment, feeling you hot and bare and throbbing against his palm. Unconsciously, you nodded, and you think Matt felt it where he still was tucked against your shoulder, because at your signal he pressed a single finger forward, dragging slow and careful through the warm slick heat that’d been there waiting for him since minutes after you’d sat on that damn couch.

Matt moaned with you, his mouth parting on a ragged breath and his other hand on your hip tightening like feeling you was affecting him just as equally. “Oh, sweetheart I knew you were wet,” His voice was thick as it crooned out to you, parting you further as he explored, spreading through your wetness and nudging just enough against your clit to make you gasp and try and chase after it. “But all this? You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before you finish what you started- ah!” You clutched onto his arm as he intentionally brushed over you again.

Matt stumbled over a laugh, but it lacked any cruelty. Just the same breathless intoned disbelief you’d expressed earlier. “You were saying?”

“Asshole.” “I could be.” But he wasn’t. Far from it as he sighed into you and began tracing your clit in slow, featherlight circles. “But not tonight. Not with you.”

With how much you needed something, anything, the soft touch was more than enough at the start. Something direct and consistent in its way he revolved his fingers to send fleeting, gratifying waves through you. It made you shiver, flex your hand where you’d found purchase against his shoulder. Matt moved patiently, thoroughly, taking his time to see what touches, what movements, drew out which noises. He was hedonistic enough for the both of you, humming pleasantly into your skin and lips quirking against you with every gasp and twitch and tremor, moving with no rush. Just the simple intent of making you feel good.

Eventually, however, your desire began to outweigh the input of pleasure. Matt’s sweet, satisfying motions grew unintentionally teasing. You tried to hold on, scolding yourself for a capacity for greed you hadn’t yet known you were capable of. You were getting what you wanted. There was no real reason to rush. Yet your need for more again grew with every languid pass over you and occasional roll of his own hips against your upper thigh. Despite the way you usually got off, satisfied with your fingers alone, Matt’s unlocked a craving that burned rampant, smoldering and deep. 

He seemed to sense it somehow, whether it was in the way your soft groans evolved into seeking whines, or in the frantic disposition of how you tried to meet him, torn between pursuing more from his hand, and leaning into, meeting him where he rubbed against your leg. Matt made the decision for you, pressing his fingers firmer against you and catching your lips in his as he swallowed your moan before it even had time to breach the air. 

“What do you want?”

“Put them inside.” You panted the words into his mouth, tugging his bottom lip between your teeth and nipping lightly just to hear him groan. “Please.”

You watched the way his brow furrowed when he screwed his eyes shut, and he ground harder against you, an opened mouth grunt tumbling out with a sudden jerk of his hips. That band was still winding. You wanted to be there for when it snapped. “Open wider for me then, honey.”

And he shifted, taking a half-step back from where he corralled you enough just to give you room to spread your legs further where you stood. It was a momentary loss, the direct stimulation, but you couldn’t complain as your entire body coiled with a quiver of excitement, tight pressure just aching for release. Testing, Matt slid a finger along your entrance, wetting himself in slick arousal and pressing his face into the side of yours to muffle the raspy noise that escaped him at the way you instinctively bucked into him, needy and borderline impatient. 

“You really do want me, huh?” A grin curling around the shape of the kiss he pressed against your cheek. 

“Matt, I’ll lose it if you try teasing me right now.”

“But I can tell you like it,” he whispered hotly, running his finger over you again, pressing ever so slightly with just enough force to almost push into you without actually getting there. And you clench around the projected impression of him, your body craving what was just barely out of reach. “I can feel it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, your cheeks, your face, everything burning with want. Of course you liked it. You liked him. The multitude of things you imagined him saying to you far exceeded the tameness of that statement in comparison. But coherent thoughts were slipping from you, and you just wanted to feel. You could tell that Matt didn’t have the capacity to drag this out any longer either, meeting the roll of your hips as you’d tried to coax him in perfectly with the easy glide of his index slipping into you. Your back bowed on a heady moan as suddenly, that coil was being acknowledged. Matt moved in a lazy search, pumping his finger with a small curl that gave only the slightest amount of pressure, but was enough to send small pulsing shocks of heat through you, too turned on to pretend you would be able to last long at all if Matt played his cards right. 

And you’d no doubt he would, a quiet, satisfied hum buzzing against you as it seemed he had his fill preparing before a second finger joined the first. You clawed at him where your arm was thrown around his shoulders, your head tipping forward against his breastbone as you panted into him. With how wet you were, the stretch was nothing but pleasant and comfortable. But your undoing truly lied in sensitivity. You couldn’t think back to a time you had been this horny in your life, and the first slow push of his fingers pressing up inside you almost had you choking on a plea, a flash of white blinking behind your eyes as the stirrings of that familiar build up in your core teased that it might be there sooner than you thought. 

“Oh, fuck,” You inhaled sharply, that first drag of his fingers sending a shiver down your spine. “Jesus, Matt, oh my god.”

He responded to you with a smooth roll of his wrist, a shudder complimenting your own as he parted his lips, licking them and breathing heavily against your shoulder. Matt’s voice was rough. Like you were slowly tearing him apart by barely doing anything. “Did Foggy tell you to wear that?”

Your thoughts were muddled, nothing existing around you but you and Matt and the room you were in, so it took you a moment to parse through your thoughts until the puzzle pieces clicked. An off-hand comment made. A recommendation followed. “Really don’t wanna think about Foggy with your hand down my pants,” you turned your head until you could press closer to him, your other hand coming up to rest on his chest. “But he might’ve mentioned it, yeah.”

“Compliments you so fucking well.” And he bows his head closer to you, twisting until he could just barely graze the back of your neck with a kiss. “Not overwhelming. Still very you. Smells so good—you smell good.”

And despite still feeling the ghost of his kiss on your lips, despite already having his hand, a small swell of mundane accomplishment bubbled in your chest. Enough to make you smile, and some of the easiness you shared trickled into the lilt of your voice. “Aw, does Matt Murdock have a sensitive nose?”

He grinned, and you matched him the best you could before he curled his fingers just a little sharper, pressing up into you a little harder. You clutched onto him tighter, biting off a moan. “You’ve got no idea.”

He found a steady rhythm then. He had to work, adjust with the obstacle that was your pants—since neither of you had the foresight to work them off—but if anything it bid in his favor. Matt couldn’t pull too far away, constricted by the fabric, but that didn’t matter, him opting to work you up in a steady grind and fervent pressure. The pace became heated, natural, as you met him the best you could, and the air rang out in shared whimpers and soft cries. It only took two grinds of your hips into his hand before he adjusted, maneuvering until the heel of his palm started to build the tension again on your clit, rocking into it with every steady push and pull. 

Sparks snapped in the corners of your eyes as heated pressure built in your core. You were getting close. You were getting close and it would be Matt that’d get you there. You pressed your mouth to him over his shirt if only to help prove your point, shifting into him as you listened to his short, tiny breaths, or the lewd wet sound that was proof of your indecency. You felt the way his thumb swiped comfortingly against your hip after he’d roamed down to grab at your ass and come back up. This wasn’t a dream, or a fantasy, or some sort of cruel illusion. It was actually happening. And you were letting it. 

“Fuck.” You held onto him tighter. “Shit, Matt, please- fuck! Right there.”

“Such a dirty mouth,” But his tease fell flat on a breathless sigh, almost distracted-like as he concentrated on the spot that made you keen into him.

“Says the Catholic boy fucking me on his hand, shut up.” 

He in fact did not shut up, his voice dropping, low and trembling with something you could only describe as excitement. “Are you close?”

“Mhm,” And you mouthed at his collar again, nudging his shirt out of the way to reach skin.

“God, if you sound like this only with my fingers, I can only imagine what you’ll sound like when you’re taking me.” He breathes, an awe in his voice like he’d just come to the same realization you had: that he couldn’t believe this was happening. And it was everything at once; his voice, his words, the insistence of his strokes. You clenched around his fingers as a sharp bolt a pleasure wracked through you, unable to help the way you visualized helping Matt out of his jeans, pulling your pants down too. Finally being able to see all of him. Hedging your bets on whether the old table you were using as a foundation would be able to handle it. “You like that? Like thinking about what it’ll feel like when I fuck you?” When, he said. When.

If you were going to answer, it got cut off by the way your eyes fluttered open only to see the way his hips snapped against the air. You remembered at that moment he moved away from where he could use you to be able to touch you better, but now you could see the way his cock strained tight against his jeans. Untouched. You’d fix that. 

Clumsily, you leant more of your weight against the table, leaning back only enough for your shoulderblades to wisp the cool wall behind you. And before Matt could ask anything, you reached out to hook a finger in his belt loop to pull him closer. He stumbled over his feet, faltering for just a moment, and you grinned at how cute it was that you caught him by surprise. 

“What are you—” “Let me help.” Your voice a sultry drawl that danced upon his skin.

Matt couldn’t help the throaty moan that tore from his chest at the first feel of your fingers skirting over the length of him over denim, nor the way he jerked into you, barely even touched and seeking something more substantial. He was so hard, you could only imagine how much he ached, warmth radiating from him in pulses against your hand. And you had meant to pop that button, try and fail because of your lack of patience to inch down his zipper. But a sweet little whimper tumbled from Matt’s trembling lip as in one fluid motion, he rolled up hard against your palm and ground his hand harder into you. Your resolve cracked at that, not knowing if you currently had the bandwidth to focus on him like this. You felt bad for a second, before you found resolution in the way he eagerly chased you. If Matt was satisfied with fucking himself against your hand, then you wouldn’t have any problem diverting your attention back to the fact that you were so close now, the crest of your high was almost in sight. 

You still felt like you needed to do something though. And your first thought was to pull Matt back to you, kiss him until your lips went numb, but the noises he was making went straight to your head, your heart, and between your legs. To cut those off would be a sin, you thought. So you settled for trying to spur them on, pressing in firmer drags against him as you met his thrusts, and fisting your other hand tightly in his shirt, yanking it down to pull him closer. You heard the solid thump of his palm hitting the wall behind you, and a shaky moan vibrating under your lips as you grazed your teeth across his clavicle before pressing a kiss to the column of his throat. 

“So good,” You managed to get out, following a straining tendon in Matt’s neck, him rolling his head back to give you space before you sealed your mouth over the thin skin just under his jaw. “Doing so good.”

It was as if you were held suspended in that pleasure for an extended period of time, the whole world both falling away and stopping in those few moments before you came. Nothing but the thundering in your chest, the taste of Matt against your tongue, and his fingers inside you. Your thighs clamped his hand in place as you shook, orgasm washing over you in a deep powerful wave that momentarily stole your breath, black creeping into the corners of your vision. And Matt worked you through it, slowing his ministrations but not stopping, riding the way you still grinded against him until your spasms grew too sensitive, edged on the cusp of an intensity you hadn’t yet explored. 

He kissed you, both to distract you from the way he slowly slid his fingers out of you, hand creeping back out from under your pants, and to swallow down the blissed out whine that came with the movement. He breathed with you, and distantly you felt his hips retreat from your hand. With your eyes closed, still basking in the lingering pleasure of your climax, you tried to feel back around for him only to be met with the gentle clasp of Matt’s hand around your wrist, guiding you away. 

“He-hey,” You stuttered out the word, blinking against the heavy rise and fall of your chest. “What ‘bout you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and you lifted your head just in time to see Matt pull his fingers over the flat of his tongue as he licked over the hand he’d just had in you. Your jaw dropped as you watched his full body shudder, a strained moan stuttering from his chest at the taste of you and you watched him work you down his throat as he tilted his head ever so slightly back, hips thrusting forward once again against nothing but air. When he came back, he grinned, devilish and wicked.

“Unless you want me to come the second I’m in you, sweetheart, give me a minute.” His laugh was short, rough, and delirious. And giddy, you found yourself sitting up.

“You were that close?” Wide-eyed with wonder, you cast your gaze down to his crotch, rolling the odds for what little else it might’ve taken. “Didn’t even get your pants off.” He swayed, tilting his head and raising his brows as if to say ‘well,’ before he dipped back to you, drawing in a long, deep, indulgent breath. 

Your thoughts slowly began to clear as the both of you lingered in the growing calm. But then dizzy awareness began to come back to you in time with the thumping bass of the music playing downstairs under your feet. You bit your lip, suddenly tasked with making what shouldn’t have been such a hard decision. 

“Still wanna get out of here.” You couldn’t tell if the words came out as a statement or a question, but the meaning held true either way. You stumbled as you stood, Matt moving back slowly to accommodate you, his hand on your waist. 

“This is a pretty spacious closet, though.” His joke was melodic, irony of what made you go upstairs in the first place not lost on you, and you couldn’t lie: it was so incredibly tempting, whether you’d stay put and he’d have you right there against the wall, or if you dragged him over to that pristine bed and found satisfaction in messing up the owners sheets. 

That snapped you back to it. 

You swatted playfully at his chest. “God’s sake, Matt, I have no clue whose house this is. Have some decorum.” The smirk he sent your way was absolutely sinful. “Besides, the car ride’ll give you some more time to cool off.”

“Car ride?” Matt hummed as the hand on you found skin again, squeezing you gently. “You gonna bring me to a secondary location?”

“I know somewhere even more private than up here we can use for the main event.” You whispered in the space that rapidly closed before he kissed you again and you added: “I still wanna keep going.”

He nodded against your lips. “Me too.”

Your sigh was deep and content, an excitement brewing up a fresh new wave of anticipation. “First thing’s first—”

“Call Foggy.”

You blinked. “What?”

Matt shrugged like he was being obvious. “Well, we can go see if the door’s still blocked. If it is, we can just call Foggy and have him move the chair for us.” 

“I…right.” You scoffed in disbelief, a solution as simple as that had not even been given a chance to cross your mind since the two of you went upstairs. But as long as he picked up, it really would be 

You leant to press what was meant to be a quick kiss to Matt’s lips as you pulled your phone out of your back pocket, but he grabbed your bicep just as you were about to pull away and brush past him, lingering just a few moments more into it before he let you go. You smiled at the ridiculousness of it all, mumbling that you were gonna move to go test the door, leaving him behind at the nod of his head. 

Your mind reeled as you crossed the bedroom, dialing Foggy’s number and hearing it start to ring out against your ear. Your body was still coming down from your high, nerves settling and want still politely throbbing and waiting for permission to grow again between your legs. When you reached the door, and before you tried the knob, you glanced back to see Matt shuffling around until he grabbed his cane and started in the direction toward you. Like he knew you were watching him, his face split into a wide smile, and you couldn’t help the giggle that started to bubble up your throat when the call picked up, and you were blasted with a cacophony of noise. 

“Finally!” Foggy exclaimed over the loud background of music, nearly screaming into the receiver. “I’ve only tried calling you two like a million times. I know Matt’s with you, saw you guys walk out together. Where are you?”

“We are, uh,” You let out an annoyed groan as you rattled the door knob, pushing forward, but no luck was spared. “We’ve been locked in a room.”

You would say there was silence over the line, but it was truly impossible in this house. Nevertheless, you waited until Foggy decided how long he should hold for dramatic effect. “What?”

Rolling your eyes, you shifted to get comfortable on your feet. “We left the basement because Matt needed to get away from that shit-head trying to get him to play that stupid game—”

“That was pretty shitty of him, to keep asking,” You heard Foggy grumble in agreement over the phone.

“—so we went upstairs to talk, and…” You faltered as you felt Matt sidle up behind you, a smile creeping back onto your face before your eyelids fluttered at the press of his lips against the back of your neck. “...and we found out the door was blocked behind us.”

There was another pause, and you could almost see the way Foggy must have been balking if you closed your eyes. “And you’re just telling me somebody trapped you in a room, now?” You felt your face grow warm, weighing the odds on how fast he might get to you if you let him know in just what way you and Matt had been preoccupied. “And why didn’t you pick up my calls earlier?”

“We were talking! And doing uh, something important.”

“Something important.”

“Yes.” You could facepalm, the way you weren’t subtle at all. You knew it didn’t really matter, that once Foggy made it up to you, he’d be able to read it all over the place. You hadn’t yet taken inventory of just how wrecked either of you looked, but you bet it was more than enough to cross lying out of the equation. 

“Something very important.” Matt chirped seductively next to you, nuzzling into the side of your neck and hands pulling your hips back into his as if to give you a reminder—as if you could forget—that he was still in fact, very hard, and the plan was to get out of there as soon as you could. 

You couldn’t tell if the exclamation you heard on the other end was Foggy actually hearing Matt’s addition, or just a general party thing, but in all honesty, you didn’t care. “Could you please get your ass up here and let us out? Probably won't be hard to miss. The only door up there with a chair shoved up against it, most likely.”

There was a distant ‘oh my god,’ as it faded presumably with a phone being pulled away before the call disconnected. Spinning around, you drew your brows together as you scanned over the state Matt was in. He simply smiled, smug around the edges, as you smoothed out his white tee and carded through his mussed hair. There was nothing to be done about the way his lips were slightly shiny and clearly kiss-swollen, or the fact that all it would take was one look to catch a glimpse of the very clear tent in his jeans, but you still did your best if only for your peace of mind. You couldn’t even bring yourself to go over to the mirror you just now spotted in the corner of the room, knowing you were probably too far gone to pretend to look put together. You at least fixed how your pants hung on you, adjusting and pulling them back up to a decent, modest place. 

“He should be on his way,” You told Matt, and in a final sweep of the room, you spotted his discarded button up on the floor. Patting his chest, you went to go pick it up. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Don’t think it will.” You heard him muse as you slung his button up over your shoulder. 

And just as you returned to him right beside the door, there was a faint thunk against the frame, and a muffled scrape of something being pulled out of the way. You barely had time to find amusement in it before Foggy was yanking the door open, gaping at the two of you where he stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath like he ran through the house and up the stairs.

“Did you…?”

“Holy shit!” You couldn’t tell if it was pride or embarrassment that was winning in the fight for control over his features as his eyes flickered from you to Matt. “I knew it! You guys finally—”

“Two questions.” Looking back at Matt, you saw him holding back laughter, both hands clutched on his cane in front of him and his shoulders pulled slightly up to his ears.

“Two- I get two questions?”

“Get to answer them,” You clarified, resting your hand on your hip as you let out a deep sigh. Your car keys were salaciously weighty in your pocket. “First: any luck with Marci? And second: do you have a safe way back to the dorm?”

Stammering, and caught off guard, Foggy cleared his throat. “Yes! Yeah, and…also yes, why—”

“Good.” And with that, you reached behind you to grab Matt’s hand, tugging him with you as you breezed through the doorway past Foggy. “Then we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait, why are you leaving- oh my god.”

You remembered to yell a thanks to Foggy over your shoulder as you fervently dragged Matt with you down the hall, muttering a quick stairs, stairs, stairs, to him as your heartbeat began to pick up again behind your ribs. Surprisingly, he matched you in speed and swiftness, just as eager to get out of the party as you were, entirely entrusting you to guide him safely through the mass of moving bodies and heat of the building. 

Despite doing nothing inherently scandalous, it felt oddly liberating to be leaving with Matt as the both of you met the outside, breaching into the cool night air. If anything, getting out of the house made the growing flush you felt glow hotter—the temperature difference a blaring sign to the lustful way your awareness grew stronger. With every step you took down the block to reach where you parked, with every hushed giggle and squeeze of his hand in yours, your heart pounded heavy with anticipation and arousal. You’d led Matt over to the passenger side door first when you’d finally reached your car, and you waited until he opened the door and started to slip in before you joined him, hands shaking as you yanked your seatbelt on and turned the key in the ignition. 

At first you were primed to go, an uncontrollable smile playing on your lips as you went to shift the car into reverse, but then you paused, hand hovering over the gear shift. It was not for lack of want, or even the threat of regret that caused you to take a moment. It was simply the weight of it all. The reality. You've wanted this for so long—wanted Matt—you just…needed to be sure. 

“Are we,” the engine was stalled, primed, rumbling and ready to go. “Shit, Matt, do you actually wanna do this with me?” 

“Of course I do.” Came his soft reply, instant, and not needing to be loud for the heft of his words to carry across the small space. “But if you don’t, I won’t ever say a damn thing if you decide just to bring me back to campus.” 

He states it as if it were that simple. Presenting you the choice. It wouldn’t even be fair, seeing as he’s already got you off just a few minutes ago and it was your decision to make what the two of you were doing more tangible, more real, by wanting to take it back to your apartment instead of staying in the haze of thumping music, weed, and mist of cheap alcohol. You didn’t even really need to think about it that hard though, when it came to it. It really was that simple. And the fondness that had you craving Matt deeper in the first place returned in an intense and almost overwhelming wash over you. The choice was yours. And he’d respect it either way. Just like how he respected the game, never pushing you for the sex you swore yourself off from even when the both of you would part ways hot and bothered too many times to count. Or the way he’d back off the second you weren’t in the mood, or if neither of you had the time or patience to rile each other up, and you would settle the air into something calmer and closer to easy friendship. 

Your decision came easy. You shifted the gear. 

Before you could press down on the pedal however, Matt continued, words blazing a silken fire in their wake. “But if I’m being honest, I really want to get back to your place so I can drop to my knees and get a better taste of you.”

“Oh my god.” That torch he placed in you blazed again, and you were already pressing your thighs together to relieve the ache that came back with a reckless abandon. You knew it’d be a mistake, knowing the visual would only spur you further, but you couldn’t help but to look over to see Matt’s head turned to you, a wide cocky grin lazily splitting his lips as his tongue darted out to make a show of licking over them. “Jesus Christ. You really are such a bad Catholic.”

“Never said I was a good one.” He shot back in a smooth reply. “How far away are you?”

You flicked on your headlights and pulled out of your parking spot, guiding the car onto the road. “Like four minutes.”

Matt isn’t subtle at all as he sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth, deliberate in the way he let a breathy moan ring out in the confined space of the car. One glance over, and the sight of him grabbing hold over the straining shape of him over his jeans, rutting into his own hand, was something you replayed over and over in your mind the entire drive. “Bet you could get us there faster.”

You did. 

The second the both of you stumbled through your apartment’s front door, kicked shut carelessly—by you or him, you couldn’t tell—all bets were off. Matt’s cane clattered to the floor in the distance of your front hall, and he wasted no time pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss; hot and needy and filthy. You might have been the one Matt was relying on to lead him through your space, but you couldn’t even rely on your talent as a guide as navigating became the least of your worries. If bumping into a coffee table or the couch arm was the price the two of you would have to pay just so your hands wouldn’t have to leave him, or for you to have to send your focus anywhere else, then you would pay that price willingly. Luckily for you, the front door to your room was a straight shot. 

There was no thinking as you and Matt fell in time as you led with your back turned, the speed of eager steps only hindered by the fact that nearly every second involved a clumsy attempt at removing more articles of clothing. It almost felt like a passionate waltz—if waltzing had evolved into a feverish assault on the senses; your shirt too tight and your pants too constricting and your head spinning as Matt’s hands fumbled with the clasp of your bra while you moved. Your hands yet again found themselves snaking under his shirt, this time pulling it up with you as you went, pressing firmly up the lines of his abdomen, feeling him flutter under your touch, and spreading your palms over the muscle of his chest, being sure to brush your thumbs over his nipples if only for the way it made him shiver. 

Matt broke this kiss solely to help you pull his shirt over his head, and you sighed half in content, half in satisfaction as you finally set sights on him topless, broad lines and firm muscle, shirt flung somewhere into the depths of your living room. And despite Matt trying to dip down to find your mouth again, you busied yourself littering kisses from one edge of his collar bones to the other as you undid the button to his jeans, and carefully pulled the zipper down. Your plan of action had included tugging the denim down far enough to get him in your hands, but you were interrupted. Unexpectedly, he stopped you, his hands, strong and firm, grasped both your wrists, guiding you and placing them to hold him chastely low on his hips. 

“Not yet,” He kissed you through your quizzical groan, pulling your bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it gently before letting go, “Told you what I wanted to do first.” Freshly set alight at the reminder, you murmured an agreement, arching into the way he held you tight, cradling against your ribs.

You knew it couldn’t be much farther to the bedroom when you suddenly hit the wall, jolting against it with a small ‘oof’ before a frown twitched your expression. When you swung your head to the side, it was an easy realization that the two of you faintly veered off course, unable to follow the easy path to the door in favor of a curve that now situated you up against the wall, inches from the frame. Reaching over, you could almost brush your fingertips against the doorknob. 

“We’re right- right here,” You tried to begin, “Just gotta get the door open.”

“Hold on.” He whispered, distracted, hands finding your face again as he cupped your jaw. 

For the second time that night, Matt subverted your expectations. What had been a desperate, messy kiss, slowed down into something intoxicatingly sweet. His thumb grazed your chin as he kissed you softly. Tenderly. Like you were something sacred to him. You weren’t prepared for the sudden shift, but you let this tentative affection float over you, envelop your mind in its subdued passion and careful reverence. For the second time that night, a flicker of what this really meant, what you were really doing, brushed your thoughts with a pigment that lingered. 

This…with Matt, this wasn't just sex to you. It was a desire, sure. And lust, no doubt. But it was also the way his face lit up when he laughed. His quick, whip-sharp wit during a debate. It was the way he threw himself into his studies not just with the goal of being the best, of being the smartest, but being humble in his intention. It was the way he was intolerant of any bullshit, but was kind, despite being hard on himself. The way he could flash a smile and bring someone to their knees and all the while it just felt right and normal and safe, because this was Matt Murdock and it was easy to trust him to not abuse the power he must've known he had.

Your breath hitched as you lifted your arms for him, Matt slowly pulling your shirt off over your head. You heard it land quietly on the floor, and Matt lowered just enough to place a leisurely kiss to your sternum. His hair was soft, so soft, as you brought a hand up to run through it, raking gentle caresses against his skull and wondering if you had been patient long enough to deserve the delicate purr he rewarded you with. 

Hesitation did prick in the undercurrent of your thoughts. This wouldn't be just sex for you. That sometime along the way, in banter and teasing…in drinks and time shared, you'd started to grow feelings for Matt. Ones that seeded firmly with roots fixed in wanting no excuse to hold his hand, or to kiss him in broad daylight, or to not need a reason or pre-made plans with friends hoping he'd actually be there just to be able to see him. You knew, as his kisses between the valley of your breasts stole your very breath in the gentle coax of gasps from your lungs, that if you only said the word, if you told him to stop, he would. You knew, that by the end of this night, there was a good chance that regret would eventually catch up to you; that the shape and form, the phantoms of his touch and attention would litter your consciousness until it drove you mad. 

But you pushed it all aside, because right now, in this moment, even if only for the night, Matt Murdock was yours. 

In the way he paused in an instant when your fingertips pressed the lightest pressure against him, happy and willing to wait without a second thought or question. 

And in the way he let you gingerly lift the dark frames of his glasses, slow and controlled, and with a bated breath just waiting for him to tell you to stop. But he didn't, a warm smile instead bloomed a light that reflected in his dark eyes as he rested his head against your skin. And this would be a memory you'd never forget; Matt, slipping to his knees, head tilted against your chest, before you, and an unseeing gaze cast up in your direction filled with a burning devotion you felt undeserving of—as if he knew you needed the comfort despite the way he guarded it for his own. He was giving it to you. Giving him, to you.

Yeah, you thought, a heat consuming you from the inside out, ravaging in want and emotion and simple, sanguine greed as you slipped the last shield he wore onto the little hallside stand to your side. If only for the night. 

Matt Murdock was yours.

You'd forgotten all about your bedroom at the first rasp of his tongue swiping at you over the fabric of your bra. The action was enough to set your nerves once again aflame, and Matt was reverent in how he slid the straps down your arms, gracefully tugging it down and off and discarding the garment amongst the floor to be found in the morning with the others. He was taking his time, sweet, like your experience was paramount to his. He hummed pleasantly as his concentration settled on you. And your breasts weren't an afterthought, just a means to an end as he gave equal time to both of them, licking and sucking and leaving a trail of liquid fire in their wake as he rolled your nipples in his mouth and left a bright red mark you could already see blossoming against the swell of one of them. 

Your head fell back just enough to meet the wall behind you, eyes screwing shut at the drag of his cheek down your stomach, jumping under the small nip of teeth at your hip, and twitching over the feel of his hands sliding firmly against the small of your back. Your ass. Your thighs. Matt sank fully onto his knees in front of you, hands dragging down until he settled against your legs and between your thighs like he belonged there. He rested, for a moment, breathing a happy sigh against your groin and you swore you started to burn so hotly, you felt like you were about to burst into flames. 

The kiss he pressed just below your navel was like a signature he penned in permanent ink, as if tagging his presence, eyes fluttering shut as he finally inched your underwear and pants down until they rested around your ankles. He hadn't even done anything, but your legs were already shaking as you went to step out of them. Deft fingertips guided you against your calf as you did, using in the motion to trail his touch up until he hooked just under your knee and lifted your leg onto his shoulder. That same hand slid up as your voice trembled, tumbling from your lungs, to hold you steady at the hip.

Every part of you burned. Ached. And at his pause, you swallowed hard at the sight of him beneath you, stilled where he settled comfortably on the floor, mere inches from where you were fully naked and flayed bare before him. You've never seen a hunger like this until your half-lidded eyes gazed down at him, smoke and flame and an indulgent breath tugging up a satisfied smirk like a man presented a feast of every one of his favorite meals. And if that wasn’t a sight to behold; you wanted him, and you couldn’t tell if the heat grew warmer because of you or him, as you squirmed against the fan of his breath and the way he held you. Your plea was quiet. So quiet—as if a single decibel louder would convince him to pull away—you barely even heard it.

He dove in. 

You weren't sure whose moan was louder: yours or his, as his thumbs spread you apart to make room for the flat of his tongue. Hot. His mouth was so hot it burned, fire licking into you alongside him. He was in no rush, no hurry; just an agonizingly long, slick sweep of his tongue up the line of you. Spurred by the way a broken whine gleaned off your lips, Matt took his time in his savor, being sure to swipe against every inch, gather as much as he could with that first dip in, only pulling back after pausing when reaching your clit, relishing in the way your cry morphed into something filthy, and giving it an extra pass before he rolled his head back. 

There was a pure bliss in the way his eyes were shut and in the eagerness of his groan. His chest heaved like he’d hiked a mountain as you watched him swallow you, his head resting on your thigh as his throat worked the taste of you down. And if you’d known, if you expected even a fraction of what was about to happen, you might have recognized what he was doing for what it was—that in the languid way he settled back against you, hand adjusting his grip on your thigh tighter—you might have been able to prepare faster.

You couldn’t count the amount of dreams you’ve had about Matt eating you out. The amount of times you’ve fantasized of this very moment, against a wall like this, or on a bed, a couch. You pulled from past experiences, ex-lovers, the unrealistic feeling of your own knowing fingers or toys; a hybrid amalgamation of all of the above. The point was, you could never pinpoint exactly how it would feel, only the idealistic fiction that formed because of a soul in pining. And in spite of the multitude of ways he’s already proven you wrong or unknowing in one night alone, this was an expectation that apparently, you didn’t hit too far off the mark.

There was a mercy, yes, in the way he built up to it, but a vicious magnitude hung thickly in action. When he delved back in, it was with abandon. He moaned openly, making it known to you to make no mistake of how much he wanted to be there, and he parted you on his tongue until your body finally caved and sank into him. Then he started to work; steady, avid laps against you that had you choking on a shout. The rough grind of his nose against your clit when it escaped his focus encouraged slow-building tremors to meet his pace.

Rough, rolling pleasure began to consistently flutter over your skin like the silkiness of a hearty Spring breeze. Your back bowed and your hand clawed at the wall above you, trying to find some sort of grounding reprieve against drywall and paint. But you found none. And you wouldn’t find any if you kept fighting it, tension growing in the pit of your belly as your abs flexed and shuddered. Matt’s glide against you grew smoother, your arousal smearing across his mouth and chin as he drank you in. You jumped, a hoarse whimper tumbling out as you felt the eager tip of his tongue testing, settling, then pushing into you with the firm press of his head between your legs. His entire body rolled up into it, like the only thing he was made for was this. And with the ardent way he latched on as if he were only an extension of your own body, you’d have half a mind to believe he was. 

There was no thought, capability escaping you in the moment, when you fisted a hand in his hair, your hips moving with him as you tried to grind against his face. And Matt let you, letting out a staccato moan that ravaged and ripped through you with the way he buried his tongue so far up your cunt it was like it was him being pleasured. Making sounds he'd make as if it were you taking him in your mouth. And that had your mind racing anew—marveling at the odds of you being able to return the favor, wondering if he’d teeter on the whim of your control, set by your pace, or if he’d work you how he wanted, held back by fine lines of constraint. 

Matt of course, was first to know how that line of thinking affected you. Both his hands formed a sturdy grip on your waist, flicking at your hipbones, before he pulled you down onto him with a grunt and curl of his tongue. 

“Oh, shit.” Your back thudded against the wall as you rose and fell against it. “Matt. Fuck, Matt, baby, please, that feels so good.” You weren’t even sure what you were asking for, but you weren’t disappointed as he preened under the praise, offering a decadent hum of appreciation that flickered through you like blinking starlight. 

And he seemed to keep offering. With every tug at his hair and rock of your hips—even at every broken breath and easy moan—he rewarded you with something of his own. A sigh or a dirty little growl; a change in pace or intensity. It kept you on edge, unable to prepare for what he might do next because his every move was reliant on and responsive to you. When the leg that was thrown over him started to shake and slip off his shoulder, Matt made a sound of disapproval, bumping you back with his bicep against your thigh and his fingertips digging imprints into your ass like he wanted to be caged in, trapped by you.

It was like he could read your thoughts. “Could stay here for hours,” he breathed wetly against you, pulling back only far enough to speak. You shivered at the feel of his lips brushing over you at the form of each word. “Tastes amazing, you know that?”

“Figured. Or else I don’t think you’d be trying to kill me like this.” You had patience. You had restraint. You really did. But your body was truly trying to ruin your image as it reacted involuntarily against your character, hips jolting forward and down in search of his mouth again, anything that would bring the friction back as the burning ache grew more insistent and seeking.

Matt simply grinned, confident and cocksure and all too pleased with himself, turning just slight enough to plant a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. And you couldn’t even fault him. You and him both knew he was doing a good job. 

“So needy.” His sigh was playful as it buzzed across your skin. You couldn’t even bring yourself to argue what would most definitely be a weak defense. You were. Your want didn’t even come close or fall short of needing him to keep going. 

And at your tiny whimper, he honoured your request, slack-jawed as he pressed his face against your leg, drawing you in as he slicked two of his fingers along the line of your entrance. And sucking in a breath similar to yours as he twisted his wrist until the angle was right, and thoughtfully, he began to push.

This was familiar even in the ways it wasn’t, the second time this night Matt’s had his fingers in you, and there was a confidence now in how he moved. He already knew where to go, how to press. And that’s how you knew, in the way he paused, the pressure the pads of his fingertips used teetering on the edge of just too little, that it was all too deliberate. 

“Please don’t tease me.” Your whisper was feverish and wild, darkened gaze peering down at Matt as if keeping your eyes on him would shed some insight into what he was planning. 

“I’m not.” He stated simply, words thick with a molten craving. 

And pulling in a ragged breath, he was on you again. 

If he later told you his plan was simply to make you come again, you’d believe him. If you were told he actually was trying to kill you, you’d also believe him. But within the case lies that you truly believed it had nothing to do with goals as superficial and simple as those. Because as his mouth found you again, tongue laying flat before his lips moseyed into place, settling in a seal around your clit, you truly, firmly, and irreparably believed, that Matt was out to devastatingly ruin you.

With the first gentle suction, his fingers held fixed but unmoving. Just a waypoint, a guiding compass only there to ease against the way you pulsed against him. A steady hand that right now, acted as anchor in contrast to the delicate, almost exploratory way he licked softly at you. Desperate, you had to remind yourself to breathe through it, feeling the way it was instinct to hold it in your lungs at the most direct stimulation you’ve had all night in light flicks and reserved kisses. If you had any bite in you, you’d accuse him of toying around. But you found no malice in the way he wound you up like this, and you could only equate it to the prep a runner went over before a marathon. The stretch. The warm up. The sprint. 

You struggled to hold on to coherency, ghosts of it whizzing by, as you felt his steady build rise and rise, running parallel to the growing volume of the symphony of sounds the both of you poured into the air, until seemingly, Matt found his content in working you up for him. For a split second, he paused. A hair of a second, a fraction. Then in the surety of his position, the readiness in which he was wrapped around you, he sucked. And he sucked hard.

The moan was pulled razor sharp and sudden from you, unrestrained on a breathy cry as it took everything you had to not double over. The way his other hand shot up to splay over your stomach helped, a weight that kept you against the wall as if to say ‘I’ve got you, I’m here’, like he wasn’t the one disassembling you piece by piece. The way his fingers curled inside you was delicious; a firm grind into where he knew you would fall apart, and pressure teetering just on the cusp of excessive. 

The rasping strokes of his tongue could be considered criminal. Premeditated in the way that told you he’d truly spent his time studying, attuning to your body and how it responded just so that he would know exactly how to ravish you. That sweetness that you’d shared on display slipped into the background, replaced instead by a sinful greed that startled you but was far from unwelcome. Frantic, and breathless, your hand curled tighter in his hair, the pulling only earning you more reckless moans that shocked your system like lightning. You rocked faster against him. It was almost too much—the intense consistency of the suction, the burning insistence in every pass of his tongue—but it came as a shock to precisely no one in the swaths of fire that swept up your spine, or in the white-hot static that blurred the edges of your vision, that it was exactly what you needed.

Your high arrived loud, righteous, and fast in steady heat and heady pleasure that rippled through you in waves Matt only sought to draw out. His touch grew gentle, but unyielding, the brushes with his tongue against your clit mild and subtle, and the thrust of his fingers slowing to an indirect tender massage. He stayed like that until your body stopped convulsing, and the waves of blazing pleasure ebbed until it was nursed back down into a fervent ember toeing the border of pain. 

You'd have thought it would be safe of you to assume that your satisfaction would be enough to tide you over, but it was nothing but desire that burned in you despite the way you were still trembling. Matt didn’t seem to care too much as you slowly slipped your leg off of him, awareness coming to him to help steady you on shaky legs as he panted heavily on the ground. You probably should have given yourself more time to pull yourself together, but then the reminder that you’d already waited months for this moment was enough to steer you toward determination. Reaching down, Matt rose to his feet on your command, drawing breath just as he cradled your face and pushed himself into you. This kiss was a thanks you gratefully accepted, wet and tasting of you and debauched desire, before you spoke. 

“Bedroom. Now.”

“Yeah,” Matt’s words were slurred, thick like honey as he nodded quickly. “Right. Okay.”

The fact that both of you were steady enough on your feet to make it through the threshold was testament tenfold to the solid argument carnal instinct and innate want could make in defense of overriding any warning signs to take a break. Matt laved down your neck as he followed you blindly, suckling at your skin and pressing wet open-mouthed kisses wherever he could reach. And even with your eyes rolled back into your head, you were still able to pirouette the both of you through your room until you felt the backs of your knees collide softly with the sheets over your mattress. 

“Bed,” You murmured urgently, running your hands down his chest. “Bed. Bed, we’re at the bed Matt.”

One of his arms reached around to hold you, a welcome relief against the small of your back as you leaned to give yourself space, edging your hands back to the belt of his jeans. Restlessly trying to tug them down to no avail. With a loud groan, you weren’t above voicing your displeasure as yet again, Matt flicked your arms away, opting instead to push you down gently until your back hit the covers and he could climb over you.

“Jesus, Matt, why won’t you let me take off your pants—” 

His reply was quick and raggedly depraved, apology laced beneath his blatant desire. “Next time.”

The dissonance in your mind barely allowed the implication to rocket through you. The idea of a next time had you arching against his grounding touches as he shifted away enough to hold himself steady against the floor to shove the rest of his clothes off and kick them away in a crumpled pile against the wood panel where they should have belonged minutes after you’d gotten inside. ‘Next time’ meshed, melted in your mind and against every thought, syrupy and sticky like ice cream outside on a hot sunny day. It was intoxicating and exciting and faintly distinctive. ‘Next time’ implied that you’d be doing this with him again. ‘Next time’ meant that maybe, just maybe, Matt was open to not letting this wonderful, incredible night fade away with memories and time. And what he meant by that, well. You didn’t have the capacity to linger on it for too long at the moment. 

You watched as he carefully climbed back onto the bed, fingertips using your legs as a guide on where to settle as he shifted against the mattress on his knees. Propping up onto your elbows, you stared at the line of him in quiet awe. From the ruined, deep blush that splotched the features of his face pink, to the broad line of his shoulders that bled into a lean muscled torso. And it was like Matt could feel your eyes raking over him as they drifted further down and down, over tensing abs and the dusty patch of his happy trail until you finally set your sights on his cock in a full thatch of dark hair between his legs; thick and leaking and flushed so hard it looked heavy, that at your audible moan, Matt couldn’t help the way it jumped, his hand shooting down to grip at the base of him. 

You’d give in to the way you wanted to throw yourself back down into the bed, if not for fear of missing the way Matt adjusted, spreading himself out wider as he shifted on his knees, his other hand feeling around for your leg as you made it easier for him, spreading until you could drape your legs against his thighs and around him and he could shuffle forward enough to be able to reach you easily, slotting, nestling between you. It was unreal, this display in front of you. Matt like this. It almost felt dreamlike—like any second now your alarm would go off and you’d wake up in your bed with a wicked hangover and the distant, receding echo of drunken fun. 

But it wasn’t a dream, and Matt trembled as he rubbed down your thigh with one hand, feeling out your position, and jerked a few times against his fist with the other. 

“You’re gonna have to- pillow, sweetheart.” He managed to choke out roughly, and you clumsily followed his request, words floating in a halo of ecstasy in the air around your head as you yanked a pillow from above you and crudely lifted your hips enough to shove it under and raise you to him. Matt tried to help, his fingers bumping against yours in a way that made the both of you giggle as you adjusted and flattened any lumps out. 

Then came the held breaths. Matt shifting forward until he accidentally brushed up against you. Both of you jolted at the feeling, anticipation skyrocketing nerve endings to their very limits. You watched, guiding another pillow just under your head for support, as Matt drew his lower lip between his teeth so tight you’d be surprised if he didn’t break skin as he bit back a moan the moment he slid himself against you. You didn’t care for such restrained abandon, letting your voice ring out loud enough to carry the sentiment for the both of you. 

He was slow, thorough, as he dragged the length of him through slick heat, coating himself in the proof of your want for him and the aftermath you’d pulled him away from before he could spend the time with you in his mouth to clean up. A raw, stripped noise drifted wantonly from his lips and he hunched into his shoulders, breathing heavy and swallowing hard against the rising presence of the two of you in the air. 

You reached out, fingertips brushing his forearm, feeling his skin prickle under his touch, as you curled your legs around him; a gentle urge forward. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Yeah, yeah.” He crawled closer, and you felt his tip part through you until he was right there, lining himself up. The way he nudged against your entrance shot like an arrow straight to the heart. “Are you?” 

“I’m ready. I’m so ready,” Your words came out in one big aching breath. “Please give this to me, Matt, I need it. I want it. I want you.”

And you’d given him enough—more than enough—to have him moving without a second thought, both you and him sharing and certain in your desire, incentive, and mutual need. The necessity to chase what had been building up for far too long, to follow through with the only natural conclusion to the night. The press in was easy. You were so turned on, prepared enough, that there wasn’t even a chance for any modicum of pain or discomfort. Instead, all you felt as Matt pushed, inch by inch, was the glide, your body yielding to the stretch of thick brazen velvet heat, and the truly addictive sensation of being full. 

You both shared in the helpless, shattered moans that danced, twining in the air as Matt bottomed out, tilting over you with a final flex of his hips before he stilled. It might have been easy, but you still needed to adjust to the feel of him and he kindly and wordlessly accounted for that. But when your whispered ‘okay’ fell on deaf ears, and your eyes fluttered open to see Matt’s chin dropped to his heaving chest, you realized something more than just comfortability was making him wait. 

“Matt?”

“Just…” His voice rattled wetly on a deep breath, slow and steadying. “It’s- I haven’t done this in a while. I just need a minute. Wanna savor it.”

For a moment, everything around you disappeared. Your brain blanked, your thoughts froze, and your chest felt too full. Then everything…roared. Your heart sped up, flipping ceaselessly, pulsing heat coursing through you and Matt let out a broken whimper. You spoke with the ghostly fiery remnants of the hope that added up in months of desperate deprivation. “What do you mean?”

You weren’t sure how Matt found the brazenness in him to grin, wide, yet not without its share of sheepish admittance in its soft edges as he opened his eyes for you. “Told you I’ve wanted you.” He stole the breath of your reply with the slow way he began to draw back, fueled by the gasp that parted your lips and the feel of astonishment in your body’s reaction. “For a while, it’s only been you.”

Over the next few minutes, words felt too heavy. A thick reverence settled like a warm blanket over the room, and Matt set a slow, steady pace that gave you all of him in full long strokes. A gentle power as the full weight of him helped drive him forward. For a bit, there was nothing you could do but feel, helpless and content and beyond satisfied. There was a distant happy floating part of your subconscious that drew the conclusion that you didn’t even need to come again. That you could find a perfect ending entirely in the way Matt moved in you and with the force of his vulnerable admission. 

That bubble grew around you until it too started winding in. This pleasure was overwhelming in only the best ways possible. Matt’s hands on you, grip strong and unwavering. The way the front of his thighs met the back of yours, skin sweeping together in an easy sweat slick rhythm with every potent, rolling thrust. In the melodic, reverent moans and the obscene way your hips collided. That sweetness was back. The shared bliss that you now recognized as equally returned veneration. Devotion of the highest power; something just shy of possibly becoming worship found in the wells of a yearning heart.

It was easy to lock on to Matt, easy to watch. There was a restraint in the way he rocked to meet you, as if his thin grasp of control was entirely dependent on how deep his fingerprints imprinted against your skin and in the way you flexed against him, slipping more and more with every tiny gasp and blissful shiver. The stretch of him was all you could have asked for and more, hot and steadfast and every glide stoking a gratification that thrummed shockwaves through you like electricity in a body just granted life; satiatingly full.

You found yourself reaching out for him, your hand finding the side of his face and Matt wasted no time leaning over into the affection. You cradled him there for a moment, before your thumb swiped over the ridge of his brow, and your fingers slowly began to trace the curves of his features. The swell of his cheek. The line of his jaw. When your fingers swept back up to follow the shape of his lips, he pressed a soft kiss to them. You held them there for him, heart blooming with how he craved such intimacy, until you began to drag them down. The gentle touch parted his lips, and you were intent on continuing on with your path until the tip of his tongue darted out against you. Surprised, you paused, and Matt did it again, firmer, opening his mouth wider and oh. 

Sliding your fingers into his mouth slowly, your eyes went wide as you settled them against the flat of his tongue. His lips closed around a pleased hum and with a gentle suction, and he worked you over in a strained groan, tongue swirling around you until he was satisfied in thinking he sucked all the taste off of them, salt and sweat. Testing, you curled your fingers down into him, a slight pressure just to see what sort of spark it striked. And you might as well have struck gold, Matt moaning into it, his eyes rolling shut against a helpless, rougher thrust. When he let you go, a faint string of saliva hung from your fingertips, and you painted his skin with it, following the original trail you’d detoured from down his chin and grazing over the column of his throat. 

And whether that was the prompt, or simply the turn of the tide, there was no mistaking in the way Matt paused, adjusted your legs up just enough to hook around his waist, and drove in deeper. Charged and riled up, there was truly no more waiting as the change settled over you, fierce and filthy.

His mouth hung open now on a perpetual tangible sound, heavy groans and hitching breath amongst your own chorus of noise keying you into just how badly he needed this. Needed you. 

“I’ve been dreaming about how this would feel.” He begins, wildfire blaze and honeysuckle aroma. “You’re just like how I imagined, you know that?”

You hummed a wordless reply as you felt that blaze drop closer to you, the line of his chest now matching yours as he settled onto his arms, elbows digging into the mattress just above your shoulders. Your back arched off the bed at the angle shift that came with the way your legs followed him, pulling toward your body until you instinctively crossed your ankles around his back when he fully situated himself on top of you. 

Matt’s voice dropped into a register soaked in honeyed hedonistic pleasure, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear as he weaved sin into the very fabric of your being. “Feels like Heaven.”

You never wanted this to stop; the weight of Matt pushing you into the mattress, the way his kiss still ignited your bones and sent sparks to burst behind your eyes. You wanted to explore the slight possessive cant his thrusts took on as he snapped his hips forward, and the way he shuddered into you when you dragged your nails down the trail of his spine. 

The shape of his name felt so good as it tumbled into the air, gaining traction in time with each press of his cock inside you and each rough grind against your clit he tried his hardest to keep consistent when the roll of his hips perfectly met yours. Getting lost in it was easy, natural, as minutes ticked by and the stirrings of another climax grew. This was everything you wanted, everything you needed and more. Matt seemed to know exactly what to do, sometimes even before you did. Shifting to match the way you squirmed, speeding up before you could even ask, fucking into you harder as you clawed into him in the hopes that the raging tension, that winding coil of pressure in your core, would snap and let you drift apart against the sheets. But instead it stayed steady. Which in itself wouldn’t be a bad thing—hung, suspended in an endless pleasure—if it wasn’t for the way you began to notice the way Matt’s rhythm started to falter. He tried to hide it too, a determined furrow to his brow as he kissed you through choking gasps and low moans. And the thought of him coming edged you nearer, lighting a flame beneath you that burned brilliant and bright. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

“Oh, fuck,” The taste of your name was reverent and pleading on his tongue as it echoed against skin and sheets. His hips started to stutter, his careful control growing uneven and instinctual. “I’m so close, sweetheart. Tell me you are too. Tell me, please. Fuck, please, honey, because I don’t know if I can stop it. Tell me—”

And you were truthful in the way meaning lingered as you tried to gasp it out, orgasm crawling up from the tips of your hands and feet like the slow creep of wall-crawling ivy, but you could also see where this road was ultimately leading. The tightening peak in your core didn’t yet match the desperation in how Matt moved in you. You were close, yes, but Matt was already there tipping, falling over that cliff. 

You did what you could to try and help, dragging Matt back down into a messy, chaotic kiss, seeking in the way his tongue flicked skillfully against yours, and snaking a hand between your bodies to try and rush you along, match him in stride. Together, it sent washes of a bone-deep pleasure flickering through you, but it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t that your climax wanted to remain elusive. You simply, inherently, apparently, just needed a little bit more.

And when he started slowing, frantic and sloppy, you couldn’t find it in yourself to try and make him hold on in the way you knew he’d try if you’d just asked when he was right there. A single whisper against his lips sealed the deal, you pushing permission in hushed tones and wrapping both of your arms around his neck as he moaned into your mouth.

Matt lasted as long as he could for you.

It stoked the flame, the way his body tensed. You could feel the way the muscle of his thighs contracted, and you grew hooked on the lightheadedness you felt as he rapidly panted above you. You don’t think you’d ever hear a sound prettier than the noise he made as he buried himself completely into you, coming deep in hot steady pulses, a slew of praise, and a strangled, guttural moan. 

You could hear the way your heart pounded in your ears as he struggled to stay upright above you. And when he flinched at the first shaky caress of your hand, you waited until he was ready to lean back into the touch. The brush of your kiss was gentle, and you hoped it sang of the gratification that rejoiced just under the surface of your skin. Maybe another day, the satisfaction would have been enough, but your own edge was just barely within reach. And while Matt breathed, settling down, you took advantage of the way he was still seated in you, throbbing and filling you up. The sigh that parted your lips when you dipped your hand between your legs again was heady, and you chased it, not wanting to lose sight of the way that heat still curled at the edges. You focused on the burning weight of Matt. The cognizance of what he’d just done only spurring the roll of your wrist.

When Matt sucked in a breath and began to pull back, you steadied yourself for the inevitable loss of him. But then it never came. Matt shifted, a hand tracing down your body until fumbling fingers laced with yours just to bring it up to rest on the pillow beside your head, and he pushed back in. You froze, feeling the way you instinctively clenched around him, your body seeking the more you craved.

“Didn’t you-” Your voice shattered when he did it again, this time building closer to a slow, sloppy, full thrust as his body reared up over yours. “Matt, didn’t you just…”

His reply was broken, words cracking at the edges. But he managed to send you a smile full of filth and desire. “Yeah.”

“You can stop.” Although you arched into him, torn between your orgasm billowing on the horizon and worry for his overwhelm. “Fuck, baby, it’s okay, you can stop. Isn’t that too much—?”

“Only a little.” It wasn’t easy to look past the way his voice was shaking, trembling above you as he struggled to keep himself held up on his arms, but there was no mistaking the determination in the echo of his words. Or the unmistakable edge of pain cutting sharp around his subdued gasps only furthering the way his brow furrowed in slack-jawed pleasure. “But right- right now, I like it.” He groaned as he found a new, shaky, lazy pace. And he dipped his head down, burying himself against the crook where your neck meets shoulder, and determinedly ground himself in every feel of you he could manage.

You’d never been engulfed in something like this before and you didn’t know what to do—didn’t think there was anything you could do except ride it out, filing away Matt’s bitten-off little whimpers as he fucked you through overstimulation into a sacred little folder, let the wave of your climax crest over you again to the caress of his tongue against your throat and the sinewy shift of muscle working overtime above you under the soothing weight of your palm sweeping over shoulderblades and the dip of his waist.

“Know you're close, sweetheart—wanna feel it.” he gasped, dragging his nose against the line of your throat before his lips captured yours. “You'll give it to me, won't you? Need it so bad. Fuck. Please, god I need it.”

It was the mix of his words and the way he continued to drive himself forward, an unwavering resolve in his want to give you another orgasm strong and unyielding even in the frantic snap of his hips that almost whispered temptations of holding back something rough and hard. It was a race to take care of you, see you to your fulfillment, before the consequences of his own caught up to him. You could tell it nipped at his heels by the way his eyes were blown wide and glassy as you caught glimpses behind a heavy half-lidden gaze, in how the power of his thrusts grew unpredictable as he shifted you in angle until you clawed out for him to make up for consistency, and in how his hand replaced your own, fingers circling your clit with a persistent coaxing desperation.

You came with a snap of the rubber band that had been winding since that bedroom at the party, hard and uncontrollably; a raging, wild storm of white-hot sparks that dotted your vision and a smouldering ember that wrapped a thick, weighty smoke around your head.

When he felt you shake, when you cried out a grateful ‘thank you’ against his ear and started to spasm around him, Matt couldn’t keep going. He came again too, choking on a hoarse cry of your name, when his arms finally gave out from under him, twitching in time with you as he collapsed onto your chest, and the aftershocks of your lingering pleasure bleeding out all he had left to give. 

You don’t know how long you laid there. A few seconds. A few minutes, maybe. It didn’t matter; as long as it took for your heart to stop racing and the sheen of sweat that beaded along skin to dry. Matt was…somewhere else, for the majority of that time, him adjusting only once in the swarming aftermath to drag his head over your breast, ear pressed down over the left side of your chest. You enjoyed combing your fingers through his damp hair, lightly scraping your nails at the back of his neck, humming softly in a quiet content while he listened to the steadying beat of your heart until he began to stir on top of you. 

He didn’t lift his head when he breathed your name; a tiny little question.

“Yeah?”

“I should pull out of you.”

“Think it’s a little too late for that.” And what began as a breathless little giggle morphed into a deeper laugh when Matt snorted, dragging his cheek against your skin as he breathed deep and rolled his shoulders to begin his ascent.

Lifting up, Matt faced down at you with a wide, blissed out smile that scrunched a line above his nose, beckoned the crinkles by his eyes, and a harnessed glow you’d never seen before. He rendered you breathless—how he was giving this so freely to you, you couldn't even fathom.

“You ready?” He asked in a soft, reverent whisper, reaching behind him with one hand to coax your legs to return to the mattress, the strong press of his fingers rubbing a soothing apology into the soreness of your muscles from holding the position for so long, the other pressing a kiss against the back of your hand where he still held it.

The both of you flinched when he shifted back to achingly reel his hips in enough for him to pull out of you, soft and spent. You bit back a whine at the loss of that fullness, but it was quickly replaced by the place he claimed by your side, rolling against the sheets until he laid down next to you, throwing an arm like a brace across your torso and splaying his fingers against your back. 

You laid together as long as it took before you floated back from that dreamlike mist and to reality. Before the stickiness between your thighs and the way his come dripped down your leg grew uncomfortable. It was breaching a fragile quiet, how you got out of bed on shaky legs. Matt's hold on you was hesitant, grip tight but careful, like he was afraid that if he slipped away, you would slip past him right along with it, as you guided him with you to the bathroom. And with every tender swipe of the warm washcloth, and with every time your gaze flickered up to Matt under the stark fluorescent lights, you knew there was no escaping the elephant that tried its best to sneak, mild and embarrassed, but justified in its presence, into the room. Back by your bed, in fresh underwear and after fishing Matt’s silk boxers off the ground, you paused as he caught your elbow, stilling you before him. 

Turning toward him, Matt held you close. The way he touched you is reminiscent of earlier that night, the light touch of hesitant fingertips tracing the length of your neck, wisping across your collar. Except now they also dragged down to where you were still topless, forging a new path where he’d begun to press softly against the curve of your chest and gently tracing the indents of your ribs. His fingertips left lines of something bittersweet against your skin, hanging just on the precipice of resolution in his touch. Like he was trying to memorize what was given to him tonight, what he had. What he might lose. 

You caught his arm, brushing your thumb across his skin as you held loosely onto his bicep, trying to push some comfort through your action. “We don’t have to talk about this today.” The offer felt heavy as it pushed through your lips, the growing weight of distant fear twisting in your stomach as the dust began to settle to shed light on the reality of what remained. “You could stay the night if you’d like. I’ll drive you back to campus in the morning. We can take some time.” Your lip stung as you bit it, reluctant to even breathe air into these next words, but it wouldn’t be fair of you to not put the option on the table. “Or just…or we could just forget it.”

“No.” The statement was firm, instant, but Matt’s voice was frail—like he was losing the battle with the urge to beg, the plea echoing in its shadow. “I don’t want to forget it. I want- I wanna talk about this now. If…if that’s okay?”

You swallowed thickly, nodding your head. “Okay.”

But you weren’t sure where to begin. Hovering in this dense silence that filled your bedroom, in the wake of everything that just happened. Everything you’ve kept yourself from experiencing. Everything you swore you’d never let yourself have. Every way you could think of to begin died on your tongue, words escaping you alongside their meanings. You suddenly felt selfish, what you wanted from him. And foolish. So incredibly foolish. It wasn’t exactly regret that started to seep in with the tumult in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t think you even could regret tonight if you tried. There wasn’t just a satisfaction, or just the pleasant hazy post-sex bliss that rippled through you like gentle reminders of what was probably the best experience you had with someone up until that point. It was a loss: the pride you held out in front of you as the last barrier of defense that fell the moment he asked for a kiss sitting, trembling with the possibility that these next few minutes might give something substantial to the fears that had up until recently, kept you in check. A victory: a deep furrowed craving that had sat lying in wait, yearning for months, finally coaxed forward, rewarded, and fulfilled in more ways than you could have even feasibly imagined.

Further still, it was easy to let those seeds of doubt influence your expectation. To let the character of Matt, tonight rewritten and brand new before you, be overshadowed by the interpretation of him you protected your heart from for months. This conversation wasn’t one you think you could be ready for, but you prepared yourself for the fallout regardless. Opting instead to brace yourself for the worst possible outcome, leaving yourself vulnerable and hopeful if not unaware for if it came to the best. 

The silence, now stretched too long, brought a frustrated heat to your face. You hated that it couldn’t be simple. You hated that you couldn’t just file away this night under something cut and dry. Because you knew—deep down, you knew—this wasn’t a carefully chosen conquest. The onus wasn’t on Matt Murdock charming his way into your pants with an offer you couldn’t refuse and the bitter taste of knowing you were doing something stupid stinging in the back of your throat. The whisperings had been there all night; in the vulnerability shared, in the way he responded, in the utterance of raw admissions strung up plain for anyone to see. You struggled to find the balance of that coin, some part of you drenched in such arduous disbelief that of all people, Matt chose you, that you had to search every word, action, touch, and endearment for the punishment, the joke, the end to the dream.

It was like Matt could sense the hill you were slipping down, the soft mutter of your name cradling around you like a gentle lifeline. “Look at me.” So you did, taking in his expression in the rapid movements of your eyes over his face in the low light. And what you found could only be a mirror of what you were sure reflected on your own features; a breath held back by the bite of fear. Apprehension. Longing. Then his voice fell into something hesitant in the quiet moments that followed, question echoing all too familiar as he repeated it. But this time, it was searching for something else. Something more. Desperate for something solid to grasp onto. “What do we have?”

And you charted it all out, laying the answer down flat in your mind. Months—term after term of falling into step. Of playful banter and risky flirting. Of drinks shared and quiet moments when lines were drawn. Of finding authenticity in an otherwise easily misunderstood performance. A gentle evolution from somebody you off-handedly knew to tentative friendship. You knew what you and Matt had; a relationship that thrived on sharp tongues and a scrutinizing study of character that despite your effort, opened the gates of possibility to something calm and dangerous in its delicacy. But that's not what he was asking. 

Instead, you steeled yourself where you stood. He was looking, searching for the next step forward. All the while giving you the agency to his heart, allowing all power over dictation and final say to whatever you chose to establish. You couldn't ignore the infliction he dealt to himself, seeing straight through the spaces in between to the fear, the cruel reminders of the last time he gave himself so freely to someone. That was before you met him, but ghosts were best known for haunting. “What do you want?”

It was almost as if you could see the wheels in his mind turn, a sightless focus casting his eyes from side to side as he tried to settle on the right words to say, finding the extent of which he was comfortable enough to voice. “Can I still kiss you?”

You weren’t the same person you were when you arrived at that party. That version of you, if placed in your position now, would have had no trouble making a joke out of it. Putting a teasing spin on how if he didn’t think he’d earned it after single-handedly raising some bars that were admittingly far too low, then that was on him. And that version of you did linger, buzzing in the back of your thoughts and offering a hand should you take it for the easy way out. Instead, in this moment, you were wholly the part of you you sought so long to protect; the one that didn’t miss the vulnerable cadence of his voice, or the way his eyes darted rapidly across where he assumed your face to be. So you tried to solve the puzzle in his quiet, shimmying closer to him until you could press your lips to his. 

This kiss was something new. It wasn’t the sweet satisfied devotion that could breathe fire into a soul, or the lust-driven hunger that fueled nothing but go, go, go. It was a soft, tentative ask. Not just seeking permission, but in search of solace. A place to stay. A kiss aware of the possibility of rejection. It wasn’t until you pulled away that you confidently thought you dug your way to grasp at its roots, a clarity finding you in what it meant for him to also have expressed his want. And the picture you’d missed, too otherwise distracted to place how his consistent, fervent intensity seemed to match yours—and all it included, carefully considering that you’d poured yourself into him with months of lonely yearning. And the steady implication that he had also, maybe, possibly, done the same. The pieces had not been handed to you all at once, but incrementally; inside the quiet, intimate spaces that slipped through the cracks between feverish touches and hot, liquid desire. It was so easy to overlook them in the moment, but felt nothing but so incredibly monumentally substantial now.

Taking a calculated risk that had your heart leaping up into your throat just on the incrementally slim off chance that you were wrong—now that the haze over your thoughts, and other carnal distractions were clear—you broached the topic with a solemnity and offer you wouldn’t be able to come back from. “You can kiss me whenever you want.”

“Yeah?” Matt looked almost surprised, like the part of him that already knew your answer was still caught off guard by his own doubts, but he fought to not let the entirety of his expression show; a twitch that opted to lean more into the favor of the cool demeanor much like you’d seen him display only a few hours ago. Like what he was used to doing when he fell into step with you. Like he expected in this wind-down that you wouldn’t take him seriously—or not understand the nuance of what he was even asking. When in reality, you were glad he asked first. Because you weren’t so sure if you’d have had the guts to bring it up in the next couple of days, let alone so incredibly soon. “Even tomorrow?"

You hoped he could feel the weight of your stare as you studied his face, your voice dropping to a fragile whisper that clung to every hope you’ve ever had. “Especially tomorrow.”

The urge to bask in the grin that split his face wide was overwhelming and you caved in an instant. The light of him filled you to the brim, your heart doing airy flips in your chest while your mind raced, fervent disbelief that this was how it all sorted out; resolution found in the sharing of admissions equally matched in tenacity.

The quiet was simple, when you met Matt back on the bed after throwing on the first sleep shirt you found. He’d laid in wait, an almost incredulous smile widening at the first dip of you crawling up to lay next to him. You wondered if he would always like this, eager hands reaching out to touch you the moment he could, guiding you to where he could lay your head on his chest and grab your thigh, comforting and purely there, when you lifted a leg to tangle with his. He held you then, the two of you breathing together in the comfortable quiet against the sheets, letting the realization that the platter was just given to you, the door was now open to a future where you did have this—cuddling into Matt with his arms wrapped around you, the wisp of a kiss pressed to the top of your head—and not just for the night. 

It was only a few hours ago in which that very realization held an opposite sentimentality. That thinking about wanting him only led you to find a disappointment welled deep inside your chest. And despite the surrealist way you bathed in the gentle circles being traced onto your skin, or hearing Matt’s heart beat beneath your ear, that hesitation still persisted. If only in insecurity.

Your voice was small, as it spoke. Like you tried to keep the edges blunt as if you were in a room full of bubbles ready to burst. “Tell me you mean it,” Swallowing against your nerve, a part of you that wondered if maybe you should have saved this for another day, you continued, “I mean, neither of us have actually said what this is yet, and I don’t want to rush labels or anything, I just…I wanna make sure we’re on the same page.”

The pause Matt took wasn’t hesitant, but careful. He knew just as well as you did that he was walking on the eggshells of a pretty consistent history that more than spoke for itself. “Of course I mean it.” The reason why you even asked at all hung perilous and sharp like a sword above both of your heads. “I want to be with you. Do this. Us.”

It was hard not to chew at your lip, cast your gaze down until you felt Matt’s finger hook under your chin, tenderly prompting you to look up at him. “And you think we’ll last?”

“I certainly hope so.” Then he dipped into something you’d never seen from him before. Something heavily guarded and drawn out in rough breaths that were hard to take. When he spoke, everything in you stilled. “I hide things, from people. It’s hard to share. Hard to explain. I can’t be myself with others.”

You felt now like you were just handed something fragile pulled up from the depths of him, a gift of something made of a porcelain he was trusting you not to drop. You cradled it gently, shifting to wrap it in silk and lay it amongst the pillows. “Is that why you want to try? Are you yourself, with me?”

“Not fully. Not even close.” He offered you a sad smile that ticked up with hope scattered around the way his lips tugged it into shape. “But I think one day, with you…I could be.”

The realization that you were edging into territory that presented Matt more naked than you’ve seen him tonight clutched heavy around your heart. A swell of veneration, of appreciation. A flicker of coffee dates and hand holding. A rediscovering of who you were and the beginnings of a future together. It was almost overwhelming, the way Matt stripped down and offered this to you; the willingness to figure things out, to grow close, to try again. You leaned up to press a slow and gentle kiss to his lips, sighing into his smile as you nodded your head in reverent understanding. 

“Sounds a lot like you’re hoping I’ll hold out in the meantime, waiting for you to be ready.” 

For a moment, he met your reply with open relief, welcoming how you saved the conversation from becoming too much of a weight to burden at the hour it was with how deftly you spoke, letting a trickle of your normal rhythm with him sooth every syllable. “Well, you’ve already waited for me once.” He pointed out, not a single hint of triumph or smugness in his voice at how you held out hope all the while unknowingly, Matt was gathering the nerve to ask you to be his. Just a steady stream of admiration and gratitude. The plea never gained the strength it needed to become vocal, but the ask rang just as clear as the echoing toll of a church bell in the breath in between. 

Would you wait a little longer? 

And for all of him, it barely took anything to weigh the odds—finding a conclusion in his sigh of relief, the way Matt seemed to compliment even the most neglected parts of you, and the way you knew if given the chance, you would protect any and everything he’d share with you. For all of him, it didn’t matter how much time may pass, if all you had to do was love him while in wait…you knew you would.

if you made it all the way to the end, ty and i hope you enjoyed :)

[spider-stark]

DAUGHTER OF THE KING

pairing | matt murdock x fisk!reader

summary | the devil should've known better than to trust the daughter of the king

warnings | reader is wilson fisk's daughter, angst, definitely some father/daughter trauma in there somewhere, matt being a smartass, betrayal, adult themes, warped religion, lightly edited no beta we die like foggy in ddba, MDNI 18+

word count | 2.3k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

You found the Devil on his knees.  

Darkness surrounded him. Bled down the walls from stained glass; crawled out from beneath aged pews. Like all wicked things, it seemed to live and breathe and ache—for him, for him, always for him. 

But then there was light. 

Beautiful holy light emanated from the votive candles spread across the altar, their wicks crackling to the sound of prayers gone unanswered. Same as the darkness, the light seemed to live and breathe and dance—moving around his body like a fiery waltz, protecting him from all things wicked. 

It was easy in moments like this. To want to believe. 

Not in God, of course, nor any so-called truth to be found in wafer-thin pages. No, it was never easy to believe in Him—but in him? You saw it sometimes. Glimpsed divinity in the rounded curve of the Devil’s shoulders, crimson leather straining over muscled arms bent at the elbows, his fingers laced in silent conversation. 

Worship. That was the word for it, wasn’t it? When you believed in something more than anything. When your bones itched to be carved into an altar just for them, just to have something to point to and say: Look! Look what I did! Look at how I’ll tear myself apart for you! 

But not every follower is devout. Not every acolyte knows how to wield a chisel and a gouge. 

And not every sinner wants for absolution. 

Standing in the arched entryway of Clinton Church, you allowed yourself a moment to watch him. To admire. Memorize. 

Then you glanced up towards the rafters, sucking a steadying breath deep into your lungs. Imagined there were ribbons sewn into your flesh like the strings of a prized marionette: lifting your chin, straightening your spine. 

Confidence, your father rasped in the back of your mind, is a construct. 

Instinctually, you replied: A performance. 

To win the game was to be someone else. 

The church echoed with the hollow c l i c k of stiletto boots as you strode down the aisle. 

“Are you praying for me, D?”  

The Devil didn’t look up, didn’t so much as flinch. Why would he? He already knew you were here. You’d been banking on it, actually—his habit of listening to your heartbeat for miles and miles, amused by how it stuttered and skipped whenever you got closer to where you were supposed to meet him that night. 

But there was nothing “amused” about the Devil now. Nothing warm in the laugh he coughed out; a sound once so sweet now turned to citrus fruit rotting on your tongue. 

“Someone has to.” 

Your lips pursed in thoughtful consideration, fingertips trailing over the dusty pews as you passed. 

Maybe he was right. 

Despite everything, you were glad it was him. That if God was to finally learn your name, it would be from the mouth of one who spoke it as if there were petals on his tongue rather than thorns between his teeth. 

Brushing the dust from your hands, you came to a stop some distance behind him. “What do you want?” 

When you got the message to meet him here, you had been surprised to say the least. You hadn’t expected to hear from him. Much less for him to want—no, to be willing—to see you. 

Not today. 

Not tomorrow. 

Not ever again. 

The Devil loosed a breath as he lifted his head, rolling his shoulders. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” 

Neither were you. Not at first, anyway. 

“That’s not an answer,” you said. 

“Kneel with me,” he replied softly. 

You almost scoffed. Was he serious? 

Six months, two weeks, five days. That was how long you’d worked with the Devil. The amount of time spent learning the ins and outs of each other’s souls, trading hopes and fears like sacred secrets. 

Most of what you’d shown him had been fake. A persona crafted to achieve an aim. But some of it had been genuine. Tattered bits of you that somehow slipped through the cracks. 

“You know I don’t do all that religious bullshit.” 

“You don’t have to pray to spend time on your knees,” he rebutted. Then, with a ghost of a smile, “I figured you of all people would know that.” 

It took a minute for his words to sink in. 

When they did, you had to suck your teeth to suppress a grin. 

“Are you slutshaming me, D?” 

“Me? Oh, God no,” he said. “I’m just stating facts.” 

You hummed. “Facts can be fickle.” 

“And the truth?” 

“Subjective.” 

“Personal experience?” 

“Pliable.” 

Another laugh, except this one had a hint of sugar in it. “I’m not sure the claw marks on my back are what I’d consider pliable.” 

Heat swirled in your belly, bloomed over your cheeks. 

Twenty-two days. That was how long it’d been since you last shared the Devil’s bed. And while you were sure you’d left considerable marks—namely because the Devil was a masochist who went harder, faster, deeper at the mere thought of pain—you were also sure they had already healed and faded. 

“Everything can be bent,” you managed, forcing another steadying breath. “Reality is malleable, D.” 

“Spoken like a true con artist,” he said. 

“Spoken like a realist,” you corrected. 

The human mind was weak. Susceptible. 

What if you told him all those nights spent in silk sheets hadn’t been a product of lust or l-ve? That you hadn’t enjoyed yourself, hadn’t wanted him to touch you? He would start to view them differently. Would comb through memories for signs and clues until eventually they reflected the very narrative you wove.

Which was precisely why you kept that example to yourself. Hadn’t you done enough damage to the Devil’s memories? Was it so wrong to hope that, in even one, you might remain something he didn’t regret? 

You sighed. “Cut to the chase, Devil boy. You might be a creature of the night, but some of us actually enjoy our eight hours of sleep.” 

Again, he urged you to kneel by gesturing to the empty spot beside him. “Humor me,” he said. Before you could say no—and you would’ve said no—he added, “Just one last time.” 

Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit. 

Your body moved towards the altar like an actor through a familiar scene, so acquainted with their mark that they could find it eyes-closed, hands tied behind their back. 

On the ground next to him—close enough to feel the warmth of him, to smell leather and cologne, but not to have your shoulders brush—you smoothed your overcoat and kept your eyes pinned straight ahead. High on the wall behind the altar, the Son of God hung crucified. His sad eyes gazed Heavenward, but you still felt you were being watched. 

You resisted the urge to look towards the rafters. 

“There. Happy?” 

Out of your peripheral, the Devil tilted his head. “Are you?” 

You laughed. “What is this? Therapy?” 

“Do they have therapists for daddy issues?” he asks. 

“You tell me,” you shot back. 

“My dad was a good man,” he said stiffly. 

The corners of your mouth took on a bitter curve. “Mine’s not.” 

An uncomfortable silence settled between you. In it, you dared a sidelong glance at him, watching his gloved fingers twitch at his side before curling into a restrained fist. 

Twenty-two days ago, he would’ve reached for your hand. 

You hadn’t expected to miss something so simple. Not this much. Not at all. 

The Devil cleared his throat. “Speaking of your father,” he said, the fourth word drowning in vitriol. “He’s in prison.” 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” 

“The U.S. Attorney charged him with twelve RICO counts—” 

You spoke over him. “Should you be talking all scales of justice when you’re still in your hero get-up?” 

“—each count is twenty years—” 

“I’m leaning no.” 

“—that’s life,” he said, sharp enough to make you shut up. “No parole, no exceptions. Life—in Ryker’s Island, no less.” 

Were you supposed to feel something? Guilt, worry? Maybe. 

Instead, you checked your nails and said, “Yikes.” 

In all fairness, Yikes was as good a word as any to describe Ryker’s. Considered a fate worse than death, the island penitentiary was most widely known as “Hell on Earth.” More prison guards died each year than inmates—an uncommon statistic, to say the least. 

You were sure dear old dad was fitting in just fine. 

The Devil let out a frustrated sigh. “Is that how we’re gonna play this?” Even without looking at him—unable to make yourself look at him—you knew his attention was fixed on you. Could feel it, sightless eyes burning into your cheek. “You’re gonna sit there and act like—” 

“Shouldn’t we be celebrating?” Your tone was cold, clipped. “Isn’t that what you wanted? What we wanted?” 

Hesitant, the Devil shamefully admitted, “I thought you needed to be saved.” 

“I did,” you told him. Just not in the way you thought. 

Six months, two weeks, five days. That was how long you worked with the Devil. Since you took the first step in turning yourself from a pawn to a queen. 

Selling your father’s secrets had been easy. Earning the respect of his closest men, manipulating or securing blackmail on the rest… Achievable. 

But convincing the Devil to trust you? To believe you were the innocent daughter of a corrupt monster? 

That had been the hard part. 

Not because he didn’t. 

But because he did. 

“You should be proud of yourself.” You sniffed. “The hero won, the big bad got locked away. End scene, roll credits.” Pretend not to see what happened next. 

“But it’s not over,” the Devil mused, haunted and resentfully amused. “Fisk might be in jail, but his kingdom lives on. It’s just someone else on the throne.” 

Burning burning burning, through flesh muscle blood. 

What wouldn’t you give, you wanted to scream, for the keys to a kingdom? 

This world was evanescent. Facts were fickle and the truth subjective, the mind susceptible and the heart unstable. So few things lasted, and what you felt for the Devil—Matt—was no exception. It was poison. A slow death over weeks, months, years. 

Because everyone turned eventually. 

Even a daughter. 

But power? Power was forever. 

So power was what you took. 

The burning stopped when the Devil looked away, back to the candlelit altar, to the crucifix high behind it. You knew he couldn’t see the Son. Not really. But a lack of sight didn’t make the act any less reverent. 

“Was any of it real?” he asked, almost whispering. 

Answers ran through your head like lines in a script. Some bold, some blasé, others defensive or angry or cruel. 

But in the end, the truth was all that remained. Your very own version of it, moth-eaten and shattered, a fragment of your soul never to be spoken aloud. 

Yes. 

More than I would’ve liked. 

“You didn’t have a reason for asking me here,” you said instead. “Did you?” 

He shook his head No. “Just a hope,” he admitted. 

“Hope is a Catholic’s biggest vice.” 

“And what’s yours?” he shot back, another question you’d never answer. 

For a moment, you watched the candle flames dance. Considered the dying Son of God and thought to ask: Did it hurt? Not to have nails driven into your flesh, but what came after. To know the cost of survival was becoming what led you to death? 

“I could end this,” the Devil said so suddenly that, for the first time, you turned to fully face him. “Take you to the Feds. Let you rot next to your father.” 

Your stomach twisted, but then imaginary ribbons snapped tight against your flesh, reminding you to paint an oily smile on your face. 

“You could.” You held his red-eyed stare. “But you won’t.” 

His jaw ticked. “What makes you so sure?” 

With a flippant sigh, you rose to your feet and smoothed the wrinkles from your overcoat. “Few things distract you, D. I’m proud to be one of them.” 

His cheeks scrunched, brow furrowing beneath his cowl. 

Even though he couldn’t see you, you pointed up at the rafters as you said, “Listen.” 

You saw it on his face the moment he noticed the other heartbeat in the room. Watched the range of emotions that washed over his features, bleeding like watercolors until you couldn’t tell rage from hurt from self-contempt. 

“Poindexter,” he finally uttered, harsh and disbelieving. Then he laughed, an antagonizing sound that got caught on the thorns between his teeth. “How’d you pull that one off?” he asked. “I thought he was your father’s pet.” 

“You wouldn’t believe what a girl can accomplish on her knees.” 

Dex needed someone to orbit. 

You needed someone to control. 

Even without an altar, it was a match made in Heaven. 

“I didn’t realize you trusted me so little.” His brusqueness couldn’t mask the bit of hurt that slipped through. “But if you think I’m afraid of him, afraid of death, then—” 

“Cute,” you said. “You actually think it’s you I’ve told Dex shoot.” 

Time stopped. The Devil froze. 

Your smile grew. Not because of ribbons or performance, but simply because you liked it. Power, control. 

Winning. 

“Step one foot out of line,” you warned sweetly, “and it won’t be a cell you put me in, D—it’ll be a grave.” 

This was a gamble. A dangerous one, at that. One that even Dex was thoroughly against, though you had no doubt he’d follow through with his task. 

But you knew the Devil. 

And he knew you enough to know you weren’t bluffing. 

So, he didn’t respond. Didn’t do anything other than turn back towards the altar, the cross, the forsaken Son. 

And you turned your back on him. 

“For what it’s worth,” you uttered, unsure of the words even as they left your mouth, “I never enjoyed lying to you.” 

Then you left.

a/n | would you believe me if i told you this idea started as me wanting to write smut in a church with matt wearing the daredevil suit? no? fair.

like always i’ve got about a million things i wanna ramble about with this piece, but i’ll keep it short and say: i'm never writing for matt murdock ever again cause he gave me a headache <3

thank you for reading and as always, comments & reblogs are super appreciated :)

[tumbleweedstillhaspanic]

If I had a nickel for each time Shawn Hatosy has played a ruggedly handsome charming widower, I'd have at least two nickels which is not many nickels but still odd that there's two of em.

[quietbluetune]

December Morning — B.F.

bob floyd x afab/fem!reader

summary: the only thing worse than seeing your best friend’s brother again is being snowed in with him— and your unresolved feelings

or, you and bob floyd might not hate each other as much as you think

warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, ex-academic rivals, best friend’s brother trope, a touch of angst, smut, forced proximity, hurt/comfort & found family if you squint, winter wedding, oc of bob’s sister, bob is sassy, everyone knows they’re in love but them, slight backstory on reader’s home life, mention of financial insecurity, alcohol, language, lots of soft romance & fluff, plot is basically just 30k words of foreplay

smut warnings: pinv sex, fingering, oral (f!), creampie, slight praise kink & cockwarming, bob is huge ofc, petnames, brief inexperienced “nondescript” (?) consensual adolescent intimacy (17&18)

word count: 53k (i’m so sorry) — ao3, masterlist — playlist

author’s note: i had a blast writing this for the lovely @lewmagoo holiday event & hope i did my prompt some justice ! i feel like there’s a severe lack of etl for our favorite fly boy—and while some of it may be a little ooc—i couldn’t resist putting this spin on him. this is my first crack at smut, too, so i’m so sorry if it sucks lol. i know this is incredibly late, i unfortunately had a family emergency over the holidays, but i couldn’t wait until next year to share this one. it’s technically still winter— that’s my excuse. anyway, it was good to have an indulgent little snowy wonderland to get lost in. i hope it can do that for you, too xx thank you for reading, ik it’s a big one !

Your heartbeat kicks as you wind up the hill— An ornate, tall, ivory building slipping into view between strips of bare branches and amber-glowing antique street lamps.

There’d been a speech, a pep-talk, an inner monologue, all running wild through your head the closer you came to this moment. 

And yet, somehow, nothing could’ve prepared you for the rush of adrenaline and symphony of deafening, conflicting reminders clashing behind your skull when it finally arrives. 

The nerves sit like a lump in your throat— An unshakable, persistent reminder this wasn’t nothing like you tried to tell yourself it was. 

No, of course this wasn’t nothing. This was your best friend’s wedding, for God’s sake. 

But that wasn't the reason your hands were sweaty and restless, twisting around the little trinkets on your keyring incessantly, glittering under the glow of an occasional passing streetlight. 

It wasn’t the reason your pulse was concerningly erratic, your lip caught between your teeth, your stomach in knots so long it forgot any other form. 

Not at all. 

Truthfully, you couldn’t be happier about this: an extended weekend of nothing but ebullience and bliss for the most deserving person you know. A perfect night, perfect weather, perfect venue— Already busting at the seams with warm joy and soft smiles like a heartbeat in the cold. 

But if you were being honest, it didn’t help that her past was tied to yours. It didn’t help that celebrating joining her new life and memories with old was bound to dig up yours. 

And it certainly didn’t help that she was related to the very person you loathe. 

Actually, loathe was putting it nicely. You’d be more than happy to go the rest of your life never seeing Bob Floyd again. 

Or at least you had yourself convinced of that.  

Your Uber pulls to a jerky stop along the covered turnaround at the main doors of the Inn, tires scraping ceremoniously against the cool cobblestone. 

The sleek black of the car is bathed in faint, warm, twinkling lights strung tastefully around every pillar, every perfectly-preened bush, and every window wreath. They mimic the stars glistening above a canvas of pitch black night, moon a subtle sliver slipping through the forest in the distance.

A mantra races through your mind as you force your albeit shaky legs to unfold and slide along the leather, pointed heels coming in handy to push the last notch of the door open. 

It echoes, screams over every other thought as you exhale sharply in the freezing December air, smoothing over your cocktail dress and untucking your hair to shield your ears from the bitter bite. 

Don’t pay him any attention. This weekend isn’t about him, it’s about Abby. Be the bigger person, just avoid him. Don’t even—

Your body careening backward into the solid weight of another pauses your internal rambling. 

Unwavering, warm hands gently find purchase along your elbows to steady you as you stumble, dropping one of your bags from the trunk upon impact. 

You’re gearing up to apologize profusely—laugh at yourself in the arms of this steady stranger for being so caught up in your own shit that you’re not paying much attention—when you turn in their grasp and are met with a familiar face. 

The very person you wanted to avoid was the first you see, standing broader and taller over you compared to the last time you saw him. 

His familiar sandy-brown hair is perfectly combed and gelled into place, glasses gleaming under the moon glow, thin lips stitched into a knowing smile bordering on a smirk as he peers down at you. 

His hands—his presence, his heat—don’t move. He stays, anchoring you until you break free, smoothing down your hair and breaking eye contact to hide the way you were flushed from your misfortune. 

Your plan wasn’t off to a great start. 

Your face shifts into something blatantly unamused and disinterested like second nature, defenses snapping back into place. 

“Still clumsy,” he lilts, head cocked. “Some things never change, I guess.”

You step back, letting a breath of cold air slice between the heat of your bodies getting reacquainted against your will. 

“You ever watch where you’re going, Floyd?”

A deflection. 

You’re being defensive—admittedly wrong—and you know it, but it’s like it’s out of your control. It’s muscle memory around him, a reflex too ingrained in you to shake. 

His eyes flick between yours, smirk widening a fraction like it brought him joy to see you perturbed. You know it did. 

“Wow, did a cold front move through or is that just you?” 

You shoot him a look, turning with a huff to busy yourself with the bags left untouched in the trunk. 

Listen to yourself, you think. Don’t pay him any attention. 

“In my defense,” he adds, moving alongside you, trying to gauge your reaction. “You were the one who backed into me.”

“Well, this is kinda heavy,” you mutter, strained voice evidence of your point as you tug your suitcase free and drop it between you with a hollow thud. “Besides,” you exhale sharply, eyeing him. “You shouldn’t be walking that close to an open trunk.” 

“You’re not the only one carrying heavy things, you know,” he counters, stepping behind you and picking up a stack of cardboard boxes, all overflowing with different decorations and wedding trinkets. 

You blink, quietly trying to shake the feeling he dropped everything just to keep you from falling. 

Of course he would do something like that.

You’d rather take the scrape on your knee or twist of an ankle. 

He doesn’t second guess— Just shifts the stack of boxes to one hand, steady against his side, and pops the handle free on your suitcase with the other. 

“I don’t need you to do that,” you say, trying and failing to grab your bag back as you sling the other across your arm. 

He sends you a smile over his shoulder, already dragging your bag along with him. 

It was a look that bordered on warmth… Or maybe it was condescending— Prideful to a point like this proved you needed him. He thrived on that.

“And risk you taking out another guest? Not a chance.”  

He slips through the main doors already whirling open, muscles flexing a little unfairly—and annoyingly—under the thin stretch of his sleek, crisp white button down.

When did he get that kind of body?

“Stop staring and hurry up before that chill of yours comes inside, too,” he calls back, chuckling under his breath as you thank the driver one last time, slam the trunk shut, and follow him into the warmth. 

The heat of the lobby floods your bones in an instant. 

There’s a faint flicker of a wood-burning fireplace in the corner, casting heat over the lobby adorned with intricate, classically-antique furniture. A fresh-cut tree—at least 16 feet or so—fills the space with the earthy smell of pine, dressed in delicate lights and glistening ornaments, centering a mirrored staircase daintily winding around it. 

A spill of familiar laughter and humble conversation floats through every doorway, the muffled clinks and clatter of toasts and reacquaintance in the distance. 

You’re about to grab your stuff from Bob so you can check in, get away from him, and find the Floyd you’re actually here to see when a pair of tall men saunter up— Champagne flutes full, clothes neatly pressed, neither of them subtle in the way they check you out. 

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror just past them— Cheeks and nose pink, lips full, makeup still in place, curves of your smooth skin cut from soft shadows, and hair somehow decent, despite the wind whipping just behind you. 

You looked good. At least one thing was still going your way.

“Baby on Board,” one of them calls, clapping a firm hand on Bob’s shoulder and taking the stack of boxes from his hands. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that sharing is caring when it comes to helping a lady?”

The stranger gives you a winning smile, all bright teeth and smug pride. 

He’s the same height as Bob, just broader— Charming to the point of a fault, hair perfectly blonde and coiffed, eyes the kind of green that looked blue the longer you got lost in them. 

Bob’s jaw sets, expression blank and unamused at his friends’ attempts to swoop in. 

“That’s Abby’s,” he points out flatly.

The smug one’s smile falters. “Oh,” he mumbles, setting the stack down on a table behind him and effortlessly shaking off whatever fractured piece of bruised ego threatened to show. 

“Lt. Jake Seresin,” he introduces, voice smooth, shoulders squared, cool and confident as his eyes slowly slip down your body. He shakes your hand firmly, grip impressive and intentional. “Pleasure.” 

Before you could return the gesture, the guy next to him steps in— Hand extended and paired with a similar smirk, standing straight like he has something to prove. 

He was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome— Albeit a little shorter than the other two lieutenants. He smelled expensive—looked it too—dressed in a sleek, black button down and leather jacket. 

“Don’t waste your time on a guy whose call sign is Bagman,” he dismisses lightly. “Lt. Javy Machado.” 

“It’s Hangman,” Jake corrects, briefly rolling his eyes and tipping his flute to his lips, attention never leaving you. 

Your eyes flick between the two of them battling it out for your attention like children. A faint smile creeps up, your lips twisted into something that lived between unimpressed and… amused, voice light and coy. 

“And you think I’m spending my weekend with either of you why…?”

Jake purses his lips, head tilted as his eyes darken a tad. “You bite. I can work with that.” 

Bob bulldozes through their attempts— Body stiff, expression rigid, eyes heavy and impatient. You kinda forgot he was still here, all broody and bored. 

“Are you two done embarrassing yourselves yet?” he snaps, shifting his weight, shooting the pilots a look. 

Javy steals a flute off a fresh tray being brought into the dining room behind him where the festivities were unfolding and hands it to you with a grin. 

“Not our fault you missed the boat, Bobby.”

You raise your eyebrows, interest in drowning whatever little time you had to spare this weekend in either of them quickly dwindling. They really weren’t good at this, but they certainly thought they were. 

You couldn’t tell if it was charming or overdone. 

Bob runs his tongue over his teeth, eyes narrowed. “Funny. This is Abby’s maid of honor,” he explains, introducing you and sharing your name. 

Their expressions falter—teasing, flirty nature snapped on cue—so quickly it makes you shift your weight and swallow so uncomfortably you have to convince yourself they didn’t hear it. 

Javy’s eyes dart toward you, taking you in again like you somehow changed since the last time he looked. Jake chokes—literally chokes—on a smug sip of champagne, now anything but assertive and poised. 

Hell, you put together these were Bob’s friends—Rooster’s friends, therefore, Abby’s friends—but based on the way their expressions went cold and the flirty competition was sucked from the room like it never existed in the first place, you’d swear they were introduced to a murderer. 

You figured they knew about you—knew Bob wasn’t your biggest fan, of course—but you were suddenly insecure about the prospect of whatever it could’ve possibly been that Bob told them about you. 

Of course he had somehow already ruined your one opportunity to achieve the much-needed, mindless task of keeping the other side of your bed warm this weekend. 

They were both headstrong—in more ways than one—but they were still options. Attractive ones, at that. 

Guess they were out of the question now. 

You try your best to swallow down your anxiety threatening to come loose and unravel you and plaster on your best clueless expression— Lips parted softly, brows furrowed just so, hint of a smile so you weren’t akin to the bitter monster he had apparently made you out to be. 

“What… You guys know me?”

“Of course,” Javy pipes up, clearing his throat and glancing between you and Bob in a way that was anything but inconspicuous. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Jake gives him a shove, subtle as a freight train.

You bite your nail innocently, hiding the nervous slant in your lips. “You have?”

“Rooster’s girl’s best friend she claims was the sibling she never had?” Jake points out, teasing smile tugging at his lips as he glances at Bob who bristles. “Yeah— We know you.” 

Well, when he puts it like that, duh— Of course they do. But you weren’t stupid. You know that knee-jerk reaction was more than just finally meeting Abby’s best friend. 

You hum sweetly in acknowledgement, mind abruptly cut off from trying to scrape together a way to salvage this encounter by Bob shoving the stack of Abby’s decor at Hangman. 

“Great. Everyone knows each other,” he mumbles, miserably failing at hiding his expression worn thin. “Go make yourselves useful like you promised and give this to Abbs.” 

“I can just take it,” you pipe up. “I should probably help her finish setting up before anyone else gets here, anyways. Y’know… maid of honor duties, or whatever.”

“And make you more of a liability than you already are? No way.”

Bob steers the two pilots toward the room they came from before they could get a word in edgewise, sparing no time for an explanation on what it was they seemingly know about you.

Your lips press together, arms crossed. “Are you ever gonna let that go? I barely even touched you.”

He studies you for a beat, all faux contemplation. “Mmm… I don’t think so. It’s fun to watch you get all worked up.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to ignore the way he managed to make the tension between you pull tighter, managed to spark a live wire with patronizing, prideful glances and smug smiles he tried to pass off as sweet. 

“Your CO’s coming, right? Maybe he’d like to know one of his lieutenants can’t handle a little weight.” You lean closer, voice sharper, adding, “Or pressure.”

His eyes flick between yours. Once, then twice, corner of his mouth upturned and twitching. His shallow blue eyes darken behind the glint of his wire frames, daring, like he was going to push it further— Whatever further meant. 

But he retreats, exhaling sharply and swiveling your suitcase back to you with a tilt of his chin. 

“Get yourself checked in. You’re missing the party.” 

Something unnamed flickers in his expression, eyes trained on you even as he adjusts his sleeve cuff and starts for the room he just sent his squad mates. 

“You were right,” you call after him over the rim of your flute with a smirk, watching him freeze on command at a sentence so seldom said. 

He turns on his heels slowly, confusion a veil over his face: brows lifted gently, hands shoved in his pockets, head slightly cocked like he can’t help but be curious.

It didn’t take much for you to have his full attention. 

You smile effortlessly, shaking your head and grabbing your luggage as you echo,

“Still so bossy— Some things never change.”

A lot of the guests had already arrived by the time you dropped your things off in your room, freshened up, and made your way downstairs again.

It was quaint, quiet, but buzzing and warm in all the perfectly familiar ways that made it feel like you uprooted a slice of home under Montana skies and planted it in the secluded mountains of upstate California.

The party was small, living in between a welcome party and just a makeshift gathering of everyone who just so happened to fly in early and be in the same place at the same time. 

The second description was more fitting. 

A tiny dining room on the north end of the Inn served as home base for old acquaintances reintroduced and the tangled threads of delicate, new beginnings. 

The atmosphere settled like reassurance— Intimate, like old and new memories bent to become one. The gentle lull of easy conversation and laughter swelled like a symphony pouring from the French doors propped open. Beyond it was an array of intricate finger foods, small tablescapes, and mingling bodies all bathed in delicate candlelight— Successfully delivered and set up by Coyote and Hangman, apparently. 

The Floyds were like gravity, quietly possessing this special knack for bringing comfort wherever they were. A loose handful of close friends and relatives existed comfortably in their presence— You included, especially once you finally caught sight of the one person you were actually here to see. 

Abby was always your center, your safe space to land, that one steadfast pillar of support, never wavering. Always there for you, always grounding. Always on your side, your one piece of solidarity— Even now that she came attached to the arm of a new addition.

She spots you immediately, turning when you step into the room like a sixth sense, something only the two of you could feel. And the fracture in your world remembers there's grace in healing when she smiles— Beaming and bright and beholden. Already the perfect bride.

Or, more importantly, your best friend.

A flood of elated sounds close to squeals of glee fall from her lips, immediately slicing through the dots of guests to greet you.

You’re in her embrace instantly, held at arm’s length just enough so she could take you in. She makes you do a stupid little spin in a chorus of giggles like you were 15 again, standing on the edge of her bed in your first homecoming dress or her mother’s clothes playing dress-up.

“I can’t believe you’re finally here!” she gushes, smile never faltering and pulling you into a tight hug. 

Over her shoulder you spot Bob, already watching you two like a magnet— Expression unreadable. Not cold, not distant, just a quiet truth you didn’t have the code to decipher. 

Something you weren't meant to see. Something he didn’t mean to show.

You shake it off, busying your attention back on your friend once you pull out of her knuckle-white grip you missed dearly.

“Of course,” you assure, a little breathless. “It’s the week of your wedding— Where else would I be?”

“Nowhere, or I’d disown you.”

You laugh, hands woven between hers and giving her a tight squeeze that says Duh.

This made it all worth it— All the sideways glances and sharp smile lines and stiff posture. 

This was your family— She was your family.

And nothing would ever change that, not even her brother. She might be his blood, but she was a piece of your soul. 

Even he couldn’t change that. 

“You look stunning,” you gush, voice low and sweet, eyes playfully ogling the bride-to-be in the way she damn well deserves. “I literally couldn’t picture anything more perfect— You weren’t kidding when you said this place was better than your dreams.” 

“Isn’t it?” She sighs blissfully, grabbing some passed finger foods for you both as they drift by. “I knew you’d love it. And so do you! How do you always manage to look so good fresh off a plane?”

You shrug, smile growing, munching on your share of hors d’oeuvres. “Talent.”

“Truly. You’re the only person I know who steps off a flight looking better than when you boarded. It’s unfair.” 

You press your wrist to her forehead, pinching your lips in faux-contemplation. 

“You sure you’re not feverish? Already drunk on…” You steal a glance at the custom signature drink menu making a premature debut past her shoulder. “Bird Strikes? God, who thought of that?”

She swats your hand away. “Don’t even get me started.”

“Whiskey, honey syrup, and a twist,” you read, shrugging. “At least Bradley has taste.”

“Your mom’s favorite.” She goes quiet, pulling you close— That familiar, grounding rub against your skin, something you’d know in any lifetime. “I wish she could be here.”

You study her: the quiet sentiment, the worry for you when it’s her time, and that look— The one that never lets you hang off the edge for too long. 

“She does too,” you say, voice softer. “I just know she’d be obsessing over you— And Rooster’s choice in cocktails.”

The fiancé in question slides up along Abby, arm wrapped firm around her waist, lingering squeeze above her hips that makes you smile— Same gentle confidence and alluring presence.

The mustache too.

“Place your bets now,” he boasts, tugging his wife-to-be closer into his side. “It’s gonna outsell the Abby Road easy.”

You giggle with him, exchanging a polite half-hug with his free arm as Abby rolls her eyes loosely. 

“Says the guy who didn’t even want to do signature drinks.”

You ignore her playful pouting, leaning forward and pretending to examine his mustache with vigor. 

“Damn, I swear that thing gets bigger every time I see you. It’s like you comb it with Miracle-Gro.”

Rooster grins proudly, chuckling under his breath.

“I’m surprised I’ve had the willpower to avoid telling him to shave it,” Abby adds. 

“I’m not— You’ve always had a thing for guys with mustaches.”  

Rooster’s interest is piqued tenfold, brows lifting, smirking at his girl turning red on his arm. “Huh… Is that so?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Um, yes absolutely so,” you counter, smile growing. “Tim Rooney.” 

Her eyes widen, memories rushing back to her as she gapes. “Oh my God— Mr. Rooney, sixth grade gym class! Fuck, you’re right.” 

“Mhm,” you hum, stuffing the last bite of long-forgotten crostini in your mouth with an accomplished nod. “Of course I am.”

Rooster looks delighted, expression intrigued and flirting with mild satisfaction as he brushes over his mustache. 

“Damn, honey, did anyone else ever stand a chance?”

“No,” she teases, leaning closer, voice low and loving. “Only you— Even without the ‘stache.”

“Ew,” you tease, mouth twisting as Abby’s lips brush against his. “Save it for the wedding night, you two.”

“Oh, please— Bold coming from the woman who’s gonna bitch with Bob 24-7.”

Before you could protest, cheeks heating at her subtle dig, Rooster beats you to the punch, thumb brushing over her shoulder with an amused smile. 

“How is that even remotely the same thing, Abbs?”

“Trust me— It’s like their own weird version of foreplay.”

Rooster snorts. “Freaky.”

Your heart stutters, pulse racing. It’s not true—not even close, no matter how much Abby loved to tease—so why did it make your palms sweat, make your body feel tense and heavy, suck the air from the room when you catch a glimpse of him again? 

You bite your lip, trying to brush it off— Failing. “I’ll let that one slide because it’s your wedding.”

Abby smiles, brow lifted. “Or because it’s true.”

The pair stares expectantly, making the room narrow. You suddenly felt really aware of your surroundings, of your body, of what the lines in your forehead and the heat in your cheeks gave away without your permission. 

“Oh, do you hear that?” You hold your hand up to your ear, doing your best to sell your excuse. “I think I hear your mom… She wants to say hi.”

And you beeline to where you spotted Mrs. Floyd before Abby could grab you back, trying to drown out the way Rooster laughed and you could feel her knowing eyes sear into the back of your head—expression still loving—and calling after you, 

“She’ll just tell you the same thing!”

The rest of the night was harder without Abby as a shield. 

It’s not that you didn’t love the Floyd family and all their friends—well, your friends too… Small towns tend to run in all the same circles—but catching up with old ties never really seemed to be that easy in large doses. 

Talking with Mrs. Floyd was, however, always the opposite. She was the epitome of comfort, always somewhere safe to land, just like her daughter. You knew her basically your whole life, and she knew you— Which unfortunately, much like Abby, included knowing your tells. 

Your body language was never well hidden, nor your faux joy or best attempts at pleasantries. That meant you couldn’t really hide the fact that you weren’t particularly enthralled to be in the same room as her son again. 

Or same state, for that matter. 

She gave you some hugs that felt like home and all the things you missed most, a handful of compliments about how far you’ve come— How good you look and how proud she is of the life you’ve created for yourself. How you smelled pretty and how she ‘used to have a dress that cute and tiny when she was young.’

But—same as always—she didn’t miss the opportunity to (lovingly) point out that you should have someone with you or someone to spend the weekend with. 

And that meant a couple teasing comments along the lines of ‘it would be nice to make you an official daughter,’ or ‘you know, Bobby’s always adored you.’

You couldn’t fault her—couldn’t really do anything other than offer a soft smile and flustered dismissal—because she chalked up your history to normal adolescent adrenaline edged with attraction and quiet competition you, of course, age out of. 

She didn’t know it ran deeper. She didn’t need to. 

So, you changed the subject— Talked about how nice the venue was and how lovely she looked. Asked how her book club was going and—after you both had another glass of champagne—if she actually likes her future son-in-law.

She does. 

You mingle your way through the rest of the family: distant relatives you met once or twice at a barbecue growing up, Mrs. Floyd’s best friend who owns the pharmacy in town and gave you your first job, some other familiar faces from home. 

You also got to meet two other members of Rooster’s squadron, Fanboy and Payback, all loudly polite and equally over-confident as the other two from the lobby.  

It was all good and fun until you were referred to as ‘Robby’s pretty high school sweetheart’ a few times by Abby and Bob’s extremely elderly great grandfather to the pilots.

You adored him, knew it didn’t mean anything and was completely harmless—he was nearing 97 for God’s sake—but your brain was starting to melt at constantly hearing yourself referred to in some type of affectionate context in relation to Bob.

Especially when the guys' expressions went wide with amusement, accompanied by raised brows and smooth, teasing echoes of ‘oh really?’ among other boyish laughs. 

So, yeah— You needed a break. 

You find your window shortly after clarifying just how very untrue that was to the guys and make a break for it to the little antique bar in the corner. 

A guy with a handlebar mustache greets you, all warm smiles and crinkly eyes.

“A glass of Chardonnay, Miss?”

You blink, take a look over your shoulder at Bob’s solid frame becoming a landing spot for one of his mother’s friends laughing like he was suddenly Montana’s most charming bachelor, and sigh. 

“Whiskey,” you mutter. “Rocks, please.” 

“Make that two,” an unfamiliar voice adds. 

It was a woman— Lean, tan, ridiculously sleek, black hair and a friendly smile, elbow casually propped against the bar top.

“Nice to finally put a face to the name,” she says, slipping into the open seat next to you. “I’m Natasha— Or Phoenix.”

Realization washes over you, accepting your matching drinks from the bartender with a smile and sliding hers in her direction. 

“Ohhh— The Natasha who Abby keeps threatening to replace me with if I don’t come visit,” you tease. “Got it. Nice to meet you.”

She laughs softly. “I’m surprised you went with that description over ‘Bob’s front-seater’ but, yeah— The one and only.”

You hum, swirling your drink around the large ice cube. “You must have fun putting him in his place all day.” 

If you were being honest, you weren’t entirely sure what you meant by that— If it was just a subtle dig at him because you can’t help yourself, if it was inquiring—wondering if he was just as much of a pain in the ass as he was back then—or if it was… sexual? 

You shouldn’t care—you don’t care—but of course you were curious. Natasha was gorgeous, strong-willed, ridiculously accomplished, and confident… He would be kinda stupid not to try to make a move. 

Her brows lift. “Bob? No, he doesn’t need any place-putting. If anything, he’s the only sane one around besides me.” 

“Of course, always so perfect.” You roll your eyes loosely like a reflex, succumbing to the gentle buzz in your bloodstream from a few casual drinks. “God, he was born for the Navy.” 

She shakes her head, giving you a sideways glance. “Bob’s not perfect— Trust me.” 

Your cheeks flush at how ridiculous you sound. Back in his presence for all of two hours and he already had you acting like a child again. You needed to get a grip.

“Sorry,” you sigh, staring at the thin line of amber at the bottom of your glass. “I probably sound like such an asshole right now.”

She nudges your shoulder with hers like you’ve been friends for years, giving you a look that says stop it without saying it. 

“Don’t be. He can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.” 

“That I believe,” you laugh, resting your chin on your hand and swiveling to face her. “It’s just… You didn't grow up with him. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

She studies you for a moment, expression open and patient. All calm and collected— A typical fighter pilot. 

She was cool. Really cool. A bite of something unnamed swims in your stomach at the thought of it— Of him.

“I wouldn’t sweat it,” she says with a shrug. “His biggest competition as a kid was an academic genius a grade below him who also happened to look like a prom queen? The chip on his shoulder shouldn’t get to you, that’s for damn sure.” 

Your skin flushes at the compliment, shifting your cheek into your palm to hide the smile you can’t seem to bite back. 

“I think we need to reassess your definition of both those things.” 

She eyes you— All genuine and knowing, like she had you completely figured out. Like she’s known you forever. 

“I know the stories. And I’ve seen some pictures,” she counters, leaning closer, voice all quiet teasing but still steady. “I don’t lie.” 

Before you could respond, her gaze shifts past you, landing somewhere behind. 

“Besides, he’s still a boy,” she offers, smirk tugging. “Of course you drove him crazy.” 

You turn to look where she is, finding the man in question with his eyes already locked on you across the room. 

His posture was tense, shoulders squared and jaw set, eyes cutting through the dots of people, clearly not paying a shred of attention to whoever was talking to him. 

And when you return the favor, his stare rips free— Busied down at his fingers twisting around his glass, at the spot on the old wood floors the toe of his dress shoes scrubbed at, scratching the back of his neck all innocent and oblivious like you didn’t already catch him looking. 

In some weird, twisted, petty way, your feelings bordered on something reminiscent of relief knowing you weren’t alone in being hung up on adolescent drama tonight. 

Things like this always seemed to stir up old memories, especially when it comes to you and Bob. 

Something about him was impossible to flush out of your system— No matter how many years passed, no matter how much you’d grown. No matter how trivial or insignificant, it didn’t matter. A pathetic sense of pride settles in your chest knowing it was the same for him. 

You shake your head, turning back to Natasha who wore a proud smile and coy tilt of her head.  

“See,” she says, voice low. “I don’t lie.”

You clear your throat, throwing back the rest of your drink and letting the hollow glass hit the bar top unceremoniously. 

“How do you know so much about me already?”

She blinks, expression saying isn’t it obvious as she silently flags down the bartender for a second round. 

“Well, for one, I’m intuitive— So don’t go feeling like you’re too special,” she teases. “And I’ve just… heard a lot about you.” 

Your heart rate rattles a bit in your chest, anxiety flooding your veins at the thought trying to claw free. A repeat of what his other friends heard about you, surely. 

The only difference was her expression didn’t flip to panic mode around you. It was intrigued, interested— Like you were someone worth getting to know. 

Still, your nerves spark all the same. 

“Oh, boy,” you groan, throwing your head back with a lazy smile. “All bad, I’m sure.” 

Her eyes flick between yours— Just once, expression blank, cards close to her chest. 

“No… Why do you say that?”

You blink. “Are you serious?”

She shrugs, stuffing a five in the tip jar when the second round is delivered promptly. “Are you?”

You go quiet, silently weighing how to respond. 

Phoenix seemed like the type of person who would always be straight up with you, but at the same time, you couldn’t shake the feeling you were failing to read the subtext of whatever was lying beneath the heart of your conversation and lined her gaze. 

But, yeah— Bob hated you. Of course you were serious. 

So you nod, not so much as an answer but rather a soft acknowledgement.

“Yeah, I am.”

She studies you for a moment, smile slowly returning— Effortless, like she wasn’t suddenly speaking in riddles. 

“Good. Me too.” 

Eventually, the night draws to a close. The candles burn low, the laughter falls softer. Small groups of guests trickle out, slowly heading back up to their rooms until morning. 

You help Abby and Rooster pack up some of the little decorations they set out—collect bouquets, blow out flickering flames, clean up the little signs and pictures they had displayed—before you’re finally ushered up to your room to turn in for the night. 

Despite putting up a fight—insisting it was your job to make sure the bride was the one getting rest—you were truly no match for Abby Floyd once she made up her mind about something. 

You never were. 

So, begrudgingly, you grab a water bottle from the bar and say your goodbyes to the handful of people still left behind. You needed a shower and some good sleep after your flight, so you weren’t too mad about it. 

Your room was quaint and charming, yet spacious for an old, vintage Inn. It was decorated with elaborate pictures and hushed wallpapers, freshly carpeted and topped off with a set of old mahogany armchairs adjacent to a lavish, king-sized bed.

The bathroom was stocked to the nines with artisan bath salts and imported body washes. They were the kind you’d want to take home with you just from the soft scents of lavender and cedar alone. 

You’re halfway through drying your hair, eyes heavy with the whisper of sleep starting to flood your bones, when your phone buzzes on the vanity and a name you haven’t seen light up your screen in years settles at the top of your text threads. 

You pause, flicking the switch on the hair dryer off and rolling your eyes as you click the thread open.

Bob Floyd

Do you really have to be so loud at quarter to midnight?

You bite your lip, trying to piece together how he even knows that was you. 

You

Are you listening to me?

Some might call that creepy, Robert

Three dots dance across your screen instantly. 

Bob Floyd

Kinda hard not to

Because you’re loud

You

I don’t feel like getting breakage or folliculitis just because you’re a baby about your sleep

The cool granite touches your back as you turn and lean against the counter, smiling as you add,

You

Omg is that why your call sign is Baby on Board? 

You were kidding—clearly—but you’d been waiting for an opportunity to tease him about it all night after Hangman’s comment. Of course you didn’t forget— And of course you weren’t going to let it go. 

Bob Floyd

Very funny

That’s not my call sign

You

Doubt it

What is it then?

The dots flicker again—thinking—then disappear. 

You

By the time you finally type it out my hair’s gonna air dry and we won’t need to worry anymore

That does it. His reply lights up your phone almost immediately.

Bob Floyd

It’s just Bob

And no, it’s no need to worry because you’re not gonna get folliculitis

You’re so dramatic

You unplug the dryer—not because you’re giving into him, but because your hair is basically dry—and plop down onto your bed, lip caught between your teeth as your fingers go to work.

You 

I don’t believe you

And that’s why you only got a 92 in sophomore year microbio, btw. It’s a common infection

Do you really want to be responsible for the maid of honor having horrible hair for the wedding?

Bob Floyd

I got a 93, actually

You

And you could’ve had a 95 like me if you spent more time studying and less time staring at the back of my head 

You click off the screen and sink into the cool, compressed weight of fresh hotel linens, snuggling into your pillow as warm lamp light spills across your tired features. 

A veil of hazy steam from the bathroom floats through the air, mingling with the soothing scents of bath salts and lotion.

It buzzes again moments later. 

Bob Floyd

I was too busy checking for folliculitis ;)

You roll your eyes—loosely, lazily—smiling into your pillowcase. What a pain.

You

Good

Someone’s got to

You reach over and click off the lamp, shifting onto your back as you add,

You

Wait is that what your call sign stands for then? Bad At Bio? 

You could practically feel him roll his eyes through the drywall. It only makes your smile widen.

Bob Floyd

That spells Bab not Bob, you idiot

Heat rushes to your cheeks instantly as your tired eyes blink at the screen. 

Damn it. 

Maybe you should just block his number and pretend that never happened.

You 

I’m tired leave me alone

It sounded really funny in my head

Bob Floyd

Seems like I’m not the only baby who needs sleep after all, huh?

You 

Shut up

Let’s go back to talking about your call sign being Baby On Board

Bob Floyd

You’re so annoying

You 

And you’re a creep 

Bob Floyd 

I’d also remind you that you’re dramatic but then we’d be here all night  

And Baby needs his full 10 hours

A muffled snort escapes before you could stop it. You cover your mouth loosely even though you were completely alone. 

As much as you hated to admit it, sometimes Bob was funny. He always knew how to make you laugh. That was something that would never change.

You 

How could I forget

Sleep well, Baby

You freeze, blinking back at the message.

Shit, you really need to stop and think before you send things because what? 

You didn’t mean it like that. Not at all. Maybe he’ll ignore it… But that wouldn’t be Bob, now would it?

The typing dots appear immediately.

They flicker, stall, but nothing comes through. 

Fuck. 

Your stomach drops.

Then— 

Bob Floyd

Oo did you just call me baby? 

You squinch your eyes shut and groan. 

You could correct him. Shut him down like always. Or, you could double down, throw him for a loop— Something you’re really good at doing.

Jesus Christ— Was Abby right? Was this foreplay?

No. You were tired. You weren’t thinking straight. Your thoughts were starting to sound delirious. 

You

In your dreams, Floyd

A sharp exhale leaves your lungs when you hit send, expression twisting as you toss your phone on the other side of the bed and stare up at the ceiling. 

It buzzes quickly— Too quickly. 

Bob Floyd

Maybe

It could be the lack of sleep, could be the familiarity or the environment—this weird, delicate, snow globe-like atmosphere you were suddenly trapped in despite your best efforts to put distance between you and him—but something in you softens.

The tension in your forehead, the adrenaline running out. The rhythm of your heart as you sit up suddenly, pausing when your knuckles hover over the wall behind you— The only wall that touched another room. 

Slowly, you knock three times.

And you wait.

You wonder if he’s the one you’re bothering. Wonder if he’ll even remember that little secret language you came up with that summer you spent at the lake house together and shared a wall, just like now.

All these years later. 

It didn’t mean much, not then, not now. It was just a quiet acknowledgement you shared when both of you were still awake in the middle of the night.

A simple thing. 

A brush of knuckles that lingered— That recognized. 

Does he still? 

Two brisk knocks echo back against your headboard from the other side, just like always. 

He does. 

You slip back under the covers, smiling with something different now— Something unnamed where he’s concerned. 

Before your eyes lull shut, you pick up your phone again, fingers hovering before you type, 

You 

Night creep

It buzzes against your pillow.

Bob Floyd

Goodnight, annoying neighbor  

And for the first time in years—in lifetimes—you fall asleep feeling something other than irritation simmering under your skin from Bob Floyd.

By the time morning comes, it’s not really morning anymore. 

Maybe it was the bleak, blistering chill of the outside world washed in wistful whites and gentle greys. Maybe it was the plush cocoon of covers wrapped around you, or the fact that you were up later than you damn well should’ve been texting someone you can’t stand, but yeah— You slept in.

It was evident. Your body was heavy as you lazily pushed the door open to Abby and Rooster’s suite, immediately hit with a wall of pure wedding chaos and commotion. 

Your eyes were glazed over, warm sweats still on, hair— Definitely suffering from the lack of styling last night, though, your half-assed efforts to try to kill the bedhead helped a little. 

You skip the pleasantries and flop face first onto the bed with a muffled groan. 

Maybe Bob was right. He wasn’t the only one who got moody without sufficient sleep, apparently

You sense a presence intercepting the window, fighting to fill the room with pale winter light, a small shadow eclipsing you. 

“Well good morning to you, too,” Abby teases, playful lilt in her voice, definitely grinning at your misfortunes. 

You sigh into the comforter, face still buried. “Hi.”

“Long night?”

You nod, reluctantly lifting to rest your chin on your hands and peer up at her. 

“I had this really annoying neighbor. Wouldn’t shut up the whole night. Liked to talk.”

You sneak a brief glance over at Bob sitting in a lounge chair in the corner. There’s the tiniest flicker of an impish smile at the corner of his mouth as he listens, eyes still trained on whatever it was he was folding.

It was a good thing Abby didn’t have access to the room assignments in the hotel block because she just hums, all careless and oblivious— Clearly not aware her older brother was the neighbor in question. 

“Sorry, babes,” she mumbles, fingers gently tracing wisps of hair from your eyes. “Hopefully it doesn’t happen again so you can get some sleep.”

Slowly, you lift yourself off the mattress and take in the scene unfolding around you. 

Everyone was in full-blown work mode— Concentrated on random tasks like their lives depended on it, arguing if the welcome sign was straight or not, inspecting a seemingly-broken box of giant glow sticks for the reception… Everything and anything you can imagine. 

You’d basically walked into a subpar assembly line.

Most of Rooster’s squadron was there, screwing around when Abby wasn’t looking and playing with decorations instead of actually working, but it was still help to a degree. 

Mrs. Floyd and some of Abby’s extended family was there alongside you, Rooster, Abby, and Bob, who sat by himself— All quiet and responsible, per usual.

If he needed the sleep, it didn’t show. He looked completely put together—too put together—all perfectly combed hair and wide-awake eyes as he diligently concentrated on his task. 

You rub your hands over your face and sigh. “Where do you want me?”

Before she could answer, Rooster tosses a stack of something at you, papers all fluttering and fanning out across the bed. “Wanna fold? There’s, like, a million of these damn things.”

Abby shoots him a look for his comment, collecting the papers and placing them neatly.

“Bob’s already working on those. I’ll find something else for you.”

“You sure?” you ask, eyes flicking down to what seemed like a stack of at least 200 sheets. “I don’t mind folding if that’s what you need.”

She nods, passing the stack over to Bob who barely lifts his gaze to grab it. “I think he has a particular system going, anyways. He’s flying through ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Hangman adds from across the room with a grin. “Bobby’s real good with his fingers.”

Your eyes widen slightly, glancing over at Bob who stiffens—imperceptibly so—and keeps his head down. 

But you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn red under the curve of his glasses and his jaw works.

Fanboy snorts, earning a shove and pointed look from Phoenix. 

“Meanwhile you can’t even put batteries in the right way,” she mutters to Hangman, taking a glow stick, turning the batteries around, and closing the cover with a snap. 

She shoves the glow stick back to the pouting pilot and returns to her area of the room with Abby’s aunt.

“Maybe someone smart should go help the guys,” Abby suggests, brow raised in amusement. 

“You mean babysit,” Nat adds over a rumble of groans and protests.

You give Abby a tight smile, obliging. “On it.”

The afternoon was spent doing whatever was needed: fluffing flower arrangements, helping Abby and Mrs. Floyd finalize their jewelry options, double-checking seating charts or name spellings. 

After helping the guys make sure the glow sticks and bubble wands were all ready to go, you spend your time typing out the thin strips of sticker paper to put over the little welcome pamphlets Abby made and forgot to edit a section of.

Luckily, the wedding was no longer on a Friday in June in Tulsa.

When you were done, you brought them over to their final station, quietly slumping into the chair across from Bob as he finished meticulously laying thin spreads of Wite-Out across the incorrect text on the papers, now all neatly folded. 

Neither of you had said a word to each other since last night—not in person, not over text—and if you were being honest, that felt… confusing. 

Sure, it’s been years since you’ve been around him like this, in this way— For a weekend and change rather than a brief encounter at home for the holidays or something. No matter where it was, you always found each other— Found this weird, familiar rhythm easily. 

And yet, even still, it never sat right with you. 

Maybe it didn’t with him either. 

But the longer you were around him, the harder it was for you to remember exactly why you hated him so much. You had to remind yourself he’s not the lanky, dorky, annoyingly-polite boy you grew up with.

The one who pushed buttons you didn’t even know you had and then left you the last pink Starburst instead of taking it for himself. 

The one who spent every waking hour he had to spare learning the ins and outs of every class, every chapter, every test—not because he wanted to excel, but because he wanted to be better than you—then would slip over his cue card when you blanked during a debate or pushed his homework to the edge of his desk when you forgot to do it, all without even looking.

The one you hated— Who you teased and pushed and dug into until you started feeling something else. Something that apparently meant nothing. 

That was what you had to remind yourself. 

He wasn’t that boy—maybe never was—and he certainly wasn’t someone you could categorize your relationship with anymore.

Because even now—even after all those years of sparring back and forth, and the soft, confusing moments in between—you still don’t know how to be around him. How to pivot, adjust, every time you both threw caution to the wind and let something other than disdain settle between you.

And yet, it always found its way back to what it was.

“Are you sure I’m the one who’s responsible for the maid of honor having a bad hair day?”

He breaks the silence enveloping you two, running a cautious thread of fingers through a strand of your hair that was slightly out of place.

You stop your scissors along a strip of text and glance up at him, already looking at you with that smooth, satisfied smile.

You study him, eyes flicking between his once, then go back to work. “Maybe I would’ve had time to style it if I wasn’t up all night arguing 10th grade science topics with a grown man.”

He shrugs, continuing to drag the corrector across the text. “And whose choice was that?”

You open your mouth to shoot back a response—or insult—but he beats you to it, adding, 

“I always knew I was in for it those days.”

Your brows knit. “What do you mean?”

“You’d come onto the bus in the morning the same way,” he starts, flicker of a softer smile forming. “Hair all ruffled, eyes extra sleepy, more attitude than usual.”

You roll your eyes, trying to shake off the way your nerves gently rattled at the memory. 

“I always knew it was because you were up late studying or something,” he continues, capping the Wite-Out and tossing it on the table between you with a thud. “Always knew you were up working extra hard to kick my ass.”

You raise your eyebrows, setting some cut strips down for him to take. “Not everything is about you, you know.”

“And yet that hair is always evidence of me.”

You pause, watching him through narrowed eyes, lip caught between your teeth as you try to gauge where he’s going with this.

“That too,” he adds, nudging your foot with his and tilting his chin up at you. “Always chewin’ that damn lip when I make you think too hard.”

The rhythm of your heart does some quiet, perfidious, little thing— Fluttering under the iron armour of your ribs, a steady thread loosening, peeling a vulnerable part of you open against your will. Exposing something tender you weren’t entirely ready to face.

You exhale, lip slipping free from your teeth immediately. “How do you always manage to assume so much responsibility yet none at all?”

He smiles, half-laughing under his breath as you both begin carefully applying the strips of sticker paper. 

“Same way you always managed to be up so late studying and still got lower grades than me.”

“You’re extra irritating today.”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the only tired one,” he teases, fingers brushing yours as he reaches over to fix the strip you were about to place. “Some of us are just good at actually hiding it.”

You snatch the strip away and eye him, only making his expression sparkle with satisfaction.

“Are you, though? Because you seem extra fussy.” You press the strip down and toss the finished product onto the completed stack, piling high quickly. “Sure you don’t want me to get you a pacifier?” 

That was, admittedly, extra snarky, but it slips out regardless. Was he right? Were you moody?

He raises an eyebrow, glancing up at you from under his glasses, eyes darkening just slightly. 

“Depends— Are you gonna call me baby again?”

“Only if you keep acting like one.”

He purses his lips, pretending to consider it. “Noted. Whatever you say, Boss.” 

You freeze, expression twisting in confusion as you watch him grin like he has a secret you don’t know. 

“I’m sorry… Did Hell freeze over or did you really just call me boss?”

“It’s your new callsign,” he says offhandedly, organizing the stack and sitting back with an effortless look. “Bad At Spelling— You know, since apparently A’s and O’s are the same thing now.”

Great— Another stupid thing he wasn’t going to let go of. Maybe you needed to stop texting when you were feeling bold and overtired. 

Or, maybe you should just stop texting him.  

As dumb as it was—admittedly embarrassing, too—you were failing to suppress a small smile at just how stupid and weirdly… endearing he made it sound— Even when he was driving you absolutely crazy.

“Bad at spelling sometimes,” you clarify.

“Sure,” he hums. “Sometimes.”

“I hate you.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, suddenly a lot closer than before. “Quick— Spell hate. Hint: there’s no O.”  

You roll your eyes, throwing a ball of crumpled sticker backings at him as he chuckles, swatting them away. 

“Yeah— I’m definitely getting that pacifier to shut you up.”

His stare holds yours, gaze suddenly heavy and persistent, somehow stealing your breath. His heat whispers along your skin as he lowers his voice, smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“And if that doesn’t work, then what? You got other plans to keep me quiet?”

“If you two are done eye-fucking, can you please go help Bradley bring the favors up from the car?”

Abby hovers above you: hands on her hips, eyebrows raised, eyes darting between you and her brother suspiciously— But certainly not annoyed. 

No, that was just for show. 

A flustered heat crawls up your neck. Bob clears his throat, quickly leaning back and weakly brushing the spare strips off his clothes, avoiding eye contact completely. 

You move first, quickly getting up and scurrying after her, trying to dismiss what she walked in on.

Or, rather, what she thought she walked in on. 

“If that was eye-fucking to you, I’m incredibly worried about your sex life,” you mumble. 

She looks at you flatly, then glances behind her at Bob, still red-hot in the corner. 

“At least I’m having sex, unlike some people.”

Your pulse hammers in your ear, blood thick with heat and some sort of nervous, restless energy you can’t seem to shake. The cold rush of winter air doesn’t stop your face from flushing as you silently carry boxes up from the car, not daring to say a word.

You don’t challenge her after that.

After a long day of draining, meticulous last-minute tasks, the self-indulgent solitary confinement of chlorine and bubble jets was just what you needed to detox.

Your fingers were sore from tying the world’s tiniest twine bows for the favors with Phoenix. Your bones ached from the cold— Bitter and persistent while your body stayed hunched over paper strips. Your vision was starting to blur the longer you stared at anything that wasn’t a heavy pour of wine and a good book. 

You were more than happy to help—more than happy to lend your hands until they bled—but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel good to finally take a break.

Mostly from Bob.

It didn’t help that he lingered— Around every corner, involved, embedded in spaces you’d consider too close even if you were separated by walls. And it certainly didn’t help that you couldn’t read whatever was sitting between you after last night.

It’s been like this for years— This subtle, infuriating ache to dig into each other, every exchange edged with something sharper than irritation. Something that felt too much like want if you let yourself linger on it. 

Something that stirred your heartstrings until they squeezed the inside of your chest and made you dizzy.

It was starting to wear on you, chipping away at your sanity with every glance and word spoken. It was like his voice was trapped between your ears, like his heartbeat was woven with yours without permission. 

Like you hated each other so much that you didn’t.

You couldn’t stand it.

And as fun as it was to push his buttons, you needed a generous stretch of time without his presence— Without his guileful, abrasive attitude he dressed up as courteous, charming chivalry.

So you stepped into the elevator around half-past nine, a plush bath towel wrapped around your body, shivering from the chill that managed to creep into the Inn. 

The lobby hums with quiet life— New families checking in, warm laughter spilling from the bar, children snoring softly against their parents’ shoulders after long drives. Couples whisper as they disappear into their rooms for the night. 

You patter down the hall unnoticed, quickly swiping your key card and slipping into the rec room.

The doors swing shut behind you with a hollow thud, trapping you inside the humid, heavy bloom of steam and chemicals. Chlorine and heat wrap around your lungs as you breathe deep, the weight of the day finally starting to loosen its grip.

It was just you, the roar of hot tub jets, music pouring from your headphones, a glass of wine, and a book begging to have its spine cracked. 

And, most importantly, no—

“Bob?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up, voice cracking over the gentle hush of the natatorium as you watch him finish a lap— Slicing through the water so silently you wouldn’t think a soul had stepped foot in there in years.

Clearly, you were wrong.

He spurts water from his mouth, running his hands down his face and bracing his elbows against the scratchy cement to catch his breath. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, shifting to clutch your towel tighter as you stare down at him. “You really are everywhere, aren’t you?”

He blinks through steady beads of pool water tracing the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the muscle in his arms and his chest and holy shit— When did he start looking like this?

“I could say the same for you,” he says, eyes skimming down your bare legs almost imperceptibly before snapping back into place like it didn’t happen. “I think you might be stalking me.”

A weighted silence pulses through the air, both of you staring at the other like it would make you disappear. 

Or make you say something that hasn’t revealed itself yet.

Night glow spills through the glass ceiling, stars fighting to pierce their way through careless strokes of fog and clouds. A delicate whisper of pool lights flicker, shapes of pale blue and cool teal dancing across the tile. They wash over the stretch of toned, tanned muscle as he pushes off again, resuming mechanical laps.

It’s the kind of movement—kind of skin and body—that suddenly has you entranced against your will. 

You sigh, letting yourself collapse onto the edge of a sticky plastic lounger. The towel slips from your body, pooling uselessly at your feet. And you watch, half-heartedly making sure he doesn’t stop dead in the water like he might suddenly want to watch you too. 

Vulnerable, and not just because of the sleek trim of black bikini stretched sparingly across your skin.

You both try to move on— Ignore the other, fall out of orbit and back into your own center of gravity before you get pulled under again. A losing battle neither of you seems to be able to ignore. 

His arms work steadily, slicing through the soft lull of undisturbed water, chest rising and falling as he glides onto his back with ease. Shadows catch dips and curves that certainly weren’t there when you were 17. 

You swallow tightly, ripping your eyes away, trying to ignore the gentle puffs of air slipping through his lips and spray of water— Trying to settle into what you came here to do. 

Relax. You’re here to relax. You’re here to let go of him— Of this. To clear your head of God knows what, enjoy a glass of rosé, and read a goddamn book, for once. 

Even if it’s just for an hour. For a minute. For two.

But it’s too loud: your head, your conflicting thoughts and simmering rage at his presence— His heat and his exhale, the way the water only seems to splash louder the longer you lie there pretending not to care. 

You click the volume up on your headphones. You pick a louder song. You down half your glass and hope the burn in your throat might scorch the incessant, ambiguous novelty of his presence from your system. 

Then he stops, limbs gingerly wading in the deep end closest to you as he keeps himself afloat. You can feel him watching you through your book, your eyes blankly fixed on the same paragraph for the last five minutes, hoping the words might finally learn to read themselves to you instead.

“I can hear you complaining from here.”

You blink, slowly pulling the small partition of pages down and eyeing him over the top. “I haven’t said a word. You’re the one being loud over there.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says, voice echoing softly through the empty space as he treads water. “I can still tell. And if you’ve found a quieter way to swim— Please, be my guest.”

You shift, crossing your ankles and lifting your book again. 

“I’m not complaining.” That’s a lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffs a laugh, arms flexing as he swims himself to the edge, peering up at you over the concrete.

“I do. You get that crinkle in your forehead, you pick at your nails.” His mouth tilts playfully. “And I’m pretty sure I could feel you glaring at me through those pages.”

You sigh, meeting his smirk across the space, all cocky and pleased like he actually knows you— Like he remembers. 

“It’s not my fault that pretty little smile of yours doesn’t fix everything,” you snap. 

He rests his chin on his forearm, wet hair clinging to his forehead, stained a deeper, darker brown. Familiar— Too familiar. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Not what I said.”

He shrugs easily, smile in question stretching. “Sounded like it to me.”

You exhale sharply, letting your book fall closed against your thighs as you sit up straighter in the chair. 

“What are we doing?”

He goes quiet, gears visibly spinning. “Well, I’m doing this thing where I move my legs so I don’t drown. You’re… trying to sunbathe at an indoor pool in the middle of the night?” He pauses, eyes warm and derisive. “Abbs was right— We need to get you to North Island so you remember how real sun works.”

“Bob,” you interrupt quietly, something heavier threading through your voice. “You know what I mean.”

It wasn’t accusatory, wasn’t irritated, just empty. Sad. Distant. 

You don’t know why you broke out of the safety of your banter— This thing you both cling to so you don’t have to touch what’s actually there. You don’t even know why you’re here: sitting in front of him instead of soaking in the hot tub, ditching your plans like your body didn’t consult your mind at all.

It didn’t matter. You still orbited him, and him, you.

And suddenly, something else lingers in the silence connecting two lost, lonely souls who don’t know how to exist around each other anymore. Who can’t resist, and don’t know why. 

You hate him. He hates you. Wasn’t that supposed to be easy?

He goes quiet, pushing wet hair from his eyes and lifting from the water with ease, sitting on the edge— Closer, but so much further away.

And it was suddenly like looking at you was the hardest thing in the world. 

But when he finally does—when he finally looks back again, finally stops avoiding whatever’s chewing him up inside—you miss the vacancy of his eyes. 

You miss the distance, miss the numb buzz of ignorance. Miss the chill of him, and the moment before you finally realize his coldness might always be warmer than anyone else’s heat. 

His lips part, brows knitting softly, beads of water tracing the slope of his mouth, the shape of words, empty and foreboding.

And then the doors slam open.

Laughter crashes through the natatorium, sharp and careless as a handful of rowdy aviators slip in alongside a few of Abby and Bob’s little cousins, shoes slapping through lukewarm puddles, wrapped in their own world, unaware they were shattering yours.

Mickey cannonballs—too close to the edge, too close to Bob—and paints the room in sprays of water, filling the empty echoes that learned how to scream before they settled.

Bradley follows, tossing in two of the kids—five and nine—giddy and unrestrained, diving haphazardly just to splash them more. Their shrieks ricochet, wild and delighted.

Ruben, Javy, and Jake trail in behind, talking over each other, tossing their stuff aside, all easy smiles and loud greetings once they notice you before stripping down and barreling in themselves.

Natasha quietly steps into the shallow end, eyes flicking between you and Bob once—careful, perceptive—before looking away. 

Bob simply stares down at the water lapping around his ankles, wading aimlessly, hands flexing at his sides like he’s grounding himself back into his body. 

You sit rigidly, a little shocked at your rush of courage to try to name this doomed, hopeless thing you dance around. The book stays closed in your lap, wine long forgotten, heartbeat still stuttering with something that never got the chance to finish speaking.

And just like that, whatever this was—whatever fragile, almost-bridged bandaid starting to stretch over this festering, aching fracture between you two—was gone. 

The morning was quiet in every sense of the word. 

Too quiet. 

You saw him at the breakfast buffet in the lobby. His fingers brushed yours when you reached for the same scone. He took it, put it on your plate, and walked back to his table without saying a word. 

You saw him while waiting for the elevator back to your room. He paused in the entryway, eyes meeting yours tentatively. His lips twitched into a fleeting, distant smile, but it never reached his eyes. Not even a bit.  

He left just as quickly, ducking his head and opting for the stairs instead. 

You knew he was next to you—just one thin, cold wall sitting between two warm bodies—both back in your rooms, getting ready for the day. 

And you don’t know what takes over you—this strange, distant clawing at the pit of your stomach, urging you to face an unnamed thing clearly lost—but you hover close to the wall before you leave. 

You inhale deeply, pinching your eyes shut as you decide, and take the leap. Tense knuckles graze against the sheetrock— A hesitant little noise cracking through the silence three times. 

A minute passes. 

Then two. 

No knock is returned. 

You exhale, trying to brush it off, trying to pretend it didn’t bother you that it was starting to feel like you were in completely new territory— That he suddenly really didn’t care at all, not even for the sake of annoying you. 

Maybe you scared him off, slipping into honesty that felt too dangerous in the heat of a cold December night. Finally alone— Something you rarely were. 

Maybe he didn’t want to push you back when you finally acknowledged it and questioned why you were still teasing each other like kids. When you asked yourselves what that even means anymore.

Something past a point of no return— Until now. 

And suddenly, if even possible, this weekend just got a hell of a lot harder when you closed your door behind you, glancing at the light still on under his, and slipped down the hallway in silence, carrying a hollow echo in each empty step. 

Later in the day, you took a quick break to grab some coffees while you, Bradley, Nat, and Mrs. Floyd assembled the welcome bags. 

The wedding was in two days so it was officially crunch time, but coffee breaks were still mandatory in your book. 

Especially considering you didn’t sleep much, yet again. 

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop replaying everything over in your head. The heat of that room, the new kind of tension that lined the shallow blue of his eyes when he looked up at you, the way his expression broke open when you confronted him— When you wanted to name whatever this game of yours really was. 

All of it lived behind your eyes, trapped between the whirl of your mind and buzz of the heat pulsing through your barren, bleak room in the middle of the night. 

So, coffee it was. 

You ran into Hangman and Fanboy down at the hotel café. They had curbed their extremely obvious advances since initially meeting you, but apparently whatever it was Bob told them about you wasn’t enough to keep them from trailing after you like lost puppies, insisting you needed help carrying the coffees back. 

You didn’t mind. It was nice to feel wanted. Not that Bob wanted you, not that you wanted him—definitely not that—but you still felt the loss of his presence anyway. 

And it hit harder than you ever really thought it would, even after all this time. 

Regardless, it was extra hands to help out with the remaining wedding chores as it got dangerously close to the big day, so you let them tag along. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha mutters to Rooster as you walk back into the conference room. “If you undo my bow one more time, I’m gonna turn your neck into one.”

Hangman whistles low, clearly amused. “Congrats, Bradshaw— You’ve managed to make another woman besides your fiancé wanna kill you.”

“You sure that’s not your true calling?” Fanboy adds with a snort, sliding the cups in his hands to the pair at the end of the table. 

Rooster shoots them both a look, muttering something under his breath, and very, very carefully sealing a welcome bag shut— Avoiding Nat’s perfectly crafted bow like his life depended on it.

Because it did.

“Y’know, ma’am,” Hangman says, stretching into a chair next to Mrs. Floyd, hard at work. “There’s still time for you to get a better son-in-law.” 

He points over his shoulder to a pouting Rooster, grinning. “This one’s not all that great.”

Mrs. Floyd just hums, carefully setting down a mini Snickers bar, and raises an eyebrow at an overly-confident Hangman. 

“Who’s the upgrade? You?”

He shrugs, thinking. “Could be.”

Her eyes flick over his presence quickly, making his winning smile falter and chair squeak as he shifts his weight.

“No it couldn’t.”

The room falls into soft snickers and laughter, enjoying the way Jake’s bubble bursts immediately.

“Oh my god,” Natasha mumbles in incredulous wonder. “I love her.”

The older woman smiles gently, giving a supportive pat to a deflated Hangman sulking next to her, and gets back to work like nothing.

That is until Abby bursts through the doors, Bob silently following and dropping into a chair on the opposite side of the room that suddenly felt too small now that he was in it. 

“Oh my God,” she squeals, energy dialed to 100, earning everyone’s attention— Except Bob, who silently steals a pack of smarties from his mom’s stack of candy and stares at the floor, completely disinterested. 

Rooster watches Abby, raised brow with a little smitten smile. “Care to explain?”

She flops into the other chair next to him, practically vibrating with excitement. “The cake is finally done!”

He blinks, glancing at her as he continues to seal bags. “I thought it already was done.”

“This is why you’re not in charge of wedding stuff,” she dismisses, rolling her eyes and stealing a sip of his drink. “It’s from that one baker I was on a waitlist for, but the order was finally processed.”

“That’s great, honey,” he affirms, eyes widening in fear as he almost undoes a bow and earns a pointed look from Phoenix for not paying attention again. 

Abby hums in agreement, slouching dramatically against the table, face smushed in her hand and sighing. “Only thing is it’s up in Sierra City.”

“Sierra City?” Phoenix echoes. “Isn’t that, like, an hour from here?”

“Yeah,” Abby mumbles, swirling the burning black coffee in Rooster’s cup. “And I can’t go get it, I have a lot to do today.”

You don’t bother letting anyone else offer before you pipe up, posture straightening immediately. “Give me your keys. I’ll go.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Abby counters, giving you a soft frown. 

“You aren’t. I’m offering— I wanna do this for you.” 

In all honesty, you did—it was killing you that you weren’t able to be as hands-on with wedding stuff as you would’ve liked—but it was also the perfect excuse to get a damn break.

It couldn’t get any better: you’d get to explore California a bit more—even if you were just in the mountains—Abby would get her dream cake, and you would escape the unease between you and Bob.

You’d seen more of him in the last two days than you have in years and it was starting to wear on you— The bickering, the teasing, the weird, unshakable feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach when you both inadvertently danced around something more serious, more weighted. 

You were in dire need of an out from the silence— From the way he sat rigidly in the furthest corner of the room from you, from the way he wouldn’t even look at you, didn’t bother opening his mouth to tease you over something dumb… Nothing.

This was a blessing in disguise. 

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Floyd adds lightly. “You can’t go out there by yourself— Bobby will go with you.”

Fuck. You spoke too soon. 

Honestly, you should’ve seen this one coming. Mrs. Floyd always made sure you never did things alone, would always make Bob go with you and Abby if she felt you needed it. It was a little suffocating—especially when you were younger—but now that you were older, you could appreciate the sentiment. 

Except for right now. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you could feel Bob’s attention shoot to you— Suddenly very aware of the conversation unfolding around him, expression blank, but still alert. 

“It’s okay,” you say, waving your hand. “Really. I can handle it.”

Abby gives you a look, one you hated. “I think Ma is right. Those roads are super narrow and, like, in the middle of nowhere. I can’t send you out there by yourself.”

You look across the table at Natasha—eyes already on you—and you widen yours slightly, trying to silently communicate something that begged Please offer to go with me instead.

She gives you a sympathetic frown and glances at her hands busy in a pile of different wedding crafts— Clearly signaling she’s busy. 

Goddamnit. 

“Fanboy can go with me,” you quickly say, volunteering Mickey who mindlessly poked at a pack of cookies on the table, perking up immediately with an almost too-enthusiastic grin. “Right, Mick?”

He opens his mouth to agree, but Mrs. Floyd beats him to it. “Oh, honey, they don’t even trust that boy to drive a plane, nonetheless a car.”

Nat snickers. “She’s not wrong. He’s a terrible driver.”

Fanboy shoots her a wounded look, crossing his arms and muttering, “Damn, thanks, Nat.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Floyd affirms sweetly, like she didn’t just shatter a grown man’s confidence. “Bobby will take you.”

“Is that really necessary?” Bob pipes up, the first words you’ve heard him speak all day— Bitter and cold in a way you’re sure everyone could pick up on. “I think she can handle it on her own. It’s just 89 North.”

His eyes snap to yours briefly, quickly—calculated in a way only you could feel—and retreat, watching his boot scrub into the hotel carpet like it needed special attention. 

“Robert Floyd, who raised you?” his mother scolds. “Because it certainly wasn’t me if that’s the kind of man you turned into.” 

His face flushes a little, crossing his arms while a quiet, playful chorus of noises pour out from his friends. 

“It’s not, I just meant—”

“No. I don’t care what you meant.” She cuts him short with a pointed look over her reading glasses. “You’ll drive her and you’ll do it safely, you hear me?”

He grows quiet, a little huff under his breath slipping through the thin stitch of his lips and shake of his head. 

Of course he’d fold. He was still the perfectly respectful, chivalrous, obedient guy he loved to pretend to be.

“Yeah, Ma, okay.” He looks at you—barely—and slips out of his seat, already heading for the door. 

“Get your stuff. We’ll leave in 20.”

Bob was already waiting for you by the time you got downstairs to the turnaround in front of the hotel— Body lazily leaned against his car, arms and ankles crossed, expression blank, his breath harsh in the cold, bleak air. 

He looked ridiculous, all bundled up in layers: an undershirt peeking through a thick, moss green henley topped with a warm coat. His boots are on, hat pulled down over his ears, gloved fingers twirling his keys, completely oblivious to your amused presence. 

“I’m sorry— Are we going to Sierra City or Antarctica?” 

He catches his keys mid-swing in his palm and glances up at you—dressed in a regular long sleeve top, light jacket, and sneakers—then down at himself. 

“It’s freezing out,” he says flatly. “You’re the stupid one for not dressing warmer.”

You laugh under your breath, warm air that slips from your lips curling in the bitter air. 

“It’s…” your voice trails, pulling out your phone. “31 degrees out, Floyd. Not ten.” 

His lips press flat and chapped. “Don’t go asking for my jacket later when you’re inevitably cold.” 

Your eyebrows lift in mischief. “Wow, California changed you.”

His eyes narrow, challenging, before he slips the passenger door open and clomps over to the driver’s side. 

Of course he still got the door for you. 

“Hurry up and get in so we get there before it’s dark out.”

You roll your eyes and climb up into the truck, already starting to thaw as the engine grumbles in the empty Inn turnaround. 

Bob shifts the truck into reverse, his arm stretching across the back of your seat as he cranes his neck to check behind him. His fingers free of their gloves now stuffed into the spare cup holder linger near your shoulders. 

Your muscles stiffen as his heat sits close to you. It’s like you could feel him touching you through empty space, even a thin sliver of it. 

“I really didn’t need you to come with me, you know.”

The rigid cadence of your voice cuts through the soft blow of heat pouring from the dashboard vents, the only disruption as you both settle into the truck dragging its tires across the cobblestone and out of the lot. 

He huffs a laugh through his nose, brief and quiet. “Well your own best friend didn’t seem to think so.”

You glance over at him, watching the way the straight stitch of his mouth curves up in the corner, all proud and smug. It makes you sit up straighter in your seat, voice light with faux ponderance. 

“Who was able to drive first despite being younger, again?”

“That was ridiculous and you know it!” His voice raises, all flustered and defensive in a way that makes you grin. “What 14 year old expects there to be a question about a suspension system on their permit test?”

“People who studied,” you counter with a shrug. 

He glares, eyes flicking between you and the road ahead of him. “Remind me— What color pump is the gas?”

“Oh my god, that was one time.” 

“Still happened. At least I never put diesel in my car,” he teases, lifting his fingers from the wheel in surrender. 

“I realized before I started pumping,” you grit. “And that’s because you had allll that extra time waiting around to get your license to figure it out.” 

“I’m a great driver,” he mutters under his breath, glaring down the road drenched in hazy greys and wisps of thick clouds. 

“Is that why you’re a backseater for Nat?” 

He goes quiet and for a split second, you feel your heart twist. Maybe that was too far. You and Bob might like to push each other, but that didn’t mean you forgot how talented he really was.

Even if it killed you to admit it. 

“The most offensive part of that sentence was you calling her Nat, actually.” 

He glances over at you, smallest smile evident on his lips before it fades away back with his attention on the road. 

If you hurt him, he wasn’t showing it— And yet you still felt a lot more guilt than you’d like to admit. 

You try to shrug it off, voice light as you ask,

“What— Don’t like to share?” 

His fingers drum along the steering wheel, tangling over each other, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. 

“Not particularly.”

You glance out the window, cheek in palm, elbow bent against the armrest. Suddenly this car felt a little too small. 

You don’t care. Why do you care? 

“She’s great,” you offer quietly. “I wouldn’t wanna share her either.” 

Slowly, the few small buildings around the Inn disappear and more bare trees take their place, shifting by in blurs. A thin vignette of fog clings around the corners of the windows, just a frail shield from the frost.  

The silence settles, but your mind doesn’t. What the hell were you even saying? You were the one pushing Bob right now, so why was it starting to feel like you were the one getting hurt? It feels like hours pass even though it’s only seconds, silence your only company. 

Then, 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Your pulse stutters, eyes fixed to the dashed yellow between two strips of asphalt slipping under the car. 

“What?”

“Phoenix,” he clarifies. “It’s not her I’m worried about sharing.” 

His voice comes out small, weighted words suddenly too present, too scared. But it’s honest— A brief glimpse of sentiment you so rarely saw. 

All of it makes your head spin from more than just the winding uphill roads and bleak weather. All of it makes you freeze from more than just the cold. You don’t know what to say.

Fuck, what do you say? What does that even mean? 

It’s best not to read into it. You learned the hard way that nothing ever meant anything when it came to him, so why should you? 

Words don’t come. You just nod, slow and receptive, though it still feels like you’re detached from your body— From your brain and processing system that’s trying and failing to make sense of whatever intent lies behind his words. 

“Stop chewing,” he mumbles suddenly. “You’re gonna make it bleed.”

You glance at him, completely caught off-guard, not realizing you were even doing it. Your bottom lip slips out from between your pinched teeth unceremoniously.

He didn’t even bother looking at you when he said it. He said it so plainly, so offhand. So unspecial— Like it was a normal comment cushioned in a regular conversation. Like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t making your head spin. 

You stop biting. He stops talking. 

Neither of you say much after that. 

Eventually, you turn the heat down after it starts to feel like you could melt without the sun. He turns the radio up and slumps against the window, one hand lazily resting along the top of the wheel. 

Occasionally his eyes glance over to you. You notice—of course you do—but you don’t bother looking back. Straight ahead felt safer for reasons you didn’t really understand. 

Slowly, you slip farther and farther away from everything. Your eyes glaze over. Your mind goes numb. Every turn starts to look the same— Though that would’ve been the case regardless of your indifference. It’s like you're the only car on the road for miles, climbing deep into the mountains of Sierra City draped in a thick winter sky. 

When you finally hit civilization again, you might as well’ve been transported to the Swiss Alps or Vail. 

The town is small, virtually non-existent, even at the heart of everything. It’s all old, antique wood buildings and weathered streetlamps draped in dainty winter garland. Every window display is dressed to the nines and the cobblestone streets are home to a thin dusting of fresh snow. 

The bakery is on the corner, tucked down a little alley across a boutique’s side entrance. Both doors twinkle under string lights piercing through the stretch of grey clouds staining the sky. 

It smelled of freshly baked pastries and warm sugar, small and quaint and comforting. Everything was pristine— From each carefully laid sugar flower to the little Christmas town decorating the front window display. There wasn’t a single thing out of place. 

All the desserts looked magazine ready— So perfect and intricate they didn’t even seem real. Of course Abby’s dream cake was from here. And you would’ve driven several hours—days, even—if it meant she was happy. 

Even with her brother. 

The cake was sitting ready to go and boxed up on the back counter when you arrived. A small notecard labeled Floyd was perched on top in handwriting so ornate it looked printed. 

In hindsight, it was a mistake to present yourself that way when asking for it because the shop worker couldn’t seem to catch the hint that you weren’t the Floyd in question after she saw Bob’s credit card with the same last name on it. 

After a few trying days of being described by Abby’s elderly relatives as someone romantically involved with her brother, the last thing you were in the mood for was more soft smiles and half-laughs of just going along with it. 

But there were worse outcomes, considering Bob took the opportunity to talk up how his beloved “wife-to-be” just adored this place and you drove hours just to secure your dream cake— Among other ass-kissing sentiments that resulted in the owner sending you off with a free dessert. 

It didn’t help that Bob picked exactly what you would’ve for yourself and silently handed it off to you, hand warm and steady around the dip of your waist as he guided you out to the car and waved all friendly and polite over his shoulder. 

It didn’t help that he still knew you. Not at all. 

You move out of his grip first, making quick work to get to the passenger side and slip in. Bob slows once he gets to the door, leaving it open as he stares out into the distance. 

“Could you at least close the door if you’re gonna stand around and gaze all day?” you grumble, wrapping your arms around yourself. “It’s like a wind tunnel up here.”

His frown deepens, attention still ahead of him, fingers drumming against the car. 

“Do you think maybe we should just, like, take a pause and evaluate if we should be driving back right now?” 

You blink. “Uh… No, not really. What is there to evaluate? Abby’s wedding is in two days. Her cake is here with us, she isn’t. Why would we wait around?”

You already knew the answer, ducking down to glance out the frosted windshield at the sky that’s managed to somehow grow even dimmer since you went into the bakery ten minutes ago. 

A few stray flakes of snow float down, clinging to the car before melting away, not sticking long enough for the windshield wipers to be needed. It was hardly anything.

Bob had a point— But the faster you got back, the better. It wasn’t going to solve anything pondering the weather, especially not when your sanity was quickly dwindling.

Not to mention you were in the mountains during the middle of winter. Of course it looked dismal.

“No shit,” he huffs, checking his watch. “It’s just… we have the time and that sky doesn’t look very promising. Did Abbs ever mention anything about a storm?”

“No, so I’m sure it’s fine,” you dismiss, starting to undo the lining of your cupcake. If you waited any longer to eat it with that door open, it’d be frozen. “She’s been tracking the Doppler like crazy.”

“Yeah, but—” 

“This looks like the kind of place that always has a flurry. I think it’s fine to go— Really.”

He pauses, considering. He glances at you and back again, squinting up at the overcast sky. Then he caves, sliding into the driver's seat and turning the key with an exaggerated sigh. 

“Alright. Fine. Whatever you say.”

You watch as the engine revs and he puts the address for the Inn back into his GPS. 

It wasn’t like Bob to give in so easily, at least when it came to something you were arguing about with him. Other people, maybe, but you…? Definitely not. 

You don’t have the energy to question it, and he doesn’t have the care to explain.

The drive is the same as before— Quiet. Stiff around the edges. Something sharp forcing its way between you two. Only this time when you look at him, he’s the one who won’t look back. 

You busy yourself on your phone and that stupid book you got all of ten pages into the night before. It was only an hour drive, give or take, but the more reasons you had to avoid talking to him, the better. 

The cake sits tightly tucked against your chest, serving as the perfect arm rest for your book you hold up like a shield. 

You let yourself get lost in it. 

It was better than getting lost out here with him. 

“In one mile, turn left onto Main Street.”

The GPS cracks the silence with new instructions, despite you being on a straight road for 20 miles or so.

It already said that as the first instruction a few miles back… There must be poor service. 

You don’t bother looking up. It’ll adjust itself. 

“In 900 feet, turn left onto Main Street.” 

A few seconds pass.

“Turn left onto Main Street.”

Out of the corner of your eye Bob fiddles with his phone on the vent grate, grumbling inaudibles under his breath.

You raise a brow, not bothering to look while you pinch a page between your fingers. “I think it might want you to turn left, Bobby.” 

“If I turn left, we’ll drive off the cliff into a frozen lake,” he snaps. “If I can remember from earlier,” he adds under his breath.  

Remember? Earlier? Can’t he just see it now?

You glance over your book out at the windshield and your eyes immediately blow wide in shock. 

The tall pines that dotted the edge of a once clear, thin forest road hang heavy with branches already covered in a solid inch of fresh snow. There’s no contrast in your surroundings for miles, no sign of any visible depth perception— Just bristlingly cold billows of wind-blown winter snow coming down hard, all without remorse. 

Everything is washed in white— The sky, the foliage, the depths and caverns below the sharp twists and turns of the barren woodland road now completely indistinguishable and swallowed into affinity. 

The snow falls heavy and fast, the windshield wipers squeaking, desperately trying to rid the frozen glass from a blanket of white. You can’t see the road in front of you— Not the trees, not the curve of the cracked asphalt, not the lines on it. 

Hell, you can barely even see the nose of the truck trying to cut through the frantic snowfall. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble in disbelief, mouth a little slack as you peer out. 

It’s been all of 15 minutes since you pulled left out of the actual Main Street in Sierra City, but your location was quickly indistinguishable. This was not good.  

“If you wanna go left, go right ahead, but get out of the car before you do it because I’d personally like to live to see my sister get married.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s—”

“I know it keeps rerouting, but that’s because—”

“Bob!” you snap. “You can’t even see the road!”

He finally goes quiet. His expression is blank. His knuckles grip around the wheel. He looks over at you. 

Once. Then twice. 

The car swerves slightly, just enough to shake your attention free and back on the less than ideal conditions starting to trap you out in the cold. 

“I don’t even know where the hood of the car is,” you continue, gesturing incredulously out in front of you as the tires struggle to crunch over the quick accumulation.

“Yeah, and you wanted to go! So we’re going.” 

“Okay, but—” 

“God, can you ever make up your mind about anything?” he huffs, voice raising a tick. “You either want something or you don’t. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Well, I didn’t realize we were gonna be driving into a goddamn blizzard when I said go!”

He shrugs his shoulders, expression bristling. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s fine, whatever. We’ll just take it slow.”

You exhale sharply with a roll of your eyes. This was really not the time for him to have a complex— To play high and mighty just to prove a point. You already knew you were wrong. A reminder wasn’t going to help anyone right now. 

“This is stupid, Bob. Just pull over.”

“Where?” he says, exasperated. “Last time I checked we’re now in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know— Somewhere! We can’t drive like this.” 

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation under his glasses. “You’re actually ridiculous. I can’t with you.”

“I’m sorry! When I suggested we go, I thought there might be a small flurry or something, not all this! How was I supposed to know?” 

He shakes his head in silence, lips pressed thin, eyes heavy. His jaw works, tongue running over his teeth tight with tension under his skin. 

“Call Abby.” He caves reluctantly. “Knowing her, she probably drove out here to look at the cakes in person.”

You shrink, lump of anger crawling to your throat as you pull out your phone and try her once. 

It immediately goes to voicemail. 

When you pull it away from your ear, you only have one bar. Fantastic. You try again and it rings, hollow and long through your skull. 

Honestly, you couldn’t be mad at anyone but yourself. Your own stupid self-pity and wallowing was exactly what got you here. 

You knew better— Of course you knew better. You could’ve given it an hour, stopped in a bar considering the service was spotty up north and checked the local radar for a passing storm before getting on the road. 

The cake would’ve survived a small detour. You, however, were a different story.

But, no. God forbid you put your own shit aside for a minute and thought logically around Bob Floyd, for once. 

Why were you so fucking stupid around him? So irrational and impulsive? It was insane how he had this effect on you, even years later. 

The call finally connects, Abby’s voice light and completely oblivious coming through on the other end. 

“Oh my God, please tell me Bob remembered his wallet.”

You smile, running your fingers over the sticker sealing the box that sits securely on your lap. “He did, we got it— Don’t worry.”

“Good,” she sighs in relief. “Thank God.”

“Did, uh…” your voice trails, glancing at what used to be the edge of the road next to you, completely erased now. It’s like another inch fell in the minute you tried to get the call to go through. “Did you know it was supposed to snow, by any chance?” 

The silence is thick on the other end. Bob glances your way, trying to read her answer off of your expression. 

“No…” she answers eventually. “Why? Is it snowing up there or something?”

“You could say that.” 

“Bob took the truck, right?”

You nod slowly even though she can’t see you. “Yeah… but it’s not much help, actually. It’s coming down fast and we’re on a road that isn’t really good for any kind of car right now.” 

“Are you serious?” she pouts, voice cracking in and out from the weak connection. “Drive carefully, okay! I need you guys here in one piece.” 

“Trying to,” you affirm, glancing at the speedometer. It felt like you were gonna slide off the edge or drive headfirst into a tree at any given moment despite only going 15. 

“If it’s that bad maybe you guys should rethink this.”

“Yeah…” You sigh, lips tightening around the words before they come. “Do you know of anywhere around here we might be able to stop until it slows up a bit? Like a gas station or restaurant or something?”

She hums on the other line. “Lemme look.” 

“I’d tell you where we are but the GPS is going crazy. Service is kinda spotty up here.”

“No worries, I’ll just check Bobby’s Find My Friends.”

You snort. “You have him on Find My Friends?”

“For emergencies only, Abby!” Bob shouts over, flush creeping up his neck as she giggles in your ear. 

You swat him away with a look. “Relax, that’s adorable.” 

Bob pouts in his seat, going back to trying to steer through a storm that was only getting worse. 

“Oh!” Abby’s voice perks up through the phone. “Bradley said his uncle has a cabin not that far from you guys. Stop there until it blows over.”

Seriously? 

A cabin, alone, in the snowy woods, lost in the middle of a flurry that flirted with the idea of being a blizzard. 

With Bob. 

You truly couldn’t think of anything worse if you tried. 

Maybe you should cut your losses and gamble with your life on this treacherous drive to avoid that. 

Maybe this is what you get for choosing to travel in this just to avoid more time with him in the first place. 

Shit. 

“What did she say?” Bob asks, flicking the headlights in different ways like that might make some miracle of a difference. 

You pause, grimacing, not wanting to speak it into existence even though you really had no other choice. 

“Rooster’s uncle has a place we can crash, apparently.”

His hopeful body language deflates, the same realization you just went through washing over him as well. 

Great. 

“The app is getting kinda glitchy now— It thinks you guys are in a river,” Abby interrupts, completely immune to the peril both of you were suddenly sorting through. “But when I first looked you were, like, a half mile away from it. Just look for a Willow Street and follow that to the end.”

She gives you a few more details about the house—ensures it’s not a problem and no one ever uses it, as told by the uncle himself who arrived for the wedding that morning—and sends you on your way. 

You don’t know how you find it, but you do— Barely.

The piercing, reflective green of the street sign is intercepted by a raging swirl of flakes in the wind, but fortunately you’re able to find the turn and see just enough of the letters to know it’s indeed Willow Street. 

It feels like you drive over a mile down that frozen road until you slowly crawl to the end, finally finding a decent-sized cabin on top of a slight incline. You’re in the dead of winter, in the middle of nowhere— Only the woods, nature, and wildlife all taking shelter surrounding you for miles. 

When the storm settles between gusts of wind, you can almost make sense of a tiny pond in the distance surrounded by big, spindly branches of bare trees and the hearty green of tall pines surrounding the property. 

The house is cute—picturesque, even—tucked at the top of a tiered cobblestone staircase, lined with bushes and shrubs, all completely covered in fresh, lush snow. 

It has a massive chimney, a wrap-around porch, a little balcony, and large, welcoming windows. It’s all charming wood and soft stone, decorated with two small Christmas trees on the porch—now knocked over and half-buried in snow—and a couple dozen wreaths on windows and doors, weakly twinkling with a warm glow in the blustering storm. 

If Abby didn’t tell you no one ever came here, you’d never believe it. She mentioned they hire a housekeeper to keep it tidy, do a bit of decorating, and get it vacation-ready for each holiday season, but they never actually make it here and ship out to Florida instead. 

Even in these circumstances, who the hell would want palm trees over this? 

Bob pulls the truck into the driveway and kills the engine with an echoing roar, suddenly loud with the weight you both sat in. Neither of you speak—a familiar state—and just watch in silence as the truck quickly starts to become part of the surroundings buried in glistening white. 

You smush your face into your hands, exhaustedly rubbing over your eyes as reality sets in. 

How the fuck did you let yourself end up here? 

All because you couldn’t listen. All because you didn’t think you were strong enough to tough it out for a few hours around someone you’ve known your whole life. 

Now look where it got you. 

Bob clears his throat. “Listen, I don’t wanna be here either if it makes you feel any better, but we don’t really have a choice.” 

His voice is strained, tone desaturated. You could hear the irritation he so desperately tried to hide simmering under his skin. A facade that was definitely wearing thin. 

You pull your hands from your face, blinking out in front of you, still unable to look at him. 

The last thing either of you needed was more animosity. 

“No. That’s not—it’s not that, it’s—”

“Just stay here,” he grumbles, abruptly pushing the door open and pulling his hat back on over his head. “I’ll go check it out first.” 

You try to stop him, to explain that it’s not him—even if a part of it damn well is—but it’s the fact that you stupidly put yourself in this situation because you can’t handle him anymore. Because you can’t handle this. 

And more than that, just as always, you can’t handle being wrong— Especially because of him. 

How fucking pathetic were you? 

He doesn’t give you the chance to explain, just slips into the cold and leaves you in the hollow silence of the car already beginning to freeze. 

You watch as he examines the property: checks the name on the mailbox to make sure it’s the right house, peers through some of the windows, and retrieves the spare key— Left exactly where Abby said it would be. 

When the door swings open, you gather the stack of things in your arms and bolt, unable to sit still any longer.

You close the door behind you, hugging your arms to your chest to try and keep warm in the blistering cold. The wind was fierce— Biting and bone-chilling, whipping your hair without mercy, already staining your nose and lips a chapped pink. 

“Let me come get you,” Bob shouts over from the porch, already making his way down the steps and trying to stomp some snow down. “You’re gonna slip.”

“I’m fine,” you grit back, determined to continue despite your sneakers starting to easily slide around. 

The snow seeps into your shoes as you trudge through, wind biting at your exposed ankles, unforgiving and bitter as the accumulation grows. It didn’t matter— The last thing you wanted was more help from him. 

“This kind of snow is slippery. Just wait for once in your life,” he grumbles back, his frame blurry in the storm and soft, pale twilight beginning to peek through the trees. 

You push through, trying to slip past him when he reaches you. He catches your free wrist with frozen fingers, but you twist away in hot fury. 

“Just let me go, Bob. I’m fine.”

He steps back an inch, scanning over you and your sudden ire. Snow clings to his lashes under his glasses, to his shoulders, to his fingers that reach out— Reach out to hold you. 

He was being weird this morning, weird in the car, but now he was going to act like he cared about you and your wellbeing? After he made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with you either? 

The mood swings with him were exhausting and unpredictable. You couldn’t keep up— Couldn’t predict which version of him you’d see next. The lines between what was an act and what wasn’t felt like they were starting to blur beyond your liking.

But you know him too. 

You know he takes pride in being needed, in being a hero. You also know he was probably just itching to take the opportunity to throw this back in your face and gloat about just how right he was— To get to take care of you just to prove a point. 

Because you fucked up. 

Badly. 

“You’re clearly not fine,” he counters, taking the cake from your hands and trying to hold his arm out for you to hold on to.

“Not now, Bob. I’m serious.”

“What, not now?”

His question is calm, it’s curious. It’s not demanding or smug like you thought it would be. It only confuses you more.

He reaches out for you again and catches your elbow, steadying you as you clomp your way toward the stairs. 

“This! The last thing I want right now is for you to do this when I already know how fucking wrong I was. I really don’t need the reminder, for once.” 

His face contorts in immediate confusion. “Seriously? That’s what you’re upset over right now?”

“Yes!” You wiggle free of his grip and let your arms fall to your side with a snap. “Of course it is— How could it not be? I already know I screwed up, Bob. I already know that you were right and you’re pissed with me for it, okay?” 

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off with a huff, squeezing his eyes shut and stomping after you heading for the door. “That’s not why I’m mad! Would you just slow down for a second?” 

“Why would I?” you shout over the swirling wind, not bothering to turn around. “You don’t wanna be around me, I don’t wanna be around you. This is less than ideal and we’re both annoyed, so let’s just get through this and get back for Abby.” 

His mouth opens, then closes as he stands in the cold and watches you slip farther and farther beyond a curtain of snow and into the door. 

He follows eventually, but he doesn’t say a word. 

The silence follows you both inside. It envelopes. It sits. It watches and waits and tries to find a fracture. 

It doesn’t come. 

You say the bare minimum, trying not to suffocate and drown in the unsettled energy expanding between you. Something was off— More so than usual. 

You can’t place it, and it doesn’t really want to be found. 

By some miracle, the power was still on, granting you both at least one piece of good news in a bleak situation. The heat was cranked to full blast, quickly trying to thaw out a house that clearly wasn’t used to being used. 

To the naked eye, it looked homey and lived in. The main fireplace was decorated with twinkling garland and empty stockings. In the corner was a large, elaborate Christmas tree, standing at least 12 feet tall and brushing against the ceiling. It was the kind you had to go up to and twist the needles between your fingers to realize it’s fake.

The room was showered in windows and warm couches with soft, plush blankets, all freshly washed and folded neatly, waiting to be used. It was truly the perfect setting for a quiet winter night.

You don’t know anything about Rooster’s elusive uncle, but man would it be nice to have a vacation home like this— Rarely used, but always welcoming. Always warm. 

The evidence of the lack of warm bodies comes from the details— Empty drawers, cleared-out cabinets, and a vacant fridge. There were a handful of canned goods, a few snack foods unopened and good into the new year. You glance in the cupboards for any drinks or something more substantial, but all that greeted you was a decently-stocked liquor cabinet and some tap water. 

That would have to do. 

You settled in while Bob slipped outside to track down some firewood in case you lost power before it got dark. You tried to argue against it—tried to tell him it’s too cold and harsh to go back out—but he didn’t listen. 

You didn’t put up much of a fight. Why would you? You were wrong about virtually everything else lately. 

While he got lost at the edge of the woods somewhere, you curled up between the bay windows in the living room, surrounded by the fine glitter of snow and whisper of wind, book in a feeble hand… again. 

He didn’t even have to be in the same room as you anymore to take your attention with him. You still found yourself looking for him through the blistering storm— Heavy and dense with white until he completely vanished. 

The pages fall shut against your fingers, still holding the spot like your mind would eventually turn back to it. 

It doesn’t. 

You just stare blankly out at the snow, watching as the pale grey sky grows darker and dimmer as night slowly falls into place. 

You couldn’t help but wonder about him— Think about him, about everything. Something about this place stirs a quiet, delicate feeling you abandoned deep within you. The time, the space. The distance and the animosity that all flirted with some aching, dire need to shift your center of gravity around each other. It’s all rattled.

You rest your head against the cool glass, frozen to the touch. You don’t care, don’t even notice your temple is numb until the front door swings open, snapping you back to reality. 

There, Bob stood, completely covered in snow, all bundled up and holding a hearty stack of wood against his chest. He kicks the door closed behind him with an unceremonious thud and carefully drops the wood on a welcome mat next to his feet, already dripping small puddles in the doorway. 

His nose peeks out from under his coat zipped up high, features all red and borderline frostbitten. Snowflakes melt across his cheeks, across his eyelashes, across the top of his hat, quickly removed and tossed onto a coat rack. 

Damp ends of brown hair curl at the nape of his neck where snow meets skin, cold and wet like the rest of him. 

You don’t realize you’re staring until he looks back— Expression patient. Calm. Completely different than when you last saw him. Something you can’t really read. 

He doesn’t look frustrated or angry or even indifferent. He just looks like… him. 

Like a version you knew a lifetime ago. 

Younger. Softer. Giving in to something tired.

You hug your knees curled to your chest a little tighter, pretending to be busy looking back out the window, book still lazily in hand. 

“You look like one of those people in a magazine.”

You glance over at him, still watching you. The smallest smile unfolds at the corner of his lips— Something almost not even there. Something that tries and fails to meet his eyes. 

You're tucked comfortably in your corner, blanket over your lap, winter’s exhale unfolding around you, eyes catching the faint glow of Christmas lights on the window wreaths and the tree. Your mouth slips open, a little at a loss at the sudden softness and the recognition of it. 

Or maybe it wasn’t so sudden. 

Your brows crinkle, an unwanted heat flooding the apples of your cheeks. Hopefully he couldn’t see in the low light. 

“I feel like I’m in a damn Hallmark movie.” You try to tease, but it falls a little flat, a little… vulnerable.                                                        

His lips slip into a subtle pout, sliding off his clunky boots and peeling his soaked gloves from stiff, cold hands. 

“I like Hallmark movies.”

“Of course you do.”

Even though you’re trying to slip back into old habits—to hold onto your safe, familiar rhythm like a lifeline—you still can’t seem to foster the same kind of bite behind your words. 

Too hollow, and yet, not at all. 

All of it falls softer, quieter. Hesitant, like something was fracturing without permission. 

“What’s wrong with Hallmark Christmas movies?” He shifts his weight like it’s personal, fixing his glasses draped in melted snow. 

You press your lips together with a shrug. “They’re unrealistic.” 

“Are you, like, allergic to joy of all sorts…? Or just the holiday kind?” 

Your eyes narrow. “No. Just the unrealistic kind.” 

“Yeah,” he huffs incredulously, tossing his hands up to gesture at the wall of snow quickly building around the cabin and trapping you in. “So unrealistic.”

“Well, that’s why I said I feel like I’m in one.”

He gathers the wood he dropped at the door and heads for the fireplace, empty and waiting just to your right.

“You’d be one of those girls who’s forced to go back to her hometown that’s obsessed with Christmas but she’s not into it,” he says, smiling softly to himself as he slides the glass doors open and starts assembling the wood in the cradle. “Then she ends up stuck there instead of working the whole holiday and eventually learns to love it again.”

You hum, brow lifted as you watch him work. 

The thick planes of his back muscles work under his layers, catching the flicker of daylight still fighting to burn and drape the room in soft shadows. His fingers are delicate around the sharp, jagged chunks of firewood he places with care. The harsh red of winter across his skin softens to a gentle pink— A pink you haven’t seen in years.

Something about this place was dangerous. It was like a vortex pulling you back into cold, dead, old habits you thought you buried a long time ago. 

You don’t even realize he’s still talking until you scold yourself out of your trance. Why the hell were you looking at him like that? 

“Which I guess would make me the ruggedly-charming guy who works at the family tree farm or something and shows her the true meaning of Christmas,” he continues, working diligently until the logs are layered just so, completely unaware of your sudden spiral. 

You sit quietly, watching him from the side, trying to wrap your brain around why he was being so… different. 

And why you were falling for it.

You shift, facing him a bit more. You inhale, trying to talk yourself out of what you say before you say it. 

“I don’t know if that would be us.”

You say it. 

It feels like you live outside your body saying something like that— The acknowledgement of an us. The semblance of reckoning with what used to be. 

With what could’ve been. 

“It could’ve been.”

Apparently he feels the same. 

That’s what makes it hurt worse, makes your heart twist and your mind reel. How the fuck could he say something like that to you after everything? How were you ever really supposed to let this go if he kept you on the hook? Kept pretending like he cared?

Maybe everything was a game to him when it comes to you. Even years later, even as adults. Even grown up and moved on— You were still tethered to each other no matter how hard you tried to cut the tangled rope. 

You hated how difficult it was to pretend, to act like you buried what craved to fester when you were alone with him. You hated how everything—the distance, the closeness, the heat and the cold and the familiar, precariously cautious quiet—makes you want to unravel what you’ve spent so long keeping tied down deep inside you. 

It makes you question if you were wrong all those years ago— Even though you damn well know you weren’t. You know better. 

You did then. You do now. 

He wasn’t this person. He wasn’t someone who could love you in the ways you needed— In the ways you’ve tried to forget that you could love him. In the ways that you can.

And in some sick, twisted way… the way you still do.

Slowly, you look at him— Fully. He’s fiddling with his hands, calloused and worn, red knuckles thawing from the cold. 

He used to do that when he was nervous. He would do that when he waited at the bus stop for you in the rain just to walk you home. 

He would do that in the middle of the night when you’d get a glass of water from the kitchen and he was the only one still up. 

He would do that when he’d see you from the porch when you’d come home for winter break or after he had to pull a drunk guy off of you at a party. 

He did it before he touched your hair the other morning and when you both waited in a silent, snowfallen car this afternoon. 

You hated that you knew all that, but even worse, you hated that you knew what it meant. 

And you hated that something weighted usually followed. 

“Do you still mean it?”

Something like that. 

His head hangs down, matted hair slowly beginning to dry, bathed in shadows and silence. He looks younger in the dim, dawning of winter twilight, in this honest and raw echo of reckoning, or a feeble attempt at it. He looks softer, all vulnerable and defenseless. 

Your breath catches, pulse a steady roar in your ears. 

You know exactly what he means— Exactly the moment he’s referring to. 

One you agreed to never talk about again. 

How do you even answer that? How could you? 

You sigh, facade fractured. “Bob…”

“So you do,” he says quietly, like he believes every word of it and is scared to. 

Then he stands, wading in front of you, hanging on your reaction, on your breathing, on what you’ll do next.

Your mouth opens, then closes. You’re at a loss around him for once— Truly and utterly at a complete loss. Half-formed words wither and die in your throat, suddenly dry and tight.

You know the answer: you did. You do. 

No matter how hard you’ve tried not to, no matter how long you’ve spent convincing yourself you don’t—you shouldn’t—you still fucking do. 

It might’ve been your idea to leave it for dead—that night, those words, everything you shared—but it still felt like maybe neither of you ever fully moved on. 

And you certainly hadn’t forgotten. Even if you wanted to. You never could. 

There’s a pull, an urge— Let go. Give in. Fall. You want to—in this moment, in this light, in this heat and space that all suddenly felt too heavy and too close—you want to cave. 

To bend with what’s been pulling you down for so long. 

It’s destructive and reckless and will only leave you more hurt, but maybe this was something you’ll never really heal from. 

Maybe it’s something you were never meant to. 

Maybe this was always supposed to cling to you— This fractured, shattered part of yourself that was stitched together by him when he was the one who broke it. 

Your lips part again. The words catch in the back of your throat, stick to what intentions you abandoned long ago. 

They try. They fail.

He shakes his head, a short laugh laced with hurt cutting through the window of honesty he opened for you quickly closing. 

“Of course,” he mutters. “Predictable. I can’t believe I thought maybe you would actually care.”

The room goes darker, the lights flicker off, and the heat dies with a whisper. You both glance around in suffocating silence as realization washes over you. 

The power’s out. Perfect. 

In the dark, his face shifts back to something you already know, yet something that feels so suddenly foreign— So rigid and distant. A flicker of something other than hatred dying a pitiful, worthless death. 

The cut of his jaw and sharpness in his eyes darken under the faint blur of grey glow outside as daylight struggles to live through the death of day and the heavy blanket of storm clouds. The only sound is the wind, whistling and whirling behind the thin wall of glass and wood keeping you sheltered.

He stalks toward the door before you can do something—anything—like you should. 

You can’t reach for him, can’t catch him, can’t stop him or talk to him, just watch pathetically as he storms out the door—no damp gloves or hat in hand—muttering not to follow him out. 

It’s not said in anger, not in hate. Just sad. Frail.

And for once, you don’t argue.

continue reading here .ᐟ — block limit is evil & made me cut this right when things heat up. though this work was not intended to be broken up, the second “chapter” will pick up directly where this left off to make it easier to find. i hope you enjoyed so far, thanks for reading !

© quietbluetune —⋆˚࿔

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ Expectations (Day Four): Herb Garden ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park

summary: it’s day four of the ‘to do list’ and park tags along to help bring your herb garden vision closer to life. (wc: 1.5k)

pairing: brendon park / f!reader

content: cont of the ‘expectations’ series. fluff/humour. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader who has park wrapped around her finger. some mild sexual tension and physical touch in this. (1) honeybee mention

“Good morning, my little snuggle muffin.” you chirp with a cheerful bounce in your step as you enter the store; the smell of greenery at the forefront of scents. 

Park is impassive toward the newfound nickname, as nothing that comes from your smart little mouth surprises him anymore. The tables turn when he passes you a coffee. 

“Morning. This is for you.” his tone is more gravelly from the sleep still evident on his face—yesterday had been a longer shift at the PTMC than anticipated. 

You gratefully take the cup drooling with condensation from his grasp, “Thank you, Sharky—Look! The barista drew hearts on the side of my cup. Were you nice to them?” you tease. 

“That was me.” Park informs. 

“Oh.” your quick-wit falters. 

Park drops his gaze to look at you when you fall silent. His lip curls into a satisfying smirk, “Sleep well?” 

“Could’ve slept better.” you shrug, dragging a cart toward you with your free hand.

Park takes it from your grasp, “There’s a two-person remedy for that.” he suggests. 

“Ooh.” you sing, “So explicit and it’s only 9AM! What kind of girl do you take me for, Sharky?” 

“A fun one.” 

It was great. Throughout your own…playful stipulations for Park to win back your phone number, his personality—although similar to his workplace one—was revealing to be less two-dimensional and reeking less of that menacing, sardonic tone that he often work within the PTMC. (That side of him also extends further to the poor strangers who shoot a friendly smile in his direction.) 

This whole facade was slipping before your eyes, revealing the softened centre you had presumptions about the first time he swam through the ED; shrouding everyone’s semi-egotism with his own. 

In addition to this, it also helps your case of getting a free hall pass into Park’s true temperament because he was sorely into you. 

You walk at a slow pace, content as you sip at the coffee Park brought you. He leans his weight onto the trolley, slowing his steps to match yours whilst he observes the surroundings like a godforsaken member of the SWAT team. 

It had been agreed during the last time Park managed to wrangle some time in between surgeries to show face in the ED, that the next day off would be focusing on your newfound passion for a herb garden. Now, Park had his own queries about it, and you weren’t exactly living in an establishment that was in abundance of space and natural sunlight.

But nevertheless, what you wanted; Park was going to make it happen. 

“Do you know what type of herbs you want?” Park asks when you stop in front of the potted herb section. 

“Uh…Easy ones.” you mumble and pick up the pot labelled as coriander. 

Park angles his body into yours, his head dropping read the pink label. He plucks the pot from your hand, “Coriander is hard to keep alive. Highly sensitive. Short lifespan. If it gets too warm, the flavour of the leaves are ruined.” 

(Consider yourself speechless. A rarity.) 

“Sharky, are you a green thumb?” 

Park chuckles, “I’m Italian.” 

“Ah. That’ll do it.” you place the herb back amongst the others. You hum, “What about basil? That’s pretty easy to keep alive, right? The last one I had lasted much longer than I anticipated.” 

“Basil will survive.” Park affirms. He tilts his head to inspect the leaves on the stem, “This one is good. Mint will also survive under minimal maintenance. Chives. They’re all pretty hardy.” 

You smile widely. (Definitely liking this side of him.) 

“Who knew the Ortho Bro had such a keen eye for herbs.” you pat his chest in passing, feeling the muscles tense beneath your palm. You bend over to drop the umpteen pots of herbs into the cart, not missing Park’s wandering eye as he shoots it back up to look at your face. “Eyes up here, Park.” 

“Heard.” Park clears his throat, tugging at his bottom lip to conceal the growing smile that was aching to break free. 

There were things that Brendon Park wanted to be successful in life doing. The obvious being a top surgeon in Orthopaedics, living a healthy and fulfilling life and to see gray hairs sprout from his scalp; and to be able to kiss you whenever, and however he wanted. 

Even if it made other people within the public area flush at the sight. 

It wasn’t as if he was plucking this out of thin air. Having been with a handful of women, the guy could spot hungry eyes from across a room. Something you were so eloquently sporting whilst you wrap your lips around the paper straw of your coffee. 

Park prays for some respite. Really. The way his mother had raised him was not reflecting at the present moment. 

Thankfully, it comes in the form of a distracting task of finding moisture-retentive, fertile soil with organic matter—his words to you. Park keeps you close, occasionally taking his thumb and forefingers to rest on your hips as he guides you down the aisle with the cart abandoned at the end. You allow him the tactile touches, leaning into his touch whilst you bask beneath the glow of his undivided attention. 

When he hauls the raised garden planter over his shoulder, you follow him back to the cart with a shit-eating grin. 

That was about to become all yours. You know, when you decided to stop stringing him along for entertainment purposes. 

His freshly washed hair flops when he lands the smaller scale planter into the cart.

His chest puffs, “Do you have a garden for this?” he asks since he forgot to when you giddily pointed to the cutest planter on the shelf. 

“Shared garden. My neighbours are really sweet. They’ll be fine about it.” you tell him in a nonchalant tone before taking hold of the cart to push it. “Take five, big guy.” 

“Uh-huh.” Park muses lowly before deciding to be intentional with where he places himself. He cages you in with two muscular arms on either side of you as he helps you push the heavy-weighing cart—his front flush with your back. “Ready to check out?” he asks innocently. 

“Yup.”

You’re really struggling to maintain composure. (There’s no way you’d let Park the Shark one-up you with his flirtations.) 

You walk like that all the way to the cash register. There’s a handful of customers in front, placing their items on the conveyer belt; so you lean back into Park who cements himself to the spot to allow you to rest. 

There’s part of him that wants to press a chaste kiss to the top of your head as you wait. Domestic and for all intents and purposes: a severe public display of affection—in his eyes anyway. Also, not something he should doing without your phone number and an official date set in stone. 

Park the Shark was many things…a creep was not one of them.

It’s as if you can sense his overthinking, turning your head and lifting your chin to stare up at him. “Happy?” you query. 

“Always with you.” 

You hum in content, dropping your head back to stare at the moving queue you were in. Your hand rubs up and down one of the forearms he had still caged you in. 

Eventually, you’re able to lift the items for your herb garden onto the conveyer belt. It’s really Park that does all the manual labour of shifting the items from A to B after tells you to just stand and look pretty for him, which was an easy feat for someone like you. 

He even gives you a glower when you go to pay. For your own items, nonetheless. 

You make it back out into the parking lot, where Park abandons the cart at the front of the shop and decides to show off his extensive workout plan that makes juggling a planter over his shoulder whilst balancing all the herbs you selected in his other hand, a real cinch. 

He follows you to your car and you pop the trunk for him. 

“You will be rewarded in your next life, Sharky.” you bounce on the balls of your feet as he places the purchased goods into your car. 

He stands to full height. “How about this life?”

“Let me sleep on it.” you openly taunt. 

“Have you got someone to lift this on the other side?” Park cocks his head when you hesitate to produce an answer, “You’re gonna lift and build this?” 

“I’m not weak.” (No, you weren’t. But you 100% could not lift that planter yourself.) “I can ask one of my neighbours for help.” 

Park shuts the trunk, “I’m not convinced.” 

You pause, and then throw your hands up in defeat. “Fine—” you fish out your car keys, “—Let me stroke your ego for a little while longer. You can come to mine and build it for me.” 

“Atta girl.” Park’s answer makes your skin prickle with heat. He gestures to your car, “Lead the way, honeybee. I’ll be right behind you.” 

[filmjules]

LOVE ME SLOW AND SOFT — Beau Maxwell

˗ˏˋ SUMMARY .ᐟ Beau isn’t looking for a relationship, he’s good with where he’s at in life. Football, parties, hookups. You’re still healing from your last relationship that left you in pieces. But what happens when your advisor wants you to focus on writing about the football team, and Beau Maxwell—Briar’s very quarterback—conveniently keeps showing up in your life?

˗ˏˋ PAIRING .ᐟ Beau Maxwell x Journalist!reader

˗ˏˋ WARNINGS .ᐟ drinking/smoking, frat boys ??, eventual smut, making out, lots of mentions of sex, sexual jokes, sexual comments, comments on bodies (men & women), cheating (not beau ofc)

Note ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა — This going to be part smau, part written & I am making all of the social media parts myself so 1. it’ll take longer to put out and 2. it won’t be 100% accurate but it’s going to be based on real social medias

˗ˏˋ CHAPTERS .ᐟ

zero. insta profiles

one. beer pong

two. insta stalking

three. coffee date

four. drunk foolery

five.

˗ˏˋ EXTRAS .ᐟ

. . .

[thatcorporategirlie]

you got me all twisted up

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Rating: E

Summary: Jack was no better than Robby when it came to relationships. He moved through life after his divorce using intimacy as a distraction rather than a connection. And then… he met you.

Warning: (MDNI 18+) acquaintances to lovers, wealth advisor reader (girl boss and very successful), starts off slightly angsty (jacks deployment and leg), mentions of infidelity, emotionally constipated jack, he fucks an original character (not descriptive at all, allusions of smut only), fuckboy/commitment phobe jack? language, competency kink (jack is very turned on by your intelligence), flirting, sexual tension, jacks intense eye contact, alcohol, feelings, mutual pining, reader has a dog, mentions of men threatened by success, pet names, making out like teenagers, dirty thots, mentions of sexy time, fluff alert, domesticity, I think that’s it

A/N: There’s totally a joke/interaction in this fic that I saw on this post, and I want to emphasize how funny this is. I did not come up with this. Full credit to @tanely GIF by @pittgifs found HERE.

For 5 years, Jack had been a husband. He wore the ring, paid the bills, and was building a life with his wife.

His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.

He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.

That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.

The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.

She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.

"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."

He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"

She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."

The words hung in the air.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."

Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. She admitted that she should have told him how she was feeling sooner, but she didn't know how since he was saving lives. Anyways, the point was, he was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.

The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.

He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.

But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.

Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.

Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.

He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.

And then… he met you.

The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.

Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.

On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.

"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.

"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.

She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.

"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."

"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"

"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."

He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.

The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.

"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."

Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.

"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.

"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."

"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."

"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."

Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.

"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."

"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.

Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.  

"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.

Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.

"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."

Ellis groaned.

"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.

"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."

Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."

As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"

Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them

"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."

He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.

He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.

Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"

Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.

 "…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.

You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.

Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"

Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.

"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."

People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.

What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.

Ellis smirked.

The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.

"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."

Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.

"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"

A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.

"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."

The room laughed again.

"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."

Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.

"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."

The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.

"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"

You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.  

"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."

A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.

"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"

"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.

The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.

You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.

"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.

MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+

AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000

The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.

"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.

"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.

You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."

Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.

The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.

"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."

"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."

You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.

"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."

You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"

Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.

"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.

You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.

"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."

"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?

He decided to change topics.

"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."

"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."

"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.

"Incredible, thanks for asking."

He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.

"Who was the nurse?"

"Dana Evans."

At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.

"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."

The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.

"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"

"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.

"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.

"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."

"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."

Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.

"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."

"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."

"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."

Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.

"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:

Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management

"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."

He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.

"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."

"It's on the house."

He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."

"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.

You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.

You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.

You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.

And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.

You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."

He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.

"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."

When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.

Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.

Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.

"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.

You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."

He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Sure."

"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.

Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.

"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. "What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."

You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."

"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.

You leaned back in your chair.

"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.

He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love iced caramel latte's—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—enjoy playing pickleball with your friends, and are a dog mom to your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."

You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.

"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.

"I-I was hoping that I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.

"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Good. That's... really good."

You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.

"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."

You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"

"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"

You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right? 

She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."

"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."

You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."

"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."

"I guess," you muttered.  

The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.

The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.

"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."

"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."

"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."

You snorted.

"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."

"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.

You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it

"Come home," she would say.

The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.

You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.

Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself

"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.

"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."

You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.

She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."

Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.

You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."

Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."

You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.

"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."

Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"

"You just what?" you pressed.

Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."

You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."

He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"

"Yeah," you shrugged.  "I guess I do."

He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.

"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."

Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.

In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with a guy until he hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.

"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."

You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.

He heard you.

Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.

Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.

"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.

Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.

"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."

Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.

"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."

Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.

"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.

Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.

The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.

The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.

"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.

"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."

Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.

High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.

But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.

Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.

Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.

Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.

There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.

His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.

Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.

You had changed.

The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.

You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.

"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."

"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"

"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.

So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finishing talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.

"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."

He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."

Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?

Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.

"Bottom's up."

You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."

"What happened with your ex?"

You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."

He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."

The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."

"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I however had gotten a great offer from a reputable firm after a million interviews. It was a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."

You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.

"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.

"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. Jack could believe this guy had made you feel like you had to dim your light so he could feel big. What happened to real men being proud as hell watching their girl shine?

"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they are drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.

Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."

You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.

"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."

"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."

You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."

Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.

"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."

He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."

"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.

"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."

He blinked slowly.

"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to try and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."

You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.

"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"

"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."

You snickered.

"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."

Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.  

You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.

Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.

"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.

"No I definitely have. Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.

You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.

"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.

His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"

After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.

But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.

He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.

"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.

He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."

Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.

"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”

"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.

"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."

You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."

Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.

The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.

"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.

Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.

Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.

"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.

Remmy barked in agreement.

Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.

Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.

You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.

"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.

Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.

After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.

It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.

You hadn't seen Jack in a couple of days because of conflicting schedules. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.

"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.

"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."

"I wasn't talking about the food."

You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."

"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."

Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.

"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.

"I'm being honest about my intentions."

"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"

A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.

So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?

"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."

Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"

You were adorable.

"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."

"You weren't boring the other day when you—"

"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."

"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"

"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."

"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"

You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."

"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."

He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.

"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.

"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."

Girlfriend?

You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.

"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."

He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.

"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.

This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)

He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.

After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let the food settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.

Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.

I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.

That said, this absolutely works as a standalone if you prefer to read it that way!

[p1stach-io]

almost home: masterlist (ongoing)

pairing: jack abbot x reader

content: divorce/separation, co-parenting dynamics, language, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, mild injuries, mentions of infertility, mentions of medical procedures/injections, references to therapy and anxiety, unresolved feelings, conflict.

series summary: after seventeen years of marriage, one teenage daughter, and a relationship slowly worn thin by exhaustion and grief, you and your husband finally let each other go.

except divorce doesn’t really mean separation when there’s still school pickups, shared calendars, and a daughter determined to keep both her parents stitched into the same orbit.

almost home - when your daughter gets suspended at school, you end up in the er asking your estranged husband to talk some sense into her. (1.3k)

almost home: two - your daughter’s suspension lands you and jack in a meeting with her school principal. (2.3k)

almost home: three - when you return to work, your colleagues encourage you to move on—using a dating app you already regret downloading. (3.5k)

almost home: four - an uncomfortable conversation threatens to throw the temporary peace you and jack have built away. (3.8k)

almost home: five - months later at chase’s science fair jack finally meets daniel. and the distance between you and him begins to fracture. (4.4k)

almost home: six - when chase is rushed to the er with a severe allergic reaction, you and jack are forced to face the crisis together. (4.1k)

almost home: seven

i was really going to keep this as a one shot but it’s grown beyond that single draft so i’ll give it its own little masterlist. !! thank you all for reading so far 🫀

[loveyoubunchies]

Bitch to Me Briar Masterlist

John Logan x fem!reader

Summary: You were a normal college student. You hang out with friends, went to class, studied during the week and partied at night. The only thing was that on the side you ran the infamous advice social media page ‘Bitch to me Briar’. There you listened and offered wisdom to the students who complained about classes, teachers, food, friendships, but most of all relationships. John Logan is struggling, at least off the ice, having a crush on your best friend’s girlfriend is not for the week. So he takes some desperate measures and sends a message to a certain Instagram account not knowing the owner is someone a lot closer than he thinks.

Warnings/Notes: SLOW BURN, slight angst, fluff, anonymous messaging, lots of miscommunication, idiots in love, shit talking, overall gossipy/shady shit, betrayal, lots of yearning

A/N: It’s kinda like A Cinderella Story but way sillier? Realizing that this was literally a scene in The Mistake but I’m making it my own. This is kinda the first series I'm trying to flush out so please stuck with me. I'm really excited for this and I hope you are all too!

Part 1: I gotta tell you something (posted 6.13)

Part 2: In progress

Part 3: Coming soon

Part 4: Coming soon