➷ summary: after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist.
pt.2 of plowed down
➷ word count: 5919
➷ warnings: cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).
omg also guys thank you so fucking much for the love that i received on plowed down!!! like it was genuinely bonkers waking up to all those notifications, so thank you so much!!!!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You weren’t exactly sure what you had going on with John Logan.
It had been two weeks since you plowed the man down– two weeks since you made out against your apartment door, since you told him you didn’t do casual; that you didn’t do hook-ups.
Two weeks since the guy started practically worshipping the ground you walked on.
You aren’t sure what you did to warrant this; you had quite honestly been playing hard to get after making out with him. Partly because you were maybe a little bit embarrassed by how easily you gave into his charm, but also partly because you knew how guys like John Logan worked. They were athletes who had sex with different girls every few days, who were texting multiple girls at once. Guys like John Logan were players, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when they were honest about it.
But you didn’t like to engage with players more than once, because, again, casual didn’t work for you. It was just something you swore off on in your sophomore year of college because for you, flings and hook-ups came with too much emotional baggage.
It was your own fault, quite honestly.
To you, intimacy was much more than a quick fuck. It always meant more to you. It had to be with someone you trusted, someone you had gotten to know over a certain amount of time. You learned that through a messy situationship, which is what created your personal rules.
That is why you tried to let John Logan down the easy way. With a playful grin, you had whispered the words, “I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
And John Logan had fucking grinned.
Like he understood– like he was on the same page, which you knew he wasn’t.
Or, at least, you thought you knew.
But apparently you didn’t, because after you had said those words, he backed off you, his fingers lingering on your hips. He had still been smiling as he looked at you with gentle eyes and nodded, “Okay. Nothing casual, no hooking up. I can do that.”
“What?”
You blurted out the question, and you’re positive your face revealed how fucking shocked and baffled you were, because John had laughed, the sound warming your chest in the scariest way for a man you had only known for a few hours. He was dangerous, and yet you still felt the urge to dip your fingers into his flames.
He shrugged, and then said, “I can do that.”
“Okay, no.”
“No?”
“No! Isn't it your thing, to like, hook up with girls at parties?”
“I haven’t done that for weeks now–”
“Oh, how tragic,” you drawl, but you’re still smiling despite yourself. You let your hands trail up his arms and to his shoulders. You give them a quick squeeze, and then nod, “Well, this was fun.”
Now he looks baffled.
“So we’re done?”
“I don’t do hook-ups.”
“I won’t either.”
“That’s a lot of commitment for a girl you just met.”
He sighs, and he looks down at you, as if he’s searching your eyes for something, anything– and, you don’t know how, but the motherfucker seems to find what he’s looking for, because he nods, grins, and says, “Can I get your number, then? You should get to know me before you decide to get rid of me completely.”
“We’re following each other on Instagram now.”
“This is different.”
You’re slightly shocked by his words, but you’re watching his face, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk up. But you don’t nod, and you don’t give in. You smile and watch as his eyes glimmer when you respond.
“You’ve gotta earn it, Logan.”
As you said those words, you figured he’d get bored of you within a couple days. Forget about you completely, be a failed sexual encounter in the back of his mind, who he would forget about in a few months time.
Yeah, that absolutely did not happen.
Not even two days later the man somehow found your practice schedule– you had deep suspicion Jade was his source– where he had waited outside for you to finish up, standing on the cold with not even an ounce of exasperation.
“... You waited for me to finish practice?” You question, your practice bag slung over your shoulder. You stared at John Logan, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the Briar gymnasium where your practice was held, hands shoved in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, a happy smile on his face.
“You said if I wanted your number, I’d need to earn it. Here I am, earning it.”
“You’re being serious?” You question, and you look back to your teammates, all of whom had stopped in their tracks, watching the scene with a mixture of expressions. Some shocked, some giddy. The only part of the expressions that stayed consistent was how everyone was smiling from ear to ear.
“Yes.”
You falter– stammer, quite honestly– and you feel like your head is about to explode, because you never expected that John Logan would take you to your word. You stand there for about thirty seconds, baffled into silence, when Louisa finally nudges you in the ribs, knocking your thoughts back into your head.
“I mean, a deal’s a deal,” you say after leaving the poor guy standing in silence for far longer than necessary. You don’t miss the way his face lights up, and you watch as he hurries over to you, digging out his phone from his pocket.
He unlocks it, passing you the phone, and you go to his contacts, creating your own.
You look back up at him, face held with faux seriousness, “What number should I be? Girl thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Number one works.”
You snort, “Number one? Be serious.”
“I am,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m not a total player. Anymore, at least.”
“Mhm,” you nod. “Well, you’re number fourty-seven in my phone, so–”
He snorts at that, a loud laugh escaping him, and his smile is still wide on his face as you hand him his phone back. He looks down at the screen, clicking onto your contact. You’ve written your name and put a little volleyball emoji next to it, which has him looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Just so I won’t get lost in your sea of girls,” you elaborate.
“It’s more like a plastic fair bag now, but okay.”
For whatever reason, that had you seeing hearts because holy shit he was funny. But you compose yourself enough to not tackle him to the floor with a frenzied kiss.
In fact, ever since that encounter, you’ve learned to compose yourself in many ways. Basically whenever you guys hang out. Because, despite wanting to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him every time you guys were together, you had composed yourself with major difficulty. In the two weeks he’d had your number– the two weeks that you guys had been doing random, stupid shit together– you had only made out with John Logan three times. And each time, it had only been making out. Nothing more.
As it turned out, John Logan really was a man of his word. He had no expectations for whatever the fuck was going on between you two. During the three times you two had made out, it had caught him by surprise each time. Not that he wasn’t into it; he was extremely into it. He just hadn’t been expecting any kissing.
You had been the one to initiate it each time, and he was there to happily oblige.
Which, unfortunately for you, only made him hotter.
Still, most of your hangouts would be what many would deem as boring. He’d pick you up from your practice most nights, and then you guys would get food; always your choice, even when you tried to make him choose. You’d sit in his car and talk about whatever– you had even gone on a rant one time on how a block of cheese was technically a loaf of milk, and the guy had nodded along with full seriousness as if you had just said the most logical thing he’d ever heard.
You’d also gone over to his house a few times, gotten to know the teammates that he lives with (his best friends). And their girlfriends, of course. As it turn outs, Allie and Hannah were fun as fuck. The number of times you guys had played Just Dance on the guys’ TV was astronomical for the limited amount of time you’d known the group; you had become fluent with the Rasputin dance. And, God, you didn’t even want to calculate the number of late nights you had stayed at the house, beating the absolute shit out of Tucker and Dean in Mario Kart with Allie.
You swore sometimes you had more fun with John’s friends than him.
You had even told John that to his face once; his response was to give you the most dramatic pout he could muster, which, in turn, caused you to make out with him for the third time. He was smiling after that.
Out of all your hangouts, though, most of them were dedicated to you doing something of importance while he just sat beside you and watched.
Such as right now.
You were in the Briar U library, flipping through one of your textbooks as you took notes for an upcoming midterm. You weren’t all that worried about it since the class was relatively easy, but you still wanted to study. Just in case.
You would’ve been nearly done with studying had a little leech not been bothering you the entire time.
You side-eyed Logan as he flipped through your stack of notecards, watching as he let out a bored breath of air. He then reached over, grabbing your pencil pouch, where he opened it, grabbing an orange sparkly pen from inside.
Instantly, you snatch it from his grip.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” He asks, eyes wide in a playful manner. His boredom was swept away in a matter of seconds, and he straightened up, leaning closer to you.
“That’s my lucky pen, and I swear to everything if you took away its luck with your grubby hands–”
“Grubby?”
“– I will kill you.”
He smiles, something he can’t seem to stop doing around you, and sinks back into his chair. “Fine.”
“Good,” you say, returning to your notes. But not before you lift your eyes to look at him, where you mutter, “Just sit there and look pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Why else would I have kept you around?”
He laughs quietly, “So my looks are all I’m good for?”
“That and your friends.”
“Wow.”
This time it’s you who smiles and you can’t stop yourself as you lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
You’re quick to get back to the task at hand– studying– because if you don’t, you know you’ll see the dopey expression on John’s face. If you see that, you know that three make-out sessions will immediately turn into four. And you know that can’t happen in the middle of a fucking library where people are studying, so you distract yourself instantly, flipping back through the pages of your textbook.
It’s silent for a couple minutes as he watches you, completely content with where he’s at. But he sits up suddenly, seemingly remembering something, and then he says, “You should come over tonight.” His fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as he spoke, his eyes watching your hands as you paused on a page, a flash of confusion corrupting your expression. His eyes soften as a result, “Tucker said he’s trying out a new dish. You’d like it.”
“I can’t,” you respond without much thought, furrowing your brows as you flip back a few pages in your textbooks, and then in your notes. You’re trying to find a specific concept that you remember reading, but for some reason, you can’t find it anywhere; it’s the pure source of your confusion and it will stay that way until you find what you’re looking for. “The fuck?” You mumble, and then you look at John when he lets out a little snort, “Sorry– what’d you say?”
“You should come over,” he repeated, this time with a soft grin as he watched you. His eyes flickered over your face, scanning. It was something he always did when you spoke, like even the tiniest change in your facial expression was a portal to something holy.
“Oh, right,” you nod. You shake your head immediately after. “Can’t.”
“I heard.”
“Sorry,” you apologize, but your tone isn’t very sincere. Not as you flip a few more pages in your textbook, looking for the concept that seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. John doesn’t seem to care, his pretty smile still on full display.
“Why can’t you?”
“Late practice tonight,” you say, and then you turn to look at him, finally smiling at the softness in his eyes. “Y’know, for the championship in a couple days.”
“After, then. Come over. I’ll pick you up.”
“I won’t get out of practice until after 9. I’ve been sloppy with my saves these past few practices, and Coach Peters is really getting worried, so–”
“God, I love it when you talk volleyball to me,” he interrupts, to which you lose your smile and shoot him a harsh look because he knows what that does to you.
It was the reason for the other two times you had made out with him. And, fuck, it was about to be the fourth, because the man was unreasonably hot. You shake your head, deciding to scoot your chair away from his. Your self-restraint is quickly wavering, especially after you glance him over, allowing you to really absorb how good he looks in the sweatshirt he’s wearing. And, watching as you scoot away from him, he lets out a small sigh, scooting his chair closer. You give him a look, and he grins, scooting even closer, the side of his knee pressing against yours. Your eyes turn annoyed, and he innocently asks, “What?”
“You’re distracting me, and you know it,” you answer. “You do this on purpose.”
He hums, “So you’ll come over?”
“Yeah,” you say, as if it was the most obvious answer. When he smiles, you quickly add on, “only for the meal, though.”
“Obviously,” he nods with fake seriousness. “Why else would you?”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“No ideas are coming to mind.”
“Good. Because I’m just coming over to eat.”
“Yep.”
“So no kissing.”
“No kissing?” He whines, completely dramatic and not at all serious. You can see him fighting to keep the smile from his face, “Why not?”
“Keep it in your pants, Logan.”
“Oh, it hasn’t left my pants. My pants have remained perfectly intact, thank you.”
You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand before you piss off the librarian. You shake your head, and you look at him with a level of affection that is far stronger than it should be with how little time you have known the hockey boy.
“You’re insufferable,” you whisper with a big smile.
“I think you love it.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You get out of practice at 9:34 p.m.
It’s later than you had been expecting, and you’re absolutely exhausted as you trudge over to John’s truck. You pull open the passenger side door, and he looks up from his phone with a soft smile as you toss your back to the floor, pulling yourself into your seat with a long sigh.
“You okay?”
“Sleepy,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes before turning your head to look over at him.
“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” He asks, his tone gentle as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You don’t need to come back to mine if you’re too tired. We can hang out another time–”
You shake your head, “No, I’m starving, and all I’ve been imagining for the past two hours is Tucker’s food.”
He laughs softly and nods, “Okay.”
When you finally get to the house that’s situated off campus, John cuts his engine, exits the vehicle, and walks around the front of his truck. He opens the passenger side door before you can even unbuckle, and you smile softly as he reaches over you, unbuckling the seatbelt for you.
“I could’ve done that myself, y’know?” You say, taking the hand that he held out for you. “I’m perfectly capable.”
He gave your hand a short squeeze as you hopped out of his truck, and he nodded, “I know. But you’re tired.”
Your eyes follow as he grabs your practice bag and slings it over his shoulder, using his foot to shut the passenger. His hand remains threaded with yours, and you him softly, “You’re playing gentleman tonight?”
“I’m always a gentleman. Get it straight.”
You laugh softly, giving him a slight nudge with your shoulder as you guys reach the front door. John opens it, and you walk in alongside him, instantly greeted with the delicious smell of whatever the hell Tucker cooked. Your stomach growled as a result, and your hand– still linked with John’s– squeezed his as you tugged him along to the kitchen, where his entire friend group was gathered, hanging out casually as they usually did.
Hannah notices you first, and she smiles softly, “How was practice?”
“Tiring,” you respond, finally releasing John’s hand. You slip into one of the island chairs next to Allie, and you thank Tucker quietly as he slips a bowl of fancy looking pasta in front of you. You grab your fork, twirl some pasta onto the prongs, and bite into it with a satisfied hum, “This is so fucking good, Tuck.”
He grins happily, “Logan said you would like it. It has parsley!”
“It’s delicious,” you nod, taking another bite. And as you do, you feel Logan come up behind you, his arms snaking around your front, his chin resting on the top of your head. You promptly ignore the warm feeling that flutters in your chest, eating more of the amazing pasta dish.
After finishing up the food, you and the rest of the group somehow migrate to the living room. You’re sitting on the couch beside Logan, tucked beneath his arm, your head resting against the crook of his shoulder as you watch Dean and Garrett play the worst game of silent charades that you had ever seen. Allie seemed borderline aggravated as she yelled out words that she thought aligned with the movements of the men only to then be pissed off because ‘Dean, what the fuck even was that?’.
You had to admit, it had been the funniest thing you’d witnessed in awhile.
And, you’re not sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that you’re woken sometime later in the evening by the soft touch of Logan, his eyes gentle as he carefully shifts you awake. You blink your eyes open, only to realize that all the others are heading to bed, and reach over Logan, grabbing his phone from his lap. You tap on the screen, checking the time; 12:17 a.m.
“Want me to drive you home?” He asks, using his thumb to swipe an eyelash from your cheek.
You groan in response.
“No?” He laughs, the hand that’s around your shoulders rubbing up and down your arm.
“Can I just stay here tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
He says the words immediately, and you’re caught entirely off guard as he stands from the couch, scooping you up in his arms with a scary amount of ease. Your eyes widen, arms scrambling to latch around his shoulders as you let out a quiet sound of panic, voice rushed as you breathe out, “John, what the fuck–”
“You’re tired.”
“Yeah, but I can still walk, you idiot. Oh my God, put me down–”
“We’re half way up the stairs and you want me to drop you?”
“If you drop me I’m never speaking to you again.”
He laughs again, this time filled with pure amusement as he continues scaling the stairs with you in his arms. Your arms stay hooked around his shoulders as he walks in the direction of his room, and carefully opens the door, stepping inside. Still, he doesn’t bother to put you down just yet. He holds you as he shuts the door behind him, his grip on you steady while he walks over to his desk, switching on the lamp.
When he finally sets you down, he plops you onto his mattress, not giving you much time before he’s draping himself over you with a satisfied sigh, and you can’t help the smallest giggle that leaves your chest, your hands pressing against his front.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Whoops.”
He makes no attempt to move, and again, you push against his shoulders, “You’re comfy, but I’m still in my volleyball clothes, and I want to change–” You stop suddenly, groaning with dismay.
Instantly, he pushes himself off you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“I have no clothes to change into.”
“Just wear my stuff,” he says, pulling himself from you completely. He stands with a stretch, and you watch as the bottom of his sweatshirt rises just enough for you to see a sliver of his stomach. Fuck, you were going to go feral.
You clear your throat, and clap your hands once, “Then chop chop, hockey boy.”
It only takes him a few seconds to grab you something to wear; he comes up with a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a Briar hockey sweatshirt with the number 22 on the back. As you take the clothing, you raise your eyebrow, “No other sweatshirts?”
“Nope, that’s my only clean one. Sorry.”
And the man’s a fucking liar because behind him, where is closet is just partially open, you can see at least four more regular sweatshirts hanging, completely clean.
“Huh,” you mutter. “You must be blind.”
“That’s the only clean one,” he repeats. “So, better go ahead and change into it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. Standing, you clutch the clothing in your hands, and as you pass him, you press a soft kiss to his lips– which, holy shit, it’s the first time you’ve ever done that as if it were second nature– and you mumble, “You really are insufferable, Logan.”
He hums against your lips, his hand going to your jaw as he presses a couple more soft kisses to you. You can’t help but smile, and you lean back, gazing up at him. You don’t say anything, just run a hand through his hair, and your smile turns giddy as you pull back fully, your bottom lip tucking beneath your teeth as you try to bite back your grin.
You point to the bathroom that’s connected to his room, “I’m gonna go change.”
He nods with a happy smile, responding in that soft voice that you realized he only uses with you, “Okay.”
Once changed, you exit the bathroom, finding John already in his bed, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You walk over to his bed, not saying a thing as you plop down on his mattress, stretching out across his mattress.
“Cozy?” He asks as he turns on his side to face you.
“Yeah. It’d be better if we were cuddling, though.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Not that I expect you to do that, though,” you say the words playfully. “I mean, I’ve never watched you play, but I assume you’re the same on and off the ice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not good at taking the shot, if you get what I mean–”
“Shut up,” he laughs, and he grabs your arm, gently tugging you to him. You grin, getting situated against his body, one of your legs draped across his while your arm rests over his torso, your head settled comfortably on his chest with your ear pressed right over the beating of his heart.
And you stay like this for a while, just until you’re on the brink of falling asleep. But before you can slip into that peaceful state of bliss, a question you had been meaning to ask– a question you had been too nervous to ask– comes to mind.
You’re not able to stop yourself from asking it.
“You wanna come to the championship and watch me play?” You question from where your head is still tucked against his chest, your voice whispers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and against his skin that lies beneath it. “It’s a three hour drive away.”
You feel him let out a soft breath of air, his fingers dancing gently along the fabric of his sweatshirt that covers the dip of your back. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks, coated with a layer of sleepiness, “I want to, and I tried to find tickets, but they’re all sold out. Even Allie tried to find some and she couldn’t, which means I’m shit out of luck.”
“I’ve got tickets,” you say. “My teammates and I each got six tickets. Thought you might want them. You and your friends can go. They’re good seats.”
You can practically feel the frown in John’s expression as he asks quietly, “You’re not gonna give them to your family?”
“No,” You swallow thickly and do your best to keep your eyes shut because you know John’s looking at you now. His fingers stopped trailing along your spine as a result of the change in your tone and your body language, and you sigh against him. Might as well get it out of the way. “I just– I did everything I could to get out of my house as a teenager. To get away from my parents and the rest of my family. I don’t really feel like giving them a straight ticket back into my life, y’know?”
He’s quiet for a second before he nods, speaking softly, “Yeah, I know. I get it.”
“I’ve never had anyone in any of the seats during my games,” you continue. “I just thought it would be kinda nice to have that for once. You don’t need to, though. I know it’s really last minute, and–”
“No, I’ll go,” John interrupts you before you can finish. “We all will. Me and the guys. And Hannah and Allie. The six of us will go.”
“You sure?”
He laughs softly, tiredly, and nods, “Yeah, baby, I’m sure.”
Oh my God, you were going to fucking implode. But you hold in the desperate need to squeal like a dumbass, and instead bite the inside of your cheek to fight against the wide grin that wants to break out on your face.
After composing yourself enough to not make a complete and utter fool of yourself, you nod, and tilt your head up, pressing the softest kiss to his jaw.
He smiles as a result, the smallest shade of pink flushing his cheeks.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m excited.”
“Me too.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
John Logan was your goodluck charm.
The guy had to be, because this was the best fucking game you had ever played in your life. Sure, the first set wasn’t the best for Briar U, but that was okay given you guys were playing against Penn State. The team had won every single game so far this season, so, in short words, they were good as hell. They’d also won the NCAA Championship for the past five years, which was devastatingly nerve wracking knowing you were against the best team D1 volleyball currently had.
Still, tonight, you and your teammates came with a mission; you were going to win.
And, fuck, was it looking promising.
Despite Penn State winning the first set, Briar U had won the other two.
They weren’t wipeouts, but that didn’t matter, because you had won them.
That meant that if you and your teammates somehow managed to win this fourth set, you’d place Briar as the fucking NCAA Women’s Volleyball Champions for the first time in over ten years. It’d be an insane feat, and you had to fight from getting too excited about the possibility, especially because right now, it was looking very likely.
So far, you’ve saved every stray ball, hitting it back to your teammates or over the net with ease. As you played, your smile never left your face. Not even as you dove for the ball, saving it as you slid across the polished wood floor.
That didn’t mean Penn wasn’t doing good, though. Because they absolutely were.
They were playing with a fierceness of a team who wanted this win just as badly as you did; it felt like an even playing field, and while that could be fun, tonight it was terrifying.
Right now, the score was 22 to 23. The set was almost over, and it was in Briar’s favor. If you guys got two more points, you were winning the match. If you won, you’d be the first captain in over ten years to lead Briar to a volleyball victory and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing.
No way did you fight this hard only to lose.
You were hovering near the back of the court, watching as Jade surged forward, tapping the ball over to the right of the court. Instantly, your teammates rallied toward the ball, leaving the left side of the court completely unguarded, and your eyes lingered on the ball, watching as Louisa sprinted forward, feet fast as she jumped up, spiking it over the net.
The middle hitter on the Penn State team hurried forward, blocking the spike with a bump of her arms, and you watched as the ball practically hovered over the net.
Right to the spot that was unguarded.
You’re not sure how you moved as fast as you did– one second, you were at the back right of the court, and the next, you were flying in the upper left, body in the air as you threw yourself forward, your right hand bumping the ball back to your teammates just before it hit the ground on your side of the net.
Your body hit the floor with a thud, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because the moment you had successfully executed the move, your side of the room erupted in loud cheers. It shook the floor as you stood up, and you didn’t waste any time as you sprinted back to the center of the court.
Just in time, too, because the setter of Penn State sent a lethal spike in your direction, and you dropped to a knee, forearms out as the ball bounced from your skin and back over the net. Two saves in a matter of seconds, and you could literally see your coaches losing it from pure happiness in the corner.
You probably looked like a cocky motherfucker, your lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as you shuffled backward, and then dove sideways, saving yet another ball from being spiked into the ground.
And yeah, you were definitely right– John Logan was totally your lucky charm tonight because holy fuck, you were even impressing yourself.
More cheers sounded throughout your side of the room, increasing tenfold as Liliana jumped, spiking the ball down to the back corner of Penn State’s side, earning Briar U their 24th point of the fourth set.
It was an exhilarating sound, and you laughed with pure joy as you ran over to Liliana, the rest of the girls on your side of the court meeting halfway. You huddled with pure glee; one more point, and you guys were winning.
All you needed was one more point.
Leaving the huddle, you guys got back into your positions. You watched as Macey served the ball, starting what would hopefully be the final round of the night.
The Penn girls were quick to rally on the ball; they moved it over the net with ease, and you watched as Jade ran, hitting it back over the net. It went back and forth for a bit, the round intense. It felt like it was purely silent save for the cheers from supporters that erupted when either side had a good save or hit.
You watched as the libero for Penn bump the ball with her wrist, causing it to go over the net. And then you see as the entire team moves away, going near the back of the court, like they knew what the next play was going to be; a spike ball.
Except it wasn’t that at all.
No, it’s the complete opposite, because you’re in the exact spot that you’re meant to be in for this current play. You’re close enough that the ball clearly belongs to you at this moment, and you run up, arms carefully bumping the ball over the net.
It barely catches the top before it topples over to Penn State’s side.
The girls hadn’t been expecting it; they’re unable to move fast enough from where they had migrated to the back of the court with the expectation that Liliana or Louisa were going to spike the ball over the net, a move that had earned you guys many wins this season.
They hadn’t been expecting you to run up and hit the ball with your forearms in such a way that it only just made it over the net.
You watched as the volleyball hit the floor on Penn’s side.
Holy fuck.
You’d scored the winning point.
You can’t even process the fucking thing, because you’re instantly bombarded by your teammates– ones both on and off the court– as they swarm into a pile around you, the deafening cheers of the crowd blocking out the cheers from your own teammates who stood around you.
You guys are jumping up and down, and you’re not even sure when you stop, because one moment you’re celebrating with your teammates and coaches, and the next you’re following after your teammates, running towards the people who had come to watch you in the stands.
And you find him instantly.
John Logan is standing in the front row– because, yes, the seats were great– with his friends next to him, all of them grinning ear to ear as they cheered for you.
Your feet moved like they had a mind of their own; you’re sprinting to John like he’s the only thing you’re even capable of thinking about at the moment, and that’s because he is.
When you finally reach him, you practically leap into John’s arms, your hands threading around the back of his neck with a tight grip, and you have the widest smile on your face as you press your lips firmly against his.
He reciprocates the kiss instantly, hands clutching your waste as he leans down to match your lips.
It’s soft, not anything over the top, but fuck does it have you wanting more.
As you pull away, you stare up at John with an excited spark in your eye.
“So kissing’s a thing we do regularly now?” He asked, the happiest grin you’d ever seen on his face. “That’s okay now?”
“Yeah,” you nod, your grin matching his. “I’d say so.”
And not in the cute, sitcom kind of way people imagined when they watched shows New Girl. It was actually the exact opposite.
It was difficult on the inside and out. When people found out you lived in the hockey house with four Division I athletes, there was no ‘ooh, that must be so fun’ unless it came from some lust filled puck bunny that only had the nastiest of fantasies. To people with actual working brains, more questions always followed their judgmental looks. Thing like ‘why, ‘how long’, ‘are you dating any of them’, ‘is that allowed’. Which you understood, but could only answer with one phrase.
“It’s a long story.”
Because it was! Getting into the intricacies of how you started the schools, and first ever, collage hockey cheer squad was too much: it always sounded like you were bragging about something that you didn’t see as a big deal. Plus, no one wanted to hear about how you despised the concept of bunking with a complete and total stranger for the sake of the college experience, especially when they were doing the same thing.
On the inside of the home, however, living with boys was even more difficult because… well, you actually had to live with them.
Living with boys was hard in a deeply specific, deeply exhausting way no one warned you about.
First, it was because boys were disgusting.
Not always and sometimes not intentionally, but sometimes and for some reason, even maliciously. Like that one time Dean left a condom in the shower because Logan ate his leftovers that Tucker made. You didn’t know if it was a man thing, or a sports thing, but they moved through life with a level of casual recklessness that made you wonder how any of them had survived into adulthood.
And the house itself reflected that.
At first glance, it looked like any off-campus athlete house. Loud with the occasional party, sort of worn-in due to said parties. It also constantly smelled of detergent and sweat.
But there were traces of you.
Your pink throw blankets were draped over the couch because the you always got cold and the boys knew nothing about buying decent blankets themselves. Your Vogue magazines were spread across the coffee table beside their sports journals and empty Gatorade bottles. There were tiny decorative glass bowls full of hair ties and bobby pins sitting in random places throughout the place because you kept losing them.
There was a lemon blossom candle on the kitchen counter that Dean lit it more than you did. He eventually stole it to put in his room for his after shower activities, but the touch was yours nonetheless.
Your shoes by the front door mixed into piles of massive sneakers and hockey bags was a contrasting sight. Your colorful sandals, soft Ugg boots and fuzzy animal house slippers. Your skincare products that lined one side of the downstairs bathroom sink stuck out next to Logan’s beard trimmer that sat threateningly close to your toothbrush.
There was the small pros that you found cute as you passed through, looking at the way your vastly different lives were all intertwined this way. But with the pros, comes the cons. And some cons might be to your doing as well.
There were the packages. God, the packages. The delivery driver knew you by name and you knew his. It was Anthony.
Boxes of PR constantly showed up at the house, to the point where neither them nor you could keep up. PR packages from makeup brands, clothing collaborations from boutiques that used your Instagram for promotion. There were skincare launches, cheer gear, women’s protein bars with aesthetically pleasing packaging because apparently gut health had to not only be gendered for some reason but become your entire personality this semester.
Though you found it stupid, you were doing it for the cheque. And the products worked because Garrett seemed to love them.
Dean once opened the front door and stared at the stack of boxes awaiting outside.
“What the hell is all this?” He asked exasperatedly, looking over at you, who sat in the couch. You glanced up from your laptop, peeking over the couch as if you could see the packages on the porch. “Probably PR.” You shrugged before going back to your screen.
“There are, like, ten boxes here.”
“Yeah.” You muttered, still clicking away on your laptop, not even looking up this time.
“Why?” He questioned, absentmindedly moving to load the boxes of various sizes into the home and sit them by the door. He lifted them up, dressed in nothing out gym shorts and slides, and closed the door with his foot. “I mean, who needs this much stuff? What even if half of this?”
You let out a small sigh, leaning back in the couch as you looked up at the blonde man. “What can I say Dean, the brands love me.” You shrugged with a cocky smirk before chuckling.
Dean scoffed and cut his eyes towards Garrett. “I picked the wrong career.”
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Living with boys also meant your things slowly stopped becoming just yours.
Your blankets became communal blankets that barely covered you since you had to share with Logan’s huge body. Your expensive vanilla syrup for coffee was now used in Tuckers cocktail recipes. The fridge you so carefully organized slowly became demented into disarray as if it was ravaged by some beast, especially because Tucker cooked like a suburban mother feeding a family of seven.
Every Sunday, Tucker stood in the kitchen for hours meal prepping while music played low through a speaker. He moved around the kitchen with efficiency, his broad shoulders hovering over simmering pots. The place was warm as something baked in the oven and the entire home just smelled great when Tucker cooked.
The feeling almost made up for the rest of the boys existing.
Almost.
You had your own section in the fridge. Well, you were supposed to.
Tucker, the cute gentleman that he is and was raised to be, respected it. The others did not.
Your shelf was painfully recognizable compared to theirs. You had your glass jars filled with matcha or chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding. There was your coconut water, almond milk, and lemonade alongside your fresh fruit and sweet streets. In the door was your wellness shots that tasted like shit. And last but not least, your coconut cult probiotic yogurt.
Garrett liked called your grocery hauls ‘rich girl rabbit food’, which was ironic considering he ate enough food in a day to feed a small village. But you knew it was just a joke, especially since he’s seen your late night door dash orders.
Still, you bought those things for a reason. Whether it was your skin, your stomach health, your energy levels. It all went into your focus for cheer, which was important to you.
Being captain of the cheer team meant constant appearances, performances, uniforms, cameras, and social media posts. You couldn’t survive off frozen pizza and energy drinks, as much as you wanted to, the way the some boys somehow did. Trust though, you did indulge yourself whenever you seen fit.
Unfortunately, the boys viewed your food as fascinating, like zoo animals discovering their enrichment toys.
One afternoon, after your morning yoga session in the attic, you padded downstairs in green leggings and an oversized Briar U sweatshirt, water bottle dangling from your hand.
The house was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet for your liking, which caused you to narrow your eyes immediately.
You rounded the corner before turning into the kitchen, and that’s when you spotted them.
Dean and Garrett were standing in front of the open fridge, spoons in hand and substance in their mouths. They seemed to enjoy whatever they were eating, humming in content.
You furrowed your brows before your eyes dropped to the jar in Deans hands. He was holding your yogurt. Your Coconut Cult yogurt.
Dean was actively eating from the jar while Garrett slightly grimaced through another spoonful, mildly enjoying its taste.
You froze at threshold of the kitchen, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “Oh my God.” You said, hands coming up to cover your mouth.
Both boys looked up at you, frozen like they were caught red handed. Which they were.
Dean swallowed. “Hey.” The words got clogged in his throat, trying to speak and swallow what he thought was a dessert.
“That jar is forty dollars worth of yogurt.” You snipped, eyes bouncing between them.
Garrett blinked. “Forty—”
“You ate my Coconut Cult?!”
Dean frowned down at the small jar. “It’s yogurt.” He scoffed. “And it definitely shouldn’t be forty bucks.”
“It’s probiotic yogurt!”
Garrett took another bite and immediately regretted it. “Is that why it has that weird aftertaste?”
“Yes!”
“So you buy this spoiled tasting yogurt on purpose?”
You marched across the kitchen in disbelief, snatching the jar from Dean’s hand like a mother catching teenagers with alcohol. “I eat this for my gut health, you idiots! You know I’m lactose intolerant!”
Dean leaned against the counter lazily. “Okay, we’ll owe you.” He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t know the chocolate moose yogurt was special and forty fucking dollars.” He chuckled in disbelief.
“Like you can’t afford it.” Garett mumbled.
“You two are going to regret this later.” You hissed, throwing the jar and what’s left over, in the trash. It’s not like you could use the rest anyway with the way they were digging back and forth into the probiotic.
Garrett scoffed. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He questioned, watching as you rounded the counter to walk away from them.
You paused, turning to stare at them for a long moment.
Then you slowly smiled. “You’ll see.” You grinned before making your way back upstairs, confused in what you can down for in the first place.
Tucker walked in halfway through the silence you left, carrying grocery bags. His eyes moved between the two boys, who was left frozen in your wake.
“What happened?”
“They ate her Coconut Cult,” Logan called from the living room, where he was playing a Mario Kart on the television.
Tucker let out a small chuckle in disbelief as she placed the bags in the counter. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, you idiots.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“That stuff has like a billion probiotics in it.”
Garrett’s face slowly changed while Dean still didn’t seem to get the point yet.
“And that means?” He questioned, eyeing the pair in the kitchen.
“Oh no.” Garrett mumbled, placing his head in his hand, holding himself up in the kitchen island. Dean eyed him, while Tucker chuckled in amusement.
“Bro, what? Come on, tell me.” The blonde urged.
“If you took more than a spoonful of that, you’re gonna shit your brains out.” Tucker smiled, moving around them to load the fridge full of food.
Deans face dropped as Logan’s chuckles echoed into the kitchen.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Then there’s the bathroom situation, which somehow managed to be even worse than the food situation.
Because the attic that you lived in only had a tiny half-bath. Just a toilet and sink squeezed beneath slanted ceilings. Meaning for showers, you had to use the downstairs bathroom. The shared house bathroom.
The one that you shared with four hockey players.
There were not enough candles or cleaning products in the world to emotionally prepare someone for sharing a bathroom with men.
You cleaned constantly.
Constantly.
You wiped the counters, refolded towels, reorganized the cabinet products, cleaned the floors. Anything to aid in stopping the place from delving into a yuck fest within hours.
One time Logan left a pair of compression undershorts hanging from the shower rod for three days.
Three. Days.
“You guys live like rats.” You complained, thudding down the stairs, gloves still on from scrubbing the bathroom counter. It was dark out, the soft sound of rain pelting the windows. “Logan, I’m throwing these shorts away.” You deadpanned, only gaining a shrug in response from the man.
Dean lounged against the archway of the living room, eating cereal straight from the box. “And yet you stay.” He grinned, eyes in the tv, where some rival team shame tape played.
“Unfortunately, I’ve grown attached.” You muttered, walking over to the kitchen trash can to rid yourself of the rubber gloves.
“Aww, to us?” Logan questioned with a smile, glancing over from the living room couch.
“To Tucker’s cooking.” You quipped, flashing him a large beam. His smile dropped, causing you to chuckle as you leaned against the wall opposite to Dean.
Speaking of, he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “How cruel, puck princess.” He chuffed, which instantly wiped the smile from your face. You reached over, slapping his arm.
“I told you about that name.” You said through clinched teeth. All while Dean just laughed, showing all of his pearly whites.
“Well, you hurt my feelings.” He shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
The problem with sharing a bathroom, though, was the complete destruction of privacy.
There was absolutely none. People, roommates and strangers alike, barged in constantly because apparently locks meant nothing nowadays. You were never in the habit of locking the bathroom door before you moved in with these people.
One night after practice, steam from the shower you just took was still clinging to your skin and you stood at the sink brushing your teeth while wrapped in your fluffy pink towel.
Dean stood beside you, half his faced covered in shaving cream and his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips while music played softly from his phone on the counter.
It was oddly domestic, but the usual after a few years living together. It was now your norm to do such things. And everything was fine, same as always.
Until you opened the drawer looking for floss. There, sitting very obviously amongst your hair ties and face masks was a hot pink vibrator.
You paused mid-brush, brows furrowed.
Dean noticed you stopping immediately, the chill vibe shifting to something else.
His eyes followed yours downward, and once they were placed onto what caught your attention, they widened in horror.
Painfully slowly, what you could see of his face started turning red.
You looked at him the same time he looked at you. I enter of you spoke for a while, just staring at each other like you were both caught in the middle of some compromising position.
Then the bathroom door opened and Tucker stepped inside holding folded towels before stopping dead in his tracks.
His eyes darted between the two of you, faces red and frozen in your half dressed states. He then glanced at the drawer, seeing the item, and then back up at you two.
A long silence followed, and his innocent stare gave nothing away.
Finally, Dean pointed aggressively.
“That’s not mine.” You both said at the same time.
“At all,” You added quickly.
Tucker blinked twice before he simply backed out of the bathrooms towels still in hand.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you two in silence again, though this time more charged than before.
You then burst into laughter, so hard toothpaste nearly came out of your nose. That broke the tension between you two, causing Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his half shaven face while still blushing violently. “Oh my God.”
Living with boys is hard. It’s exhausting and loud and invasive. It was a feat that meant never knowing peace.
But sometimes it also meant coming downstairs at two in the morning unable to sleep and finding Tucker making grilled cheese in the kitchen.
It meant Garrett silently carrying your PR packages upstairs because he knew they were heavy. Or Logan shoving vitamins toward you after practice because you “forgot your weird supplements this morning.”
And sometimes it meant Dean falling asleep on the couch under one of your pink blankets while a face mask on and a leopard print headband that sat on his forehead because you convinced him to do skincare with you.
The house was chaotic and messy. Sometimes a bit overcrowded. But somewhere between it all, it became home.
Oh wow, this post got so much love. This is absolutely crazy!!!! Thank you to all who liked and commented, I really do appreciate it and trust, I listen to all your words! Part two will be coming soon!!!!
And not in the cute, sitcom kind of way people imagined when they watched shows New Girl. It was actually the exact opposite.
It was difficult on the inside and out. When people found out you lived in the hockey house with four Division I athletes, there was no ‘ooh, that must be so fun’ unless it came from some lust filled puck bunny that only had the nastiest of fantasies. To people with actual working brains, more questions always followed their judgmental looks. Thing like ‘why, ‘how long’, ‘are you dating any of them’, ‘is that allowed’. Which you understood, but could only answer with one phrase.
“It’s a long story.”
Because it was! Getting into the intricacies of how you started the schools, and first ever, collage hockey cheer squad was too much: it always sounded like you were bragging about something that you didn’t see as a big deal. Plus, no one wanted to hear about how you despised the concept of bunking with a complete and total stranger for the sake of the college experience, especially when they were doing the same thing.
On the inside of the home, however, living with boys was even more difficult because… well, you actually had to live with them.
Living with boys was hard in a deeply specific, deeply exhausting way no one warned you about.
First, it was because boys were disgusting.
Not always and sometimes not intentionally, but sometimes and for some reason, even maliciously. Like that one time Dean left a condom in the shower because Logan ate his leftovers that Tucker made. You didn’t know if it was a man thing, or a sports thing, but they moved through life with a level of casual recklessness that made you wonder how any of them had survived into adulthood.
And the house itself reflected that.
At first glance, it looked like any off-campus athlete house. Loud with the occasional party, sort of worn-in due to said parties. It also constantly smelled of detergent and sweat.
But there were traces of you.
Your pink throw blankets were draped over the couch because the you always got cold and the boys knew nothing about buying decent blankets themselves. Your Vogue magazines were spread across the coffee table beside their sports journals and empty Gatorade bottles. There were tiny decorative glass bowls full of hair ties and bobby pins sitting in random places throughout the place because you kept losing them.
There was a lemon blossom candle on the kitchen counter that Dean lit it more than you did. He eventually stole it to put in his room for his after shower activities, but the touch was yours nonetheless.
Your shoes by the front door mixed into piles of massive sneakers and hockey bags was a contrasting sight. Your colorful sandals, soft Ugg boots and fuzzy animal house slippers. Your skincare products that lined one side of the downstairs bathroom sink stuck out next to Logan’s beard trimmer that sat threateningly close to your toothbrush.
There was the small pros that you found cute as you passed through, looking at the way your vastly different lives were all intertwined this way. But with the pros, comes the cons. And some cons might be to your doing as well.
There were the packages. God, the packages. The delivery driver knew you by name and you knew his. It was Anthony.
Boxes of PR constantly showed up at the house, to the point where neither them nor you could keep up. PR packages from makeup brands, clothing collaborations from boutiques that used your Instagram for promotion. There were skincare launches, cheer gear, women’s protein bars with aesthetically pleasing packaging because apparently gut health had to not only be gendered for some reason but become your entire personality this semester.
Though you found it stupid, you were doing it for the cheque. And the products worked because Garrett seemed to love them.
Dean once opened the front door and stared at the stack of boxes awaiting outside.
“What the hell is all this?” He asked exasperatedly, looking over at you, who sat in the couch. You glanced up from your laptop, peeking over the couch as if you could see the packages on the porch. “Probably PR.” You shrugged before going back to your screen.
“There are, like, ten boxes here.”
“Yeah.” You muttered, still clicking away on your laptop, not even looking up this time.
“Why?” He questioned, absentmindedly moving to load the boxes of various sizes into the home and sit them by the door. He lifted them up, dressed in nothing out gym shorts and slides, and closed the door with his foot. “I mean, who needs this much stuff? What even if half of this?”
You let out a small sigh, leaning back in the couch as you looked up at the blonde man. “What can I say Dean, the brands love me.” You shrugged with a cocky smirk before chuckling.
Dean scoffed and cut his eyes towards Garrett. “I picked the wrong career.”
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Living with boys also meant your things slowly stopped becoming just yours.
Your blankets became communal blankets that barely covered you since you had to share with Logan’s huge body. Your expensive vanilla syrup for coffee was now used in Tuckers cocktail recipes. The fridge you so carefully organized slowly became demented into disarray as if it was ravaged by some beast, especially because Tucker cooked like a suburban mother feeding a family of seven.
Every Sunday, Tucker stood in the kitchen for hours meal prepping while music played low through a speaker. He moved around the kitchen with efficiency, his broad shoulders hovering over simmering pots. The place was warm as something baked in the oven and the entire home just smelled great when Tucker cooked.
The feeling almost made up for the rest of the boys existing.
Almost.
You had your own section in the fridge. Well, you were supposed to.
Tucker, the cute gentleman that he is and was raised to be, respected it. The others did not.
Your shelf was painfully recognizable compared to theirs. You had your glass jars filled with matcha or chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding. There was your coconut water, almond milk, and lemonade alongside your fresh fruit and sweet streets. In the door was your wellness shots that tasted like shit. And last but not least, your coconut cult probiotic yogurt.
Garrett liked called your grocery hauls ‘rich girl rabbit food’, which was ironic considering he ate enough food in a day to feed a small village. But you knew it was just a joke, especially since he’s seen your late night door dash orders.
Still, you bought those things for a reason. Whether it was your skin, your stomach health, your energy levels. It all went into your focus for cheer, which was important to you.
Being captain of the cheer team meant constant appearances, performances, uniforms, cameras, and social media posts. You couldn’t survive off frozen pizza and energy drinks, as much as you wanted to, the way the some boys somehow did. Trust though, you did indulge yourself whenever you seen fit.
Unfortunately, the boys viewed your food as fascinating, like zoo animals discovering their enrichment toys.
One afternoon, after your morning yoga session in the attic, you padded downstairs in green leggings and an oversized Briar U sweatshirt, water bottle dangling from your hand.
The house was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet for your liking, which caused you to narrow your eyes immediately.
You rounded the corner before turning into the kitchen, and that’s when you spotted them.
Dean and Garrett were standing in front of the open fridge, spoons in hand and substance in their mouths. They seemed to enjoy whatever they were eating, humming in content.
You furrowed your brows before your eyes dropped to the jar in Deans hands. He was holding your yogurt. Your Coconut Cult yogurt.
Dean was actively eating from the jar while Garrett slightly grimaced through another spoonful, mildly enjoying its taste.
You froze at threshold of the kitchen, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “Oh my God.” You said, hands coming up to cover your mouth.
Both boys looked up at you, frozen like they were caught red handed. Which they were.
Dean swallowed. “Hey.” The words got clogged in his throat, trying to speak and swallow what he thought was a dessert.
“That jar is forty dollars worth of yogurt.” You snipped, eyes bouncing between them.
Garrett blinked. “Forty—”
“You ate my Coconut Cult?!”
Dean frowned down at the small jar. “It’s yogurt.” He scoffed. “And it definitely shouldn’t be forty bucks.”
“It’s probiotic yogurt!”
Garrett took another bite and immediately regretted it. “Is that why it has that weird aftertaste?”
“Yes!”
“So you buy this spoiled tasting yogurt on purpose?”
You marched across the kitchen in disbelief, snatching the jar from Dean’s hand like a mother catching teenagers with alcohol. “I eat this for my gut health, you idiots! You know I’m lactose intolerant!”
Dean leaned against the counter lazily. “Okay, we’ll owe you.” He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t know the chocolate moose yogurt was special and forty fucking dollars.” He chuckled in disbelief.
“Like you can’t afford it.” Garett mumbled.
“You two are going to regret this later.” You hissed, throwing the jar and what’s left over, in the trash. It’s not like you could use the rest anyway with the way they were digging back and forth into the probiotic.
Garrett scoffed. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He questioned, watching as you rounded the counter to walk away from them.
You paused, turning to stare at them for a long moment.
Then you slowly smiled. “You’ll see.” You grinned before making your way back upstairs, confused in what you can down for in the first place.
Tucker walked in halfway through the silence you left, carrying grocery bags. His eyes moved between the two boys, who was left frozen in your wake.
“What happened?”
“They ate her Coconut Cult,” Logan called from the living room, where he was playing a Mario Kart on the television.
Tucker let out a small chuckle in disbelief as she placed the bags in the counter. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, you idiots.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“That stuff has like a billion probiotics in it.”
Garrett’s face slowly changed while Dean still didn’t seem to get the point yet.
“And that means?” He questioned, eyeing the pair in the kitchen.
“Oh no.” Garrett mumbled, placing his head in his hand, holding himself up in the kitchen island. Dean eyed him, while Tucker chuckled in amusement.
“Bro, what? Come on, tell me.” The blonde urged.
“If you took more than a spoonful of that, you’re gonna shit your brains out.” Tucker smiled, moving around them to load the fridge full of food.
Deans face dropped as Logan’s chuckles echoed into the kitchen.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Then there’s the bathroom situation, which somehow managed to be even worse than the food situation.
Because the attic that you lived in only had a tiny half-bath. Just a toilet and sink squeezed beneath slanted ceilings. Meaning for showers, you had to use the downstairs bathroom. The shared house bathroom.
The one that you shared with four hockey players.
There were not enough candles or cleaning products in the world to emotionally prepare someone for sharing a bathroom with men.
You cleaned constantly.
Constantly.
You wiped the counters, refolded towels, reorganized the cabinet products, cleaned the floors. Anything to aid in stopping the place from delving into a yuck fest within hours.
One time Logan left a pair of compression undershorts hanging from the shower rod for three days.
Three. Days.
“You guys live like rats.” You complained, thudding down the stairs, gloves still on from scrubbing the bathroom counter. It was dark out, the soft sound of rain pelting the windows. “Logan, I’m throwing these shorts away.” You deadpanned, only gaining a shrug in response from the man.
Dean lounged against the archway of the living room, eating cereal straight from the box. “And yet you stay.” He grinned, eyes in the tv, where some rival team shame tape played.
“Unfortunately, I’ve grown attached.” You muttered, walking over to the kitchen trash can to rid yourself of the rubber gloves.
“Aww, to us?” Logan questioned with a smile, glancing over from the living room couch.
“To Tucker’s cooking.” You quipped, flashing him a large beam. His smile dropped, causing you to chuckle as you leaned against the wall opposite to Dean.
Speaking of, he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “How cruel, puck princess.” He chuffed, which instantly wiped the smile from your face. You reached over, slapping his arm.
“I told you about that name.” You said through clinched teeth. All while Dean just laughed, showing all of his pearly whites.
“Well, you hurt my feelings.” He shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
The problem with sharing a bathroom, though, was the complete destruction of privacy.
There was absolutely none. People, roommates and strangers alike, barged in constantly because apparently locks meant nothing nowadays. You were never in the habit of locking the bathroom door before you moved in with these people.
One night after practice, steam from the shower you just took was still clinging to your skin and you stood at the sink brushing your teeth while wrapped in your fluffy pink towel.
Dean stood beside you, half his faced covered in shaving cream and his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips while music played softly from his phone on the counter.
It was oddly domestic, but the usual after a few years living together. It was now your norm to do such things. And everything was fine, same as always.
Until you opened the drawer looking for floss. There, sitting very obviously amongst your hair ties and face masks was a hot pink vibrator.
You paused mid-brush, brows furrowed.
Dean noticed you stopping immediately, the chill vibe shifting to something else.
His eyes followed yours downward, and once they were placed onto what caught your attention, they widened in horror.
Painfully slowly, what you could see of his face started turning red.
You looked at him the same time he looked at you. I enter of you spoke for a while, just staring at each other like you were both caught in the middle of some compromising position.
Then the bathroom door opened and Tucker stepped inside holding folded towels before stopping dead in his tracks.
His eyes darted between the two of you, faces red and frozen in your half dressed states. He then glanced at the drawer, seeing the item, and then back up at you two.
A long silence followed, and his innocent stare gave nothing away.
Finally, Dean pointed aggressively.
“That’s not mine.” You both said at the same time.
“At all,” You added quickly.
Tucker blinked twice before he simply backed out of the bathrooms towels still in hand.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you two in silence again, though this time more charged than before.
You then burst into laughter, so hard toothpaste nearly came out of your nose. That broke the tension between you two, causing Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his half shaven face while still blushing violently. “Oh my God.”
Living with boys is hard. It’s exhausting and loud and invasive. It was a feat that meant never knowing peace.
But sometimes it also meant coming downstairs at two in the morning unable to sleep and finding Tucker making grilled cheese in the kitchen.
It meant Garrett silently carrying your PR packages upstairs because he knew they were heavy. Or Logan shoving vitamins toward you after practice because you “forgot your weird supplements this morning.”
And sometimes it meant Dean falling asleep on the couch under one of your pink blankets while a face mask on and a leopard print headband that sat on his forehead because you convinced him to do skincare with you.
The house was chaotic and messy. Sometimes a bit overcrowded. But somewhere between it all, it became home.
It painted everything in a sickly, artificial glow that changed colors to whatever video you watched next. Covering your face, your hands, and the tangled mess of blankets you hadn’t bothered to fold in days. In your dark bedroom, time had started to lose itself, collapsing into a loop of scrolling, swiping, and scrolling and swiping.
You didn’t even realize how long you’d been doing it.
Just that your thumb had developed a rhythm of up, up, up—like if you moved fast enough, you could outrun whatever it was that kept tightening in your chest.
“Did ____ and Tyriq break up?”
Swipe.
“Who is this girl Tyriq was just seen with?”
Swipe.
“I thought he was with—”
Swipe.
That’s all you’ve been doing for the past three days. For three days, you had not really existed outside this very room. Just swiping away on your phone, ignoring anything that had to do with your reality as you shrouded in yourself in the dark confines of your room.
You ate when you remembered to, slept when your body forced you. Ignored the calls from people who were concerned and would’ve known exactly what to say if you had the energy to answer their call. Even your phone had started to feel like something foreign in your dull existence, like it belonged to someone else and you were just holding it for them, swiping away.
Still, you kept scrolling.
Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering.
And the last thing you wanted was the shape of him in your mind again.
But it was as if the internet was playing against you today, doing anything in its power to get you to acknowledge the situation that’s been aching your heart, and quite frankly giving you a headache from so much crying. Every swipe after the other, it was news about you or something adjacent of the matter.
Now his face appeared in every other post, beside someone new. Framed in pap-walks that you knew weren’t accidental, given that you’ve had your fare share of staged photo shoots. But it didn’t matter whether the photos were real or staged anymore. The story the two of you once had was over now.
The names began to blur together after a while. Yours, his, hers. You didn’t even flinch anymore when you saw your own name.
“Ya know, I’m not one to usually comment on situations like this, but I do find this whole ____ thing pretty fucked up.” You swore you weren’t going to indulge in anything that dealt with this situation, anything that had to do with you, but for some reason, this was the one video you couldn’t swipe away from.
The video was on TikTok, of a brunette with blue eyes that shown through her square glasses and long nails that matched the light color of her eyes. She wore a hoodie that you could barely see since the video was mainly of her face, but when she sifted slightly, you recognized it as merch from your groups tour almost three years ago. A small detail that brought a sliver of a smile to your face.
“She has always been pretty private when it comes to her relationships.” The girl said, voice steady, almost annoyed. “So for her first public relationship to end with him cheating or doing whatever the fuck we’re seeing right now, I think it’s genuinely fucked up.”
Your throat tightened slightly at the word cheating, even though you had not said it out loud yourself. It felt too real to do so. It was all too much, everything was still so fresh.
“I mean,” The girl continued. “We wouldn’t even know who this guy was if it wasn’t for h His football career hasn’t been doing much, his acting isn’t really landing either. And now, literally out of nowhere on a random ass Tuesday, suddenly he’s everywhere with someone else right before his new show drops? Oh, how convenient.” She said sharply.
It was at one point that you were so invested, you ended up sitting up in your bed, back against your headboard as you thought about the things she was saying. Things you’d never think to say on your own.
Something in your chest pulled tight as everything clicked, clarity washing over you as the video continued.
“And I know those photos are staged. You wanna known how I know they’re staged photos?” The woman spoke, her hands moving animatedly, her long nails making a satisfying clicking sound as they clashed together. “Tyriq has never had a paparazzi appearance before he got with ____. Ever! You probably cant even find a photo of Tyriq with ____ not there. And now he gets one without her for the first time and it’s with some influencer? Ugh, I can’t even! I missed when ____ had dating allegations with that guy from BTS. I don’t know, at least someone on her level.”
The video ended after that, going on to start from the beginning again, but your head was clogged to the repetition as you became encoded with rage.
She was right. @thegurlsarefighting was right! Everything she said were things you didn’t even begin to think of before. Why would you, you genuinely liked Tyriq, and him being of lesser status did nothing to negate that. Only people obsessed with fame thought of things like that, you liked who you liked.
You had lived inside the situation, inside the feeling of what you thought was love. Not on the outside of it where these patterns became visible and ugly in hindsight.
It just turned out to be with the wrong guy.
Your grip on the phone loosened slightly. The video kept playing, looping itself now, but you weren’t really listening anymore. Your eyes had gone unfocused, staring past the screen instead of into it.
Suddenly you were remembering things you hadn’t allowed yourself to arrange in your mind properly. The game visits, red carpet, concert photos, award shows.
The certain moments that had felt curated even when you had told yourself they weren’t when they were posted to social media for the world to spectate on.
And the way, somehow, you had still believed in it.
Maybe because you were naive. Or maybe because you wanted it to be real enough not to question. And after two weeks, you still didn’t know.
Your thumb finally moved, but instead of swiping away, it tapped the comments out of instinct.
You expected to be flooded with voices that hit you, voices that did not belong to you but were speaking as if they did. As a performing artist, you were used to such occasion. People dissecting a life you had been living just days ago. Laughing, arguing, defending, speculating. Turning something so personal to you into some consumable moment.
At first it made your chest burn, causing you to gulp. But you were slightly surprised you weren’t the problem they were talking about. He was, but that realization didn’t arrive gently.
7,442 comments
@ randomuser - no because let’s talk out it! who the fuck even is he? ㅤ| 24.8k ♡
⤷ @thegurlsarefighting - I literally didn’t even know he played football until I got a boyfriend he said he was trash | 20.2k ♡
⤷ @ randomuser404 - I watch football with my dad, we both think he sucks. | 12.3k ♡
@____biggestfan - And whether anyone wants to admit it or not, he used her for clout. Mind you, we only know about them because their relationship was leaked when his homeboy “accidentally” posted them on his story for his birthday….why is your friend posting couple pictures of you on YOUR birthday? | 18.4k ♡
⤷ @yourgirlgroupisthebest - and I’ve always found that weird because it was obviously a secret for a reason before that. | 18.3k ♡
⤷ @____biggestfan - no same! they were supposedly dating for almost a year before that was posted. obviously she wanted to keep things hush!
@beenthatbih - good, now I can finally say that he was ugly. | 16k ♡
⤷ @random808 - omfg 😭😭 | 200 ♡
@ tashiduncan - and honestly, that girls weird too, idc | 400 ♡
⤷ @thegurlsarefighting - hold on now, we don’t know the full story and I can’t support hate against a woman. so far, she’s done nothing wrong. | 213 ♡
⤷ @ tashiduncan - but I can! | 44 ♡
⤷ @thegurlsarefighting - Oh! | 104 ♡
@ btsfangirl - omg, the ____ and Namjoon days 🚬…. haven’t heard of that era in ages…27.2k ♡
⤷ @thegurlsarefighting - I’ve always wanted to know their lore but I’m not a bts fan 💀| 12k ♡
⤷ @ btsfangirl oh it’s so interesting and messy and I love it! | 11.1k ♡
@_____number1defender - Tyriq will begin to cough in three days! | 21k ♡
⤷ @thegurlsarefighting - and he will never get that Super Bowl ring, yup!!! | 17k ♡
@ladyofthenight - Namjoon could do the funniest thing rn 😭 | 23k ♡
@shipname - oh this is my time to shine! let me go dm namjoon | 19.8k ♡
⤷ @groupnamexbts - knowing him, he’ll reply 😭
@ fantasyreader - ugh, I feel so bad for my girl because I know she’s a freaky lover type but I also know that the music is about to EAT! 13k ♡
⤷ @____biggestfan - same 😔
@ letsgogaming - hate this for her, LOVE this for me! 😜
⤷ @ handsomerandom - oh bay you’re so weird…
It came all at once, snapping into place within your mind.
Your phone slipped slightly in your hand as you sat there, staring at nothing now. The video had restarted again automatically, but you didn’t hear it. The room felt too quiet even with it playing.
For the first time in days, your thoughts weren’t looping the events of your three year relationship. Of all the cute moments mixed with the arguments. Of the worries and insecurities you had within your relationship. The breakup that happened two weeks ago. The picture that went viral of the man you loved moving on.
Your mind was clear of those thoughts, and it was now full of rage.
The anger that festered within you didn’t feel like some chaotic storm when it came. It was unlike anything you ever felt, taking over you to the point where you felt like you weren’t thinking straight.
You inhaled slowly, then exhaled sharply through your nose. Sitting up more on your bed, your mind was frantic as your thumbs swiped out of the app, ceasing any sound as you moved to another app.
You opened instagram, not paying attention to whatever was on your home feed before opening the camera app and taking a picture of the dark room. It looked almost unfamiliar through the lens, dark and still with the city lights peaking through the corners of the curtains. You then began to type, nails clicking against the screen in rapid fashion as you poured your feeing into one simple message.
Your group mates would be so proud. You weren’t typically the one to speak your mind. You always bottled your feelings and let the music to do all of the speaking. But not everyone listens and sometimes you needed to be direct and put your foot down.
And maybe stir some shit up.
You posted it, blinking at your screen for a few seconds before you set the phone face down.
The silence returned immediately, oddly tense as you just sat that. But there was a weight that’d been lifted from you, and the sound didn’t feel like such a void of emptiness this time.
┈┈ ⟡ ݁₊ .
Hours passed in fragments after that.
The television flickered in the background, ‘American Dad’ filling the room with the occasional sound of your soft chuckles. Time moved on, your notifications off as your phone blew up after your story was posted.
But then it vibrated.
You ignored it at first, thinking it was a notification that had gotten through the array of others you bet were coming through. Or maybe it was one of your members who were trying their best to talk to you again after many days of silence on your end. Or even just an alert from another app.
Then there was another, which made you furrow your bros.
Reluctantly, you reached for the phone, expecting nothing new. Thinking it was going to be just another notification that would make your out your phone back down and drown yourself in whatever’s playing on your screen.
But the name on the screen pulled everything in your chest tight in a way you hadn’t prepared for. You started at it, blinking once before your eyes widened. Your mouth then gaped slightly, going dry instantly as you sat up from your curled position.
주니.
There was one message under his name. And it was yours.
‘____’
All he sent was your name.
You stared at it for a long moment, genuinely surprised. After everything that’d been going on for, you would say, the past month, not once did you expect to be hearing from him again.
Namjoon.
The name made your stomach flutter from just thinking it. The image of him still sweet as ever in your mind, fresh with the last memory you had together. There wasn’t a detail you didn’t remember as you pictured him saying the words he typed to you. Your name falling off of his lips, and that dimples smile that always followed afterwards.
Even in the middle of everything falling apart, there were still things that knew exactly where to find you. And he would always be one of them.
You pressed the message, knowing the read receipts notified him of your presence within the chat.
Your heart thumped in your chest as your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Your tongue peaked out to lick at your dry lips, mouth still open in shock as contemplated your next move.
Taking in a short breath, you moved your fingers before hitting send.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 - ongoing
23.2k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: domestic Jack; DAD!JACK; shy reader; discussions of loss of spouse; crying; anxiety; grief; visiting a grave; guilt; shame; self-hate; DUI mention; DUI victim death discussed; suicidal ideation; discussion of suicide; the roof; doves; daisies; discussion of sex; thoughts of oral sex; thoughts of PIV sex; Jack gets hard; fluff; snuggles and cuddles!!!!!!; no use of Y/N or related.
Summary: Sleeping together for the first time, sex, a question, a daisy, the roof, and a river. In that order. Or, your relationship deepens and strengthens as you and Jack continue to be there for each other unconditionally and figure it out and learn how to laugh through some of the pain together.
AN: Twenty years later they're back. I'm so sorry, I know I'm the worst. 😭 I just have so many things I want to do and writing these two can take a lot out of me really fast so it was hard to juggle finishing NML or SH and writing for them. And by the time I finished SH I needed a break from series writing. I know I don't have to explain but yes I do lol. I know I said I was going to try to make the parts shorter and I tried (and failed), so I’m sorry? I can never tell if longer is worse or okay or if it doesn't matter. I fear this may not have been worth the wait. 😕 There's less with reader's son in this Part, but that just kind of happened. Anyway, I'm sorry again, I hope it's at least okay and was somewhat-ish worth the wait and you enjoy! Thank you so much for your support and for reading!! ♥️
Jack's quiet for a second as your question processes.
"I…" He lets out a breathy laugh. "I mean, yeah, I would really like that too." Jack crutches back over to you and you turn your body so you're facing him again. "But only if you're sure you're ready. I don't want you to feel like you have to be doing this because we've been doing more lately and I don't want you to feel pressured, to feel any pressure at all to do this."
The man melts you, he really does. He melts every single part of you and your entire being, your body, mind and soul. He is so fucking sweet, so respectful, he cares so fucking much about you, all of you, your body, mind and soul.
"Jack," you give him a knowing smile, "what have you ever done that could be remotely construed as pressuring me?"
A boyish smile pulls onto his face and he shrugs, a light flush hitting his cheeks. "I don't know, I just like to check. Not that I don't trust you or your ability to make decisions for yourself or am trying to question them, I, I just… I would never forgive myself if I ever made you feel pressured into doing something or saying something or being something, you know?"
"I do, yeah," you nod at him. "I feel the same, I'm probably just worse at expressing it. Readiness works both ways and I want you to be ready and not feel pressured too. I don't want it to ever seem like I'm assuming you're ready for something."
"I've never felt like that, like you've assumed. If I need to stop you never push, and you check in with me too. You just did, Sweetheart, when you asked if I wanted to." He pauses for a second to make sure you really hear him. "I'll go change and brush my teeth and stuff and meet you in bed, okay?"
"Um, yeah. I, um." You let a laugh out through your nose and shake your head at yourself. How can you seriously be this flustered around him still? "If you wanted to brush your teeth and stuff in the en suite with me, like move or, or bring some of your stuff in, you could. If you wanted. But there's no pressure, I promise. I won't be offended either way."
"I'd like that, yeah," Jack nods. "If you change your mind about this at any time though, even in the middle of the night, just wake me and let me know, okay? I'll go back to the spare room."
"I will, I promise. And the same goes for you if you want to go back to the spare room at any point." While you'd completely respect and understand if he did need to go back to the spare room you really, really hope he doesn't.
"I will, I promise. I'll go get my stuff and be in, okay?" Jack raises his brows at you slightly, one last check that you're good with this.
"Okay. I'll be there." Your smile turns a little shy like it does sometimes, and so on top of racing, Jack's heart flutters.
He nods and then crutches back down to the door of the spare room, manages to push the door open this time before you say his name again.
"Jack," you call to him again. "I might be like really fucking awkward at first. Please don't think it has to do with you or it's because I'm not ready. It's just been a while and it's my first time after so I just might be awkward."
"That's okay." He gives you a reassuring smile. "We'll figure it out together, I know we will."
You hold his gaze for a minute to soak up all the reassurance you can so that you're able to convince yourself it's not going to go so horribly wrong that he leaves, because that thought hit out of nowhere as you watched him crutch back down. You turn and open the door to your bedroom and walk in as Jack crutches into the spare room.
But for the first time the soft clicks of two door latches catching don't sound and the hall light remains on.
It doesn't take long for both of you to change and Jack to then meet you in your bathroom where you both finish getting ready for bed together. As you do so you talk more, Jack asks you to tell him what you're comfortable with in terms of positions to cuddle and sleep together in, if there's anywhere he touches when you're not in bed together that you'd prefer he didn't while you're in bed, if you're okay kissing in bed and if so what kind of kisses. He worries out loud to you that he's ruining it and making it feel almost clinical or something, but you reassure him that you appreciate it and him and the way he prioritizes your comfort and boundaries more than he could ever know.
Getting into bed together is simple. You both already know you sleep on different sides so you know where you're going as you make your way to the bed. It's something so small but it makes it better somehow. Makes it feel right.
And getting settled and comfortable once you're in bed together is mercifully the same. You move towards each other on your sides and it just… happens. You fall into place together so easily, almost melt together as legs tangle and chests and abdomens press against each other and hands find comfortable places to rest on each other. It's natural, like you've been doing it forever.
"I feel like I'm not sleepy anymore," you admit once you're settled, giving him a crooked smile. There's no need to explain that it's because of the excitement and buzz and butterflies of being in bed with him.
Jack smiles back at you widely, gives you a little squeeze. "I'm glad it's not just me."
A beat of comfortable silence passes as you both take it in, the moment and each other. And then you break it.
"If I rested my head against your chest right now would your heart be going 800 miles an hour like mine?"
"Ha!" Jack laughs, nodding his head. A little piece of him is surprised you have jokes right now, he thought you might get a little quiet on him as you processed everything happening, which he would've been more than okay with. But he likes this. Loves it. Loves that you're comfortable enough to be joking. "Of fucking course. I think 800 would be a low estimate, honestly."
You giggle as Jack laughs, the two of you moving your heads towards each other in sync until you finally share a short, sweet kiss. When you pull apart you can't stop smiling at each other.
"I'm really glad I asked," you murmur, let your hand start to run through his curls.
Jack hums at the feeling of your hand in his hair. At the feeling of you pressed against his body and in his arms. "I'm really glad you asked too."
Jack is so fucking glad it's Saturday morning as he walks into your now shared bedroom and turns the dimmer on low just enough so that he can see, but not enough to wake you. He's just getting home from work, relatively on time at 7:45 a.m., and knowing that it was a Saturday morning and he was going home to slide into bed and snuggle with you is what got him through his shift, honestly.
He smiles to himself at the way you've already drawn the blackout curtains you recently hung in here for him so that he doesn't have to deal with them. It's a very small thing, sure, but it still makes him smile because you thought to do it.
Things have been going well since you started to share a bed a week ago. That night was the best sleep both of you have had in a while. You'd checked in with each other the next morning, both of you making sure the other knew there was no pressure to do it again immediately. But you did. You've shared a bed every night since, or at least every night Jack hasn't worked. And over the week he's slowly moved all of his stuff over from the spare room with your help.
He'd like nothing more than to just slide into bed with you but he knows he should shower. You guys had made adjustments to it so that it was easy for him to use while your son napped the day after Jack first slept in your bed with you. He grabs a clean pair of boxer briefs, his crutches from where they rest against the wall by his side of the bed and walks into the en suite, takes his prosthetic off and does everything he needs to with his leg. His shower is quick, just enough to get the shift off him and for the warm water to help relax him a little.
Once he's out of the shower and dry he slips on the clean pair of boxer briefs and crutches back into your room. Jack goes to your side of the bed just to wake the baby monitor and check on your son, laughing at the position he's asleep in, clearly completely and totally out, and then goes and turns the light off and heads to bed.
You knew he generally sleeps shirtless because he gets hot and after a few days of sharing a bed you brought it up as casually as possible and told him you had no problem with him still doing so if he wanted. You want him to be comfortable as he sleeps, of course. And you're not mad about feeling his warm skin when you rest your head on his chest or rub your arms up and down his back. And you're certainly not mad at getting to appreciate the view.
You're asleep on your side facing away from Jack when he gets into bed. As he slides over to spoon you from behind you start to stir.
"Hey, you," Jack murmurs as he wraps his top arm around your middle and pulls you back into him as he presses himself against the back of you so that you're as close as possible. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"Hm," you hum at him in response. "It's okay. I'm glad I can greet you." Your words are slurred with sleep and it's so fucking adorable Jack wants to bite and nibble at you as the cuteness aggression washes over him. You roll yourself back into him a little so that your head is laying on your pillow as though you're on your back. The room is dark, but just enough light sneaks its way in at the edges of the curtains so that you can see each other. "Hi," you murmur, eyes barely open.
Jack started pushing himself up to support himself on his bottom elbow as soon as he felt you starting to turn because he knows what it means. He moves the arm wrapped around you so that he can plant that hand just in front of you and help support himself. "Night okay?"
You nod. "Uneventful." You smile as Jack leans down over you and kisses you. "Yours?" you mumble against his lips before lifting your head up to steal another kiss.
He laughs softly into the kiss. "Eventful," he mumbles back against your lips.
Jack lets you take control, lets you decide how many kisses this moment should last, how deep they should get, if you should run your hands along each other. Through the haze of your sleep you're feeling it, frisky, almost. You're not ready for more, for sex, or even anything too closely related, but right now you're not having a single problem making out with Jack in bed and running your hand along the toned muscles of his arm and chest.
And Jack, he sure as fuck has no problem with making out with you like this. God, he'd really love to roll you onto your back all the way and kiss his way down your body and listen to your sleepy moans as he made you feel euphoric with his tongue before kissing his way back up your body and sliding inside you and making you feel that good again with his cock.
You're not there, and Jack respects that, unquestioningly, would never even begin to pressure you or bring it up or try to subtly escalate things in hopes that it would happen. But he thinks about it. He can't help it. He's attracted to you in every sense and he's looking forward to the day you're ready for sex, if and when it comes. He's looking forward to getting to come home after a long and trying shift and lose himself in you and your sleepy and pliant body, if, and only if, that's something you'd want and enjoy.
He needs to stop thinking about it, though. He's getting hard. He doesn't want to make it awkward or pressuring or make you feel bad for not being ready because he knows you struggle with that, especially with how long you've been together. He knows you struggle with it a lot, at times.
You share one last lingering kiss and then smile at him before rolling back how you were. Jack lowers himself back into the same position without thinking about it too much, his arm wrapping around your middle again, though he doesn't have to really pull you back into him much this time because you're awake enough to wiggle yourself back against him as much as possible, snuggle as close as possible.
As you scoot your ass back to get comfortable you feel it. Feel him. Really feel him for the first time as the movement of your ass against him has him reflexively taking a heavy, slightly airy breath in that you can tell catches in his throat. Jack is hard, his erection prominent and pressing against your ass.
He goes cold, is ready to get out of bed and move back to the spare room because this has to feel pressuring for you. This has to make you feel bad and self-conscious about where you guys are at. "I am so fucking sorry." His horror and worry and dread are so clear in his tone and you find it kind of adorable. It's heartwarming, how much he cares.
Jack starts to pull his hips back and away from yours but you reach back over the covers and put your hand on his hip and squeeze to get him to still. "Don't be. And don't go anywhere." You move your hand when he moves back to the position he was in. "It's nice honestly, knowing you want me like that. I'm sorry though."
"Don't be," he murmurs, kisses the top of your head. He laughs to himself a little. "Honestly, I'm surprised we made it a week without this happening because I've definitely been halfway there every time, I just had better control apparently."
You hum in consideration. "You're tired. It's the end of three shifts in a row."
"True." Your words make him yawn and you smile to yourself because it just sounds as cute as you know it looks. "But now I get Saturday night and Sunday with you and that sleepy boy."
You push yourself back into him a little harder for a second and then roll over so that you're chest to chest. "You do," you agree, smiling at him. You move your head down, press your lips to the top of his chest in a soft kiss and then do your best to snuggle into him more. "But for now I get you to myself."
"True," Jack murmurs. You both settle further into each other, get even more drowsy. Then Jack speaks again. "Can I admit something?"
"Of course."
"I really like this," he whispers, presses another kiss to the top of your head as much as he can. "Cuddling in bed with you."
You smile against his chest. "I really like this too." The end of the last word gets yawned. "I really do, I promise, but I'll probably fall back asleep soon and it's not because I don't want to enjoy snuggling with you, I just… I feel safe, and cared for, and you smell so good and you're so warm and comfy to snuggle into."
Jack smiles and licks his lower lip before biting it. He's discovered that he absolutely fucking loves sleepy you. You get so adorably uninhibited at times, look and sound so cute and adorable and precious he wants to squeeze you and never let you go. Your sleepy yawns in particular always kill him. "That's okay, Sweetheart. I'm sleepy too and I feel exactly how you do. You feel so good snuggled into me and in my arms and I'm going to be out once I fall asleep."
You hum again. You do a lot when you're sleepy and Jack loves it. "Good. You need the sleep."
You're not awake to hear his reply.
The sound of your bedroom door opening tells you Jack's awake. The absence of the familiar clicking of his crutches tells you he put his prosthetic back on. He usually keeps it on while your son is awake to make it easier to play with him and carry him as needed.
You figured he'd be up soon so you moved the cutting board to the small counter space next to the fridge so that your back is to the overhang and bar stools where you're sure Jack will sit. It makes it so that there's no room to step beside you or really see you unless you choose to turn around.
"Hey," Jack greets you as he walks into the kitchen, his voice still thick with sleep. "He down napping?"
You turn and look at him, wiping your hands on a towel and smiling to yourself at the sight of him standing in your kitchen in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, curls fluffy and adorably unkempt from sleeping on them wet. "Hi, sleepy. He is yeah. Went down an hour ago."
"He'll be up a little later than usual tonight." Jack yawns as he makes his way across the kitchen to you, pulling you into him for a hug. He rocks you side to side a little, doesn't know why. Just feels right.
You wrap your arms around him tightly and rest your head on his chest. "He will, but he was still happy to be going so I let him. I always try to let him on days like this where you're asleep and miss most of the day with him. I know you like the extra time at night with him."
Jack swallows hard at the thoughtfulness and sweetness of that gesture and how much it fucking means to him. You move your head off his chest and smile up at him and Jack leans down and kisses you. "Really?" He murmurs against your lips, voice so low it makes your heart skip. Something about the way his breath smells so spearmint-y from brushing his teeth is really doing it for you. You nod at him and take another kiss. "I love that, thank you." He gives you another couple of kisses, lets the last one linger a bit.
You keep your eyes closed for a second when he pulls away and sigh contentedly. "Go sit. I'll make you coffee."
He hums in acknowledgment at you and gives you one last kiss before he walks over to the bar stools under the overhanging counter across the kitchen and takes a seat. You’re keenly aware of the way Jack's eyes stay on you just to admire you.
You busy yourself making him a cup of coffee while trying to decide if you should even bring it up and if you should, how you should. The thing is, you know Jack knows you far more than well enough to be able to sense that something is off with you, so if you don't talk to him about it and the feelings it's stirred up for you he's going to be able to tell and you don't want him to worry it's something to do with him.
When his coffee is ready you walk it over to him and reach to set it on the counter in front of him, giving him a small smile. "Thank you, Sweetheart." Jack returns your smile and lifts the mug at you before taking a sip.
"Of course," you nod at him. It becomes very apparent to you that you're not going to be able to look at Jack while you bring it up so you head back to the cutting board you'd set up so deliberately and resume chopping dinner ingredients. But once you're there the words seem too complicated for your mouth to form.
Jack feels like there’s something off, like the air between you is maybe just a touch thick. But you gave him a kiss like normal and hugged him like normal and made him coffee so he must just be sleepy and making it up. "My coffee is very good. Tastes better because you made it."
"Pretty hard to fuck up a cup of black coffee," you shrug.
"Oh you'd be surprised," Jack chuckles. "Robby's managed to several times over the years."
This is it. This is your in, Jack bringing up Robby. "Did you see him today?"
Jack finishes the sip of his coffee he'd just taken when you asked. "Yeah he was on this morning. We were able to talk a little before and after handoff. He mentioned Ro said something about wanting to go on a double date."
With everything else that had come of your conversation with her, you'd forgotten about Ro mentioning that while you were on the phone. You're not sure you could face her or Robby right now, let alone the both of them together in the context of a double date.
You feel like a terrible friend because of it. You should just be happy for her, for them. But Ro telling you that after their third date, three weeks after Robby first asked her out and multiple cancelled dates because of work and illness later, her and Robby finally had sex sent you beyond spiraling.
You've been out of it all day, are pretty sure you spent the first half of your son's nap so far sitting on the couch staring at the wall completely spaced out and trying not to feel anything. Trying not to think about it.
About how you and Jack still haven't had sex months into your relationship. About how you still don't feel ready and are still struggling. About how it feels like any other person but you could give Jack sex, could make him feel good like that, be close to him like that.
But not you. Because despite how fucking badly you want to give Jack all of that, you’re still so broken and fucked up and messy. It’s unfair and asking too much of him and he just deserves better, even if he can’t see it.
"That's good, I'm glad you got to see each other." You pause to clear your throat even though you don't really need to. "And yeah, actually Ro called earlier and mentioned that so we'll have to see about it."
Jack tilts his head and narrows his eyes a little at the way you say you'll have to see about it. He expected you to be more enthusiastic about the idea. And if she told you about it he would've thought the two of you would already have it nearly fully planned. Before he can say anything you continue.
"It sounds like things are going great for them," you nod to yourself. "Did… did Robby tell you about them?" You try to focus on chopping in hopes of not crying. Wishful thinking.
He knows what you mean immediately, but his still sleep foggy brain isn't quite firing on all cylinders yet, so the implications of that conversation on you and your emotions don't fully click for him yet.
"He did yeah," Jack nods even though you can't see him. "It's good for them. I'm happy for them."
"It is yeah," you nod again. "I'm happy for them too."
"I'm happy for Robby. He needed to get laid so badly," Jack laughs a little as he teases his best friend and brother in Robby's absence, something he'd only do with you. Jack expects you to laugh with him or react somehow but you don't.
"And do you?"
The question slips out before you can even try to stop it. You bite your lip hard to try and feel anything other than what you're feeling, about ready to let the knife 'slip' and cut yourself just to have a reason to cry. You'd cry way too hard though, and Jack would know there was something else.
"Do I what?" It starts to fall in place for Jack.
You swallow hard. You know he was joking and that the joke wasn't directed at you or meant to be hurtful and it wasn't, it didn't upset you, it's just a way for you to ask.
"Need to get laid so badly?" you ask just loud enough for him to hear.
It all clicks then, all falls right into place. Jack shakes his head at himself. He should've seen it sooner, should've picked up on it immediately. He should've known the moment you brought it up. "Sweetheart…" You hear him set the mug down.
You sniffle as quietly as possible, time it with bringing the knife down against the cutting board hard to help hide it. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" There's genuine confusion in his voice. He really doesn't know, really doesn't think you have anything to apologize for.
You shrug deeply, hold it for a second as you try to compose yourself. "Not being able to give myself to you like that. Not being able to have sex. Being upset and like this and making you deal with this and me like this instead of just having sex."
Jack lets out a breath and shakes his head slowly despite knowing you can't see. "Sweetheart, first, I never want you to just have sex with me. I-"
"No," you sigh at yourself as you interrupt him, convince yourself he sounds offended, that you offended him. That you fucked up even more. Because right now your brain is making it feel like that's all you can do. "I didn't mean it like that, Jack, I promise, I'm sorry."
"Hey," he says gently. "I'm not upset, I promise, okay?"
You hear him get off the stool and start walking over to you and you click your teeth, shake your head and look up for a second to try to drain the tears. "You’re incredible Jack. You deserve everything and then some and you deserve to have it when you want. You deserve a real relationship, with someone who can give you everything and all of them and that isn’t dictated by my grief. There is so much I can’t give you right now and that I don’t know when I’ll be able to give you and that isn't fucking fair to you. It's just not.”
Jack walks up behind you and puts his hands over yours to get you to stop cutting. You stand like that for a moment, your chest heaving slightly against his until you move your hand off the carrot and set the knife down with your other one. Jack's hands find your hips and pull on one and push on the other incredibly lightly, an ask for you to turn around.
You do and Jack gives you a warm, reassuring and understanding smile. Once you've wiped your hands on the towel again he takes them in his and takes a few steps backwards so that you don't feel caged in against the counter.
Jack holds your eye contact. "You don't need to be sorry for not being ready, Sweetheart. I certainly don't want you to be sorry for that and I want to help you get to a place where you're not sorry. It's okay to not be ready. There's not a magic number or some timeline you have to stick to. It took me a good while to feel ready to have sex after losing her."
"Yeah, Jack, but you weren't making someone wait for you. You weren't in a relationship. You weren't preventing someone else, someone you care so fucking deeply for from having sex." You sound so exasperated and frustrated with yourself, the feelings written so clearly on your face and projected by your eyes so hard it makes Jack's heart hurt for you. His brows furrow, lips pull down in a frown. He hates seeing you hurting and upset with yourself, especially about your grief. "I mean, Jesus, Jack, what if when we do have sex I'm not even good and you regret waiting and me and have been waiting for nothing, waiting for shitty sex and just wasting your time?"
"Sweetheart, I…" Jack shakes his head slowly because there's so much to unpack there, so much he wants to reassure you about and help you see the untruth of. "I know that sex with you is going to be amazing, if and when you're ready. I have no concerns about that. I'm not trying to dismiss your feelings, they're valid, I get it. I worry about being disappointing too even though I know it'll be amazing. It's like what if it's amazing for me and I make it terrible for you? I get that, I get those worries. But I truly think it's going to be amazing for both of us, the chemistry is there."
"And I will never regret waiting for you, I will never feel like I've wasted my time being with you, no matter what happens tomorrow or the next day or in five days or five months or five years." Jack's eyes bore into yours, plead with you to hear him and believe him and internalize what he's saying. "I will never regret you. If you take only one thing away from this conversation, please let it be that."
Jack lets his words hang for a moment, a silent conversation had with the eye contact you're sharing. "I'm…” he starts, trying to find the right words, “I'm not waiting for sex how you mean. It's not on my mind constantly, I don't feel like there's some countdown to it. It's not like, a goal I have."
"Yeah but we're not having any right now and you could be having it, Jack. You could be having so much sex, probably fucking great sex. People look at you all the time, Jack." You half laugh the last sentence in frustration at yourself. "But because you're with me you're not having sex. You're not feeling good like that and getting that kind of stress relief and physical connection. Because of me." You pause and shake your head at him, shrug almost helplessly. "Because of me, Jack. And you deserve to be, you deserve all of that."
"Sweetheart, it doesn’t matter that I could be having sex with someone else, because I don’t want to have sex with someone else. I only want to have sex with you, if and when you are ready and comfortable and want to." Jack nods at you, lets those words linger in the air for a few seconds too.
"I am not desperate for sex. And I say I want you sometimes when it comes up to make sure you know that you’re wanted, that I want you like that, if and when you're ready, not to put any pressure on you. I’m here with you. I’ll wait as long as you need, happily." He gives you a small smile. "You’re not asking me to, I don’t feel like you’re asking something of me with this at all. I’m happy with where we are and what we do have right now. I’m happy with you. I want you and only you. So truly, it doesn’t matter what I could be doing. And I am not with you for sex or the potential for sex. I'm with you for you."
He's saying all the right things. Jack truly couldn't be handling this, handling you better. Even though it doesn't seem like it, you are taking in everything he says, are trying to take it to heart. And Jack knows it. He recognizes it in the way you keep bouncing the conversation around.
"Well you could be having sex with me if I wasn’t so fucked up." You throw your hands up and shrug, let out a pained laugh. "Because I am Jack, Jesus fucking christ, I am. We’ve been together how long and I still fucking can’t?"
Jack shakes his head immediately, face staying soft but setting a little more. "Okay, Sweetheart, no. You’re not allowed to talk about yourself like that in a serious way. Jokes are one thing, seriously is another."
"You are not fucked up for not being ready. You wouldn’t be fucked up if you were never ready. And I think you know that if our positions were reversed you wouldn’t let me call myself fucked up and you wouldn’t think that I was fucked up for not being ready. You wouldn't care, you wouldn't mind. It wouldn't be a big deal for you at all. You'd be happy to wait for me. And I feel the exact same way. I know you’re going to say it’s different and that you really believe it is, because I do too sometimes." He whispers this last sentence for emphasis, eyes soft, "But it’s not Sweetheart."
"You deserve better." Your voice breaks slightly over the last word and you drop to a whisper as tears you know will eventually spill over flood your eyes. "You deserve everything Jack. And I can’t give you that and I hate it."
Jack shakes his head, brings his hands up and cradles your face in them gently. "That’s not true. You give me you. You give me all of you that you can and are ready to give to someone again right now. Nothing more and nothing less. That is everything to me." Jack leans forward and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. "I think you have to realize that my definition of everything is different from yours. You are giving me everything, I promise."
Your lips and chin tremble at Jack's words. You tilt your head and shrug at him, try to come up with something to say in response, but all that happens is you more or less bursting into tears.
"Okay," Jack murmurs, his hands releasing your face as you automatically step into him and bury your face in his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly. "It's okay, I've got you Sweetheart."
Jack holds you tightly as you cry, soothes you softly and rubs your back, but doesn't rush you. It feels ridiculous to be crying about this, especially in Jack's arms, but sometimes everything you do feels ridiculous anymore. Grief is a strange thing.
Mercifully, your crying at least doesn't last too long. You pull your head from Jack's chest just enough to look at the counter and grab a paper towel you can use to clean up your face and then rest your head on his chest again, somehow find it in you to let yourself accept a few minutes of quiet comfort in his arms.
"I’m sorry," you finally whisper. "It just really got to me today because I want it too, I want to have sex with you and I can’t and it makes me feel so fucking broken at times, but it's so hard and it still feels wrong sometimes to want it, want you, like I'm being a bad wife."
You know that nobody understands the feeling of being a bad spouse because of attraction and affection and feelings for someone else better than Jack. You can't imagine what it was like for him to try a relationship for the first time with someone who didn't understand.
You pull your head from his chest and look up at him, wipe your face again and then toss the paper towel on the counter for now. "And this isn't about you being hard this morning, so please don't think you caused this somehow. The conversation with Ro triggered this, not that I blame her of course. I just… I'm still so broken in so many ways Jack and I hate it."
"You’re not broken. You’re especially not broken for not being ready to have sex. I promise you, you're not broken. You're not something that needs fixed. You need to heal. There's a very big and very important distinction." As Jack looks in your eyes and thinks about you saying that the conversation with Ro triggered this he realizes there's another layer to this right now. "You can’t compare yourself to Ro. You can't compare our relationship to theirs, Sweetheart. It's so much different."
You shrug at him, your lips pursing in a heartbreakingly adorable pout. "It doesn't feel different."
"I know," Jack whispers. "But the fact is that it is. It just is. "
You know he's right. Neither Robby nor Ro have lost a partner the way you and Jack have. And that means the dynamics of your relationships are just different. Not better or worse necessarily. Just different, even if it doesn't really seem like it, especially on a surface level. You smooth your hands over Jack's chest, let the pad of your index finger brush over the wet spot left behind by your tears.
"I just want to be able to give you myself like that. I want you like that," you whisper. "I hope you know that. I really do want you like that."
"I know you do, I promise. When you're ready, it'll happen." Jack brings one hand to your face and gently runs his thumb over your lips. When you nod he leans down and gives you several kisses, a little physical act of reassurance that you're okay, as yourself and as a couple, and that he's still here with you and not going anywhere. "And I hope I don't feel dismissive with anything I've said. I know it's so hard, I know me saying these things is so easy and believing them isn't. I know it doesn't just make it better. Your feelings are so valid and I really appreciate you sharing them with me."
"You weren't dismissive, Jack, I promise. I know you understand. Thank you for listening and helping me." You're able to start letting it go some, your talk with Jack and his presence in general more than enough to help start bringing you out of the funk you've been in while alone all day.
You sigh deeply, give him a little frown. "I'm sorry this is what you had to wake up to."
Jack furrows his brows just slightly and shakes his head, confused a little. He doesn’t understand why you’d be sorry when he got to wake up to you. "I got to wake up to you. I'm a lucky man."
You huff at yourself. "I mean technically me, but more this. You got to wake up to my bullshit, to me struggling and my immediate neediness."
"Your feelings aren't bullshit, and that’s not how I see it. I don't see it as waking up to you struggling or being needy. I see it as you. I got to wake up and walk out here and hug and kiss and talk with you, whatever that ended up looking like." He leans in and kisses you, your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, your chin, and then your lips before pulling back just enough to hold your gaze. "I got to wake up to you."
You're off.
Jack can tell. Even if it weren't obvious in your physical movements, he can just feel it in the air between the two of you. It's like you're antsy but there's some sort of edge to it that Jack can't quite get a feel for. It's concerning, but it doesn't necessarily feel bad. You'd relaxed some as you said goodnight to your son and handed him off to Jack for bed. It's been six days since your conversation about sex and Jack wonders if it's related to that now that it's the weekend again.
Part of you regrets making your decision and deciding to ask Jack about it today. Why a Friday night when he's off all weekend with you guys? What if you make everything awkward and ruin the entire fucking weekend? Maybe you just shouldn’t. It’s not like you have to right now.
You can't decide if it’s too much or not. Maybe you shouldn't ask him, maybe it is inappropriate or weird. There's no fucking instruction book for being a widow and the only other person you know who's a widow or widower is the man you may or may not ask, so you can't really go to him and ask whether it's okay to ask him.
Jack crutches back into the living room from putting your son down and taking his prosthetic off, doing his usual stuff with his leg. You've gotten so in your head that you don't hear or see him come back into the living room and start talking to you as he cleans up the toys on the floor that you said you'd put away while he put your son down. When you don't answer his teasing or his question Jack looks over at you and finds you chewing on the inside of your cheek while you stare at a spot on the floor, still sitting up stick straight like you were when he left to put your son down.
He debates how to get your attention and bring you back. No matter how he does it, you're going to be startled. If he goes up and sits next to you he's worried it'll seem too serious almost, or set that kind of a tone, or seem like he didn't even notice and just came to sit next to you like normal. But if he throws this soft stuffed Winnie the Pooh at you he doesn't want it to seem like he's not taking whatever is clearly distressing you seriously. And it doesn't really seem like there's much of an in between. He just has to pick one.
You barely even startle when the plush hits your side and brings you back. You look over at Jack who's smiling at you as he tosses the last couple of stuffed animals in the ball pit and slides it back in its corner where you both know it'll remain for all of one minute tomorrow, if that.
"Shit!" You sigh deeply at yourself and shake your head. "I'm sorry. I meant to get up and do it I just got…You should've thrown Winnie at me sooner."
Jack gives you a lazy smirk that makes you immediately relax some and your heart, and elsewhere if you're totally honest, flutter. "I'm not mad. Just couldn't figure out how to get you back to me." He flicks his chin and you throw the bear back to him so he can put it in with the other stuffed animals.
"Yeah, I guess I got a little lost thinking," you shrug shallowly as he crutches his way to the couch and takes his normal spot.
He's only mildly concerned when you don't crawl over to snuggle with him or beckon him to you like you normally do. That's what he tells himself. Mildly concerned.
"I think you've been half lost since you got home," Jack says gently. "And that's not a criticism or a problem, I promise, so please don't feel bad or anything. I just want to make sure you're okay."
Your heart and shoulders fall. Fuck. You didn't mean to be like that and you hope it didn't worry him. "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for and I don't want you to be sorry, I just want to make sure you're okay." Jack's voice and eyes are so earnest it's almost painfully sweet. "Do you want or need to talk about it?"
"Yeah," you almost mumble. You take in a deep breath and let it out. "I need, well, I want to ask you something. But I don't know if it's even appropriate or if it's weird or going to make you feel weird or like you can't say no or some kind of pressure or something I'm not even thinking of. It's one of those… widow things."
The second anniversary of your husband's death is getting close. Jack knows. He remembers. The same way you remember his wife's. He's been wondering how it'll go, if things will change between the two of you in the lead up to it and after it for a while. He wouldn't be surprised if you need to pull away a bit, if you ask him to go back to the spare room for a while. He wouldn't hold it against you if it made you rethink your ability to be in a relationship with him right now. Maybe this is about that.
Jack nods, encouragingly, he hopes. "I'm here for whatever you need, Sweetheart. I'll do whatever you need, yeah?"
"No, I know and I don't need you to do anything, I just…" You're making this way harder than it needs to be. At this point you need to just say it all and ask.
You adjust yourself on the couch slightly so that you're a bit more on your side facing Jack and can look at him better before taking in and letting out a deep breath. "Obviously you know the anniversary of his death is coming up in like a month and a half and he's in Arlington. Last year…" It's harder to say out loud than you thought it would be, makes you feel like a terrible wife, makes you miss him so much you can't breathe, has you trembling slightly just from all the emotions building up.
Jack can tell how hard it is for you, how your heart is breaking and you're beating yourself up about so much and missing your husband and he hates it. He wants to move over closer to you and hold you, even just hold your hand, but he's not sure if that would truly be helpful right now or if it would make things worse so he fights the urge and stays where he is.
"Last year, on the anniversary, the first anniversary," you make yourself say it like it's some sort of penance that will ever make it better, "I didn't go."
"You couldn't go, Sweetheart," Jack whispers before he can stop himself. He cringes. He shouldn't have said anything, should've just let you talk and get it all out first and then say his thoughts or answer your question or do whatever you need him to. "I'm sorry for interrupting you and speaking out of turn-"
You let out a breath through your nose that's almost a laugh and give him a look. "You're not speaking out of turn, Jack."
He gives you a look at that. "I just, I want you to remember and more importantly than that, I didn't know him obviously, but from what you've told me about him, he would want you to remember that it wasn't that you didn't go. You didn't choose not to go. You couldn't go. There was no realistic way for you to go. You had a, what, 5 month old? Doing that alone after almost an entire pregnancy by yourself, giving birth by yourself, healing from birth while taking care of a newborn by yourself, having to go back to work, you, it, it wouldn't have been safe even if you could've made it work logistically. And I know he doesn't hold you not going against you and I know he wouldn't want you to hold it against yourself."
You look away from Jack and shrug deeply, almost curl in on yourself a little. You know he's right. Jack is right that you didn't choose not to go and that your husband wouldn't want you to hold it against yourself but that is so much easier said than done. There's so much shame that you feel about it, especially when you think about how Jack has been to see his wife on every anniversary, you're sure, stops by to see her whenever he wants, puts flowers on her grave on her birthday and you've never even been back. The funeral was the last time you were there. You know Jack would be horrified if he found out you were comparing like that but it feels impossible not to.
There's so much that you want to say to Jack, thank you among those many things, but for some reason you can't. You know it's wrong, but you can't. You have to just move past it with nothing more than the little nod you give him as you return your eyes to his.
"I'm, um, I'm going to go this year. We are, I mean. He and I. And so I guess, I wanted to… Oh my god, this is so fucked up, this is so fucked up, Jack." You breathe harder as you say it, shake your hands out because you're suddenly almost a little hysterical and restless and you don't know how to calm yourself. "I don't even know what I'm doing and…" The half hysteria passes as quickly as it hit and Jack watches you recede into yourself, a deep shyness taking over you.
"I," your voice is as quiet as Jack's ever heard it, "I wanted to ask if you'd be interested in coming. I know it's super fucking weird so please take your time to think about it, take a few days, and I wouldn't expect you to necessarily like go to the cemetery with me, you could if you wanted to of course, I wouldn't mind at all, but I know that could be weird. I was going to take a couple of days and maybe make it kind of a vacation? That feels so fucked up when I say it out loud, but I promise you he'd fucking love that going to visit him can turn into a vacation easily and he’d want it to." You laugh softly at the thought of just how much your husband would love it.
"Just you know, I know he's too young and won't remember, but the museums are free and it's just somewhere different to walk around and an excuse to get out of this city and it'll be like right at the beginning of the cherry blossom festival I think. So, even if you wanted to only come for that part and get there after he and I did, or I mean like, you can drive with us of course, and then just go around the city by yourself I guess or chill at the hotel, if you don't want to go to the cemetery. Or if you do want to go to the cemetery, you don't have to go to his grave, you don't have to want to do that. I don't know. I know that a vacation in general is like a… step, I guess, in a relationship, that we haven't really talked about, so I apologize for springing it. But I wanted to invite you, but I totally get it so you shouldn't feel bad about saying no at all, I would completely understand. Just, um, think about it, yeah?"
Jack nods slowly. It means the world to him that you asked. He'd be happy to go with you, on the trip and to the cemetery, to your husband’s grave, if that's what you wanted, but he totally respects if you aren't truly ready for him to go to your husband’s grave. "I-"
You shake your head to cut him off. "Jack, unless you're saying no, which again is totally okay, I really want you to take at least a day to think about it because it's a lot. Even if it doesn't seem like it I think it's a lot. Your wife is here and you've never asked me to go with you to her, not that I'm saying you need to or should've already or ever need to, just… You know what I mean?"
"Okay. I'll think about it," he agrees, completely unfazed by everything you've said. He knows what you mean about not taking you to his wife and he doesn't think it's you trying to throw it in his face or anything like that. He understands why you said it and is more than okay with it. "And if it would make you feel better or less awkward or if it would be helpful we can go see her, we can go visit her grave, whenever you want."
"No!" You don't yell it, more just say it with force, a hint of something similar to defeat at lining the edge of the word as you finish saying it. Your shoulders fall and you bow your head, suddenly nearly distraught. "No, I didn't mean it like that, Jack, I wasn't trying to like, throw it in your face or point it out to make it a big deal, I didn't mean it like that. I shouldn't have said anything. I just shouldn't have fucking said anything." Jack can tell you're starting to get frustrated with yourself and overwhelmed but isn't sure whether interjecting will help or make it worse. "I don't want, it's not that I'm saying no to going to see her, that's not what the no was about, it was no, don't feel forced, because I don't want to go if you feel forced into it, I didn't want you to feel forced into it. I didn't even think about it making you feel like that."
It's too much. You're not sure you could've made this conversation go worse if you'd tried even though from Jack’s perspective there hasn’t been anything wrong with it, he hasn’t been made to feel any kind of way.
Self-hate and anger flood you, as does that type of sadness that makes you feel hollow as it seems to swallow you whole. Because this is grief, this is talking about your dead spouses. This is you bringing up Jack's wife and how her grave is here and how he's never taken you there as though he ever has to or needs to, or like it's some prerequisite to him coming to your husband's grave when it's not. He never has to take you to her grave. You'd still invite him to your husband's.
Your brain convinces you that you're taking that pain, that grief, the kind that consumes you the second you finally accept it after hearing the news, that grief that in the moment feels like the only way you'll ever feel again, and shoving it onto Jack, that you're making him feel that way again, that you're using that pain against him.
But really the only person you're shoving that pain onto and making feel that way again and using that pain against is yourself. And if Jack knew what you were thinking he'd tell you the same.
You're barely keeping it together, breathing way too hard and too fast for sitting on the couch. You can feel the tears burning behind your eyes but berate yourself for them because you have no fucking reason to cry. Jack does. Jack does because you're giving him one. But you don’t.
It's hard to watch you picking yourself apart in your mind. Because Jack can see it happening, he can see you getting more worked up and frustrated and angry and he knows it's at yourself. He's worried that if he tries to intervene before you say everything you need to that it'll just backfire, make you feel worse.
"I said you didn't even have to come to the cemetery or his grave with us, and now, and now you're saying we can go visit her and it's just because I asked you and I said you’ve never taken me to her and I hate that. I hate that, Jack. I hate that I forced that offer. I hate the thought of making you feel bad about anything related to her and your grief, or making you feel like I'm using it against you somehow, because I'm not, that's not why I said it. And this is just… This is so fucked up, and I'm just fucking it up worse and I can't…" You trail off, eyes and voice wet with tears that finally spill down your cheeks. It's too much. You need out. You hate it, hate that you're running away but you can't and you don't even deserve to be in his presence. "This is exactly what I didn't want to happen. I can't, Jack, I can't do it, I don't… I, I, I'm sorry, I just need a couple of minutes."
Jack opens his mouth to call your name and try to get you to stay with him but doesn't. You're clearly too upset and frustrated with yourself and need some time to try and figure out things in your mind. He just wishes he could reassure you that he didn't and doesn’t feel how he's pretty sure you think you made him feel.
You hate yourself a little more for the way you cop out and run to your bedroom and close the door. The way you just fucking ran away from things because they got hard. And what's so fucking stupid is that as you sit on the edge of the bed lost in your head you don't cry. You completely and totally zone out, accomplishing absolutely nothing it feels like.
There's no way you could even begin to provide an estimate of how long you sit there lost to the world again, but it's long enough that Jack starts to get a little antsy, and then a lot antsy. He wants to respect your need for space but he's worried about you and hates the thought of you struggling alone.
Jack shoves the baby monitor in his pocket and gets up and crutches over to your bedroom door and knocks softly. "Sweetheart?" He cracks the door open. "It's okay if you need more time, just let me know. But I just wanted to check on you."
"No," you sigh. "Come in, if you want, I'm good. I was about to come find you."
"Okay." Jack enters and closes the door behind him, crutches over to the side of the bed you're sitting on, sets the monitor on the nightstand and turns the lamp on so that you're not in the dark before sitting on the edge of the bed next to you.
He leaves an inch or so between your thigh and his, wants to give you some space, but not too much so that you think he's mad or doesn't want to be close. You don't look over at him yet but you move your hand to rest on his thigh and squeeze gently. The tears feel so much closer to the surface again and it's not Jack making you feel that way, making you cry, it's more that his presence is making it so that you'll let yourself cry.
It's the safety he represents. You know you can lose it in front of him and he won't let you get so lost you can't find your way back. It's the comfort he brings, the knowledge that you don't have to feel all of this alone. That's why you let yourself start to fall apart when Jack rests his hand on top of yours and laces his fingers through yours from the top.
"I…" He can hear the rest of the sentence get caught in your throat and he knows. Jack knows.
"Okay, Sweetheart. Come here," he murmurs, turning toward you and holding his hand out.
You take it and Jack guides the both of you up the bed so that you're laying on your sides facing each other.
"Why is it so hard, Jack?" you whisper, the breakdown you've been holding back so clear in the thickness of the words. "Why is it so hard?"
Jack knows it's a hypothetical question but it's one he wishes he could give you an answer to regardless. "I know," he whispers back to you, taking you into his arms as you move closer to him and bury your face in his chest before you break down sobbing.
You cling to Jack's shirt and the feeling of his hand rubbing your back, to anything of him you can to help ground yourself as you fall apart in his arms for the umpteenth time. Jack doesn't say anything because it's not one of those times where whispered reassurances are going to make a difference or help you. He knows from experience. He makes sure you know he's got you by rubbing your back and kissing the top of your head, squeezing you tightly to him how he knows helps you.
Your sobs continue until they can't anymore. Until you're all cried out and left sniffling and taking in racked breaths against Jack's chest. Jack doesn't say anything, doesn't ask you to say anything. He just keeps holding you in his arms and rubbing your back until you're ready to speak.
You pull your head from his chest and adjust slightly so that you can see him better but remain as close as possible. "I'm sorry," you finally whisper, the words barely understandable with how rough you sound. You clear your throat and try again, a bit louder. "I'm sorry, for running away and for what I said."
Jack shakes his head softly. "Try not to be. You have nothing to be sorry for. You didn't run away, you took space. You told me you needed space and you took it. That's more than okay, that's healthy."
You give him a shallow shrug and try to find something to say but can't, give him an apologetic look.
He gives you the kindest smile in return, his eyes crinkling at the corners in adoration, and Jack leans forward and kisses your forehead. "What you said didn't upset me. I didn't think you said it maliciously or to be petty or passive aggressive or make a point or whatever. You were just saying it, it was an observation. And honestly, it was a valid point." Jack moves his hand from your back to your side and squeezes gently. "I wouldn't mind in the slightest if we went and saw her together, I didn't just say that because of what you said. There have been times I've almost offered before, but I wasn't sure if it would be too much or too soon or both. I almost offered on her birthday."
He looks like he wants to say more but isn't sure whether to. You do your best to not panic about it. "You can say it Jack, whatever it is."
"I don't want this to sound bad and make it seem like I hide my grief or struggles or anything from you because I don't. I promise you, I don't. And I don't want this to feel… I don't know, condescending or like I'm trying to protect you in some sort of I’m saving you kind of way, or… I don't know. You know what I mean, I think." He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly before continuing.
"Part of the reason, probably most of the reason, honestly, that I've never asked if you wanted to come see her with me is because it feels unfair, almost. Or like I'd be shoving it in your face and reminding you that he's not here and you can't go see him whenever you want like I can with her, even though I wouldn't be doing that deliberately of course. I always worry it would have that effect. Because that's such a huge difference between our situations. I have her here and you, you don't have him. And I can't imagine what that would be like and so that in particular is something I never want to highlight for you and make it worse."
"Oh, Jack…" You bring your hand up and cup the side of his face, brush your thumb over his stubble. "You're very sweet. But it doesn't do that, it wouldn't have done that, not really. I'd have thought about it, yeah, probably would've wished he was here too, but I wouldn't have held it against you, I wouldn't have thought you were shoving it in my face, deliberately or not, and it wouldn't have been shoved in my face. It wouldn't have felt like that. It's just one of those things."
He lifts his head up and leans into your palm. "I know, I just… I don't want to make it worse for you, you know? The same way I know you don't want to make it worse for me."
You nod at him because it's true. It's so fucking true. And it's so hard because sometimes it feels like by vocalizing any grief at all you're making it harder for the other because it brings it up. It makes you think of something you noticed and have been trying to find a casual way to bring up.
Your hand finds Jack's side and rests there just like his is on yours. "You know something I realized the other day is that I have photos of him up, I have his flag and that kind of makeshift memorial I guess since his grave isn't here, other things of his around. You don't have anything of her here. You're missing what you have of her at your place to be here with us, with me. And I think, if you want, you should bring those things, or what you want of those things here. Put photos of her up or things of hers on the shelves, whatever you'd like."
Jack nods slowly. "I don't want you to feel forced into that."
"I don't," you shake your head, "I should've realized it sooner."
"It's okay," he shakes his head slightly. He doesn't want you beating yourself up about it. "But, yeah. I'd like that."
You smile at him softly and give his side an affectionate squeeze. "Good. Whenever you want." Your smile fades slowly and you push your lips together and pull them to the side for a second. "I'm sorry if I've made it awkward and ruined the weekend."
"Not at all, Sweetheart. Things aren't awkward to me and certainly the weekend isn't ruined." Jack brings his hand up and runs his thumb over your lips gently. "We just talked, we're just talking."
"Yeah?" you ask against his thumb, pushing your lips out to kiss it.
"Yeah." Jack leans in and kisses you a couple of times, short but so incredibly sweet and affectionate. Calming. Reassuring. Grounding. "You wanna go back out in the living room and watch something?"
You think about it for just a second and then shake your head. "No. If it's okay with you I'd kind of like to just stay in here and we can watch something while cuddling?"
Jack laughs quietly and nods. "Yeah, I think that can be pretty easily arranged, Sweetheart."
You hit send on the text to Jack.
You - Can you come here?
His response is almost immediate.
J - On my way
You turn your attention back to your son and snap a few photos since you have your phone out. You're not sure whether it's weird to take photos of your almost 17 month old in front of their father's headstone but it's the only photo of them together at this age you'll ever have, so.
Something about viewing the scene through the lens of your phone's camera makes it hit harder than just being here and sitting with your son at his grave and talking to him and telling your son stories about him. That band that's been wrapped around your ribs all day seems to tighten and it gets harder to breathe as you feel tears start to form. This is real. This is your reality, photos of your toddler as he pulls at the grass of his father's grave with adorably chunky hands happily babbling to himself.
He looks back up at you and smiles and you snap a few more photos before setting your phone down and pushing hair identical to his father's back out of his face as eyes that are also identical to his father's look up at you. You've been really noticing it lately as he's hit this growth spurt, how every day he looks more and more like his father. He's his father's son in so many ways.
His father who isn't here.
Your son is the only reason you haven't come unglued already. You have to be strong for him, don't want to scare him by crying. But you do start to shake just a little, you can't hold it back anymore.
The chime of your phone distracts you temporarily.
J - Do you want me to stop a little bit away and you come meet me or should I come all the way to you? I don't mind either way, whatever is better for you
When you'd first gotten twenty or thirty headstones away you'd stopped walking and Jack understood, had departed from you and your son so that you could finish the walk. You weren't really sure why you stopped at the time.
Today is the second anniversary of his death. It's actually fucking surreal in a lot of senses and so you guess you just needed a second to try to work some of it out in your brain.
You felt, and feel better about Jack being here than you had been starting to worry you might. But you think you might've stopped walking because you didn't want him to get any closer, not yet at least. You didn't want a man, your boyfriend, walking up to your husband's grave with you when you visited him for the first time since you buried him.
Jack understood. Because he remembers all too well what that first visit after the funeral is like.
But Jack also knows that it isn't the same. He went to visit his wife a week or so after her funeral. At the time he'd felt bad waiting that long, but he was just so sad and overcome by grief once she was buried that he hadn't been able to get himself to go until a week had passed. It'd been almost two years for you.
During that pause before you parted ways you wanted to ask Jack. How to do this. How to visit. But you didn't. The words dissolved on your tongue before you could get them out. You couldn't ask him how to do this, it wouldn't be fair to him and it's something you need to be able to figure out for yourself on your own. And now that you've at least somewhat done it, you think, you know you needed to figure it out for yourself to help yourself grieve and heal.
You - You can come here
The breeze rustles the trees again much to your son's amusement. You can't quite figure out what he loves about it so much, if it's the feeling of the wind on his face or the sound the trees make or what but he keeps smiling and laughing when it blows, gets into a fit of giggles when one of the stronger gusts comes through. You've never seen him love the wind this much. Maybe it's tickling his cheeks.
Maybe it's his father tickling his cheeks, whispering something funny in his ear. Maybe the harder gusts where you can really feel the wind against you are his father hugging him. Hugging you.
The thought kind of levels you, feels real enough in the moment that you can't even tell yourself to stop being ridiculous and that it’s an insane theory.
"Dada!" Your son's voice is what brings your focus back this time. You follow his gaze and see Jack walking up to you. "Dada! Dada!"
"Hi Kid!" Jack kneels next to you because standing and towering over you until you stand up feels wrong. He helps your son stand and walk over to him.
Your son essentially headbutts Jack in the lower chest and upper abdomen with how hard he throws himself into Jack's open arms. "Dada!"
You and Jack both chuckle at him and you shake your head, look at the two of them fondly despite where you are and how you're otherwise feeling. Despite how much you wish you could see your son do that with your husband.
Jack hugs your son for a moment and then turns him as he stands in front of Jack so that he's looking at the grave. "This is Dada too, you know?" Jack tells your son, pointing at the marble headstone. "See," he reaches forward and grabs one of the photo frames you brought to put at the bottom of the headstone, "that's Mama and Dada and the first photos of you." The frame Jack grabbed has a photo of you and your husband holding the sonogram photos you got from your first ultrasound.
He wonders if that was weird, both in general and for you, if it felt forced or was inappropriate somehow. It just felt right in the moment.
Even if you could begin to find the words to tell him, Jack will never know how much that meant to you, how deeply it touched you and how much you appreciate him and the way he's committed to making sure your son knows about his father.
"Mama, dada, dada, mama" your son babbles, trails off into a hummed m sound.
Jack sets the frame back and turns his attention to you, studies you as you stare at your husband's grave. He knows you're not really ready to leave.
He grabs the diaper bag and pulls it closer to him, takes out a pack of tissues and sets them by your side. "Why don't I take him and give you some time?"
You don't nod, don't say yes. There's no need to. You turn to look at Jack and give him a small smile. "Thank you."
Jack nods. "There's no rush." He gets your son in his arms and stands back up, grabs the diaper bag. "Call or text when you're ready."
"I will," you whisper. "Bye, Baby." You wave at your son as Jack turns and starts to walk away, thankful he's such an easy going baby and is so happy and feels so safe and secure with Jack that leaving you if he’s with Jack is rarely a big deal.
You turn your focus back to your husband's grave. You let out a short laugh of disbelief at it. Your husband's fucking grave.
You've spoken to him a lot already, for over an hour while your son was here with you. You told him about almost everything. You told him about your pregnancy and labor and delivery and the bouquet of daisies the nurses got you and how you knew it was him. You told him about the newborn period, being postpartum, all of that on top of your grief. You told him about what life has been like, all that kind of stuff.
And of course you spent the most time telling him about your son. You told him your son's birth weight and length, how he was born with a good head of hair that he then lost how babies do before he got it back again. You told him about every milestone you could think of, all of the funny baby stories your brain could think of while dealing with your growing grief.
It feels like you have both nothing and everything left to say.
You haven't let yourself cry, didn't want to in front of your son. Some tears, sure, that was unavoidable. But you haven't let yourself cry properly, haven't let yourself sob against the grass or his headstone or into your hands as you sit here with him.
And you haven't talked about Jack. You don't know why but you didn't want to in front of your son for some reason. That felt almost like an adult conversation you need to have with him in private as insane as you think that sounds.
But now you're alone and you don't know where to begin. The words find you though. They find you and they pour out.
"You know what, now that he's gone, fuck you. Just, fuck you! Fuck you for dying! Fuck you for making me figure out how to fucking do all of this, how to visit your fucking grave!" Your vision blurs with tears as your chest starts to heave with something that feels like anger but that you know isn't truly. "You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to fucking be here for all of this! For his life! For the rest of mine! We were supposed to grow old together!" Your voice breaks over the last word as the energy behind your words dies. "And you died and fuck you and it isn't fair, it isn't fucking fair."
"I don't know how to do this. Any of it. And I wasn't supposed to have to know or figure it out and I wish I didn't have to because I wish you were here because I miss you." You finally start to cry, finally let yourself. "I miss you so fucking much it hurts, there's just this ache in the pieces of my heart and soul that are you because you're not here. You're not here with me and I don't know what to do with that. I don't know, I don't know, I don't, I, I…"
You break down, kind of. You've given yourself permission to cry it seems, but not to sob. Not to get out all of the emotions that you need to. Because if you do that then you won't say everything you need to say.
"I'm sorry," you sniffle. "I'm not really mad, not at you at least, the world maybe. And I don't mean the fuck yous. I just wish you were here."
"I'm sorry we don't visit more often. I know I said that earlier, but I guess I wanted to say it again. And I'm sorry I didn't come last year on the first anniversary. It was just hard. Things were already hard and traveling alone with a five month old, well, it's not…" You sigh at yourself and what it sounds like. "It's not that I wouldn't do hard things to be able to see you, it just didn't feel like it would be safe with how tired and kind of out of it I still was and traveling alone with a five month old, it's a lot, you know?"
Now you scoff at yourself. "Well. No. I suppose you don't know, do you?"
You're quiet for a few seconds in the wake of your question.
"I wish I could see you. And I wish you could see him and the beautiful boy he's grown up to be." You smile to yourself. "I see so much of you in his personality. It's crazy how that works. And god, he looks more and more like you everyday. He has your eyes and your nose and your lips and your dimples, your whole face really. And your hair. He has your hair." You shake your head to yourself, smile wider as you think about it, compare the two in your head. "I love it. I love it so much. I think the dimples are my favorite."
You let out a long breath. "I'd like to believe you can hear all of this. Please know I think of you every single day, that I miss you every single day."
The breeze blows again as you sit in the quiet for a moment and try to figure out what to say, how to say it. How to talk about Jack.
"I don't know how to do this," you repeat yourself. Your heart is racing and it's frustrating how hard you're fighting talking about it. You need to just say it all. You know it'll make you feel better. "I don't want you to hate me wherever you are. And I know you won't and that you don't and you want me to move on, but still… I don't know."
The beginning, you guess. You start at the beginning. "I met someone. His name is Jack. He's a widower so he understands. He gets it."
"We've been together for five months now. I hope you don't think it was too fast. I know you said to move on and be happy but some days I still feel so fucking guilty."
"Jack is… He’s sweet and caring and understanding and respectful and warm and kind. He’s so kind, so kind hearted and selfless. He’s a veteran. Guess I have a type." You laugh to yourself through your nose and tilt your head, grow serious again. "He's so incredibly good to me and for me."
This next part you really don't know how to say. You haven't said it to anyone other than yourself, and you only admitted it to yourself in full a few days ago which caused it's own fucking crisis for you with how close it was to this anniversary.
You force the words out.
"I love him."
You let the words linger in the air between you and your husband's headstone. "I'm… in love with Jack. I love Jack."
"And I know he loves me. Or at least I think he does. He makes me feel like he does, treats me like he does." You swallow hard. "I love him and it feels so wrong sometimes." You shake your head, let your lips and chin tremble. "It feels like I shouldn't be able to love again, like, like, I shouldn't even think about ever feeling that way again." You shrug deeply. "But I do."
"I love him," you whisper. "I haven't told him. I don't know why I felt like I needed to tell you first, but I guess I did. And I know I don't have to justify it to you, but… I don't know, I think it would make me feel better to say some things, I guess."
"Jack, he makes me laugh. He makes our son laugh." You smile at the memories of Jack making your son laugh that play in your mind. "And he loves our son, loves our little boy so much. Jack loves our son like he's Jack's own. And Jack would unhesitatingly die to save him. He would die a slow, excruciating death to save our son." You tilt your head and take in and let out a heavy breath. "But at the same time he doesn't try to be you. For our son or for me."
"I know he can't understand at his age, but I tell him about you all the time and so does Jack. Jack wants to make sure he knows you, knows about you, who you were, how you loved me, how you loved him. Jack is going to make sure he knows you and how you loved us. He takes that seriously, he worries about it, worries about taking things away from you."
"He goes out of his way to make sure he talks to our son about you. Like, one time at the park he found a bush of daisies with Jack and Jack told him, yeah your daddy got those all the time for mama, that’s their flower."
"He doesn’t want to replace you, for either of us." You shake your head as you start to tremble a little. "And I don’t want to replace you, as my husband or as the father of our son. So please don’t think I do." You press your lips together in a thin line for a second, try for some reason to fight back tears you know you couldn't get to fall right now. "Jack just, he makes me feel happy again and after you died I wasn’t sure I’d ever really feel that again outside the context of our son."
"It feels like he and I were supposed to meet and, and I love him and I hope you don’t hate me for that. I really hope you don’t hate me." You take in and let out a shuddery breath because these are some of your greatest fears and you're saying them out loud to him, or at least it feels that way, is that way metaphorically. "I hope you don't hate me and that you’re not mad and that I’m not the worst wife ever."
So many emotions are swirling through you it's like you're almost paralyzed. You want to cry so that you can let some of it out, have the catharsis you need but you can't. You’re stuck.
A bigger gust of wind blows and you feel something hit the side of your leg, jump at it a little because it's so unexpected. The wind stops as you look down at what hit you and there's no fucking way. There's just no fucking way.
You look around in every direction but there's nobody remotely close to you. It makes you wonder if you need to text Jack because you've started to hallucinate.
But then the answer catches your eye as you sweep your gaze back to your leg. The heavier gust must've shifted the bouquet you spot a few headstones down enough for the wind to catch just right and blow some of the flowers away. It's a pretty bouquet of baby's breath, carnations, roses, chrysanthemums, asters, a few ranunculus.
And daisies. Just like the one resting next to your leg.
You pick the daisy up and have to let out a laugh because what the fuck. What the fuck.
This must be how Jack felt with his dove.
Despite the gust of wind that blew it to you, the petals of the daisy are still intact. "So you don't hate me," you laugh as you stare down at the daisy. Tears start to stream down your face, your laughter giving way to your sobs as you finally let yourself fall completely apart.
You sob and sob and sob, choke on air and get lightheaded and feel like you might be sick as you fly through too many emotions at once. You sob until you can't anymore. Until your catharsis is finished. Until the tears run out. Until your sobs turn back into laughter.
You manage to spot the pack of tissues Jack left you through your tears and pull a bunch out. "Jack's wife," you giggle through a sniffle, blotting at your eyes and blowing your nose quickly. "Jack's wife did the same thing," you tilt the daisy at his grave, "with a dove. He'll love this. He'll feel so much better about his fucking dove."
Your laughter trails off and you take a moment to compose yourself again, get your face cleaned up and sinuses as cleared as possible, make sure all the tissues you've used are stuffed in your pockets.
"Thank you," you whisper. "I miss you more than I know what to do with and I love you the same."
You shift and move forward so you're on your knees, smile at your husband's headstone and reach out with one hand and brush the pads of your fingers over his engraved name. "I love you."
After lingering for another few seconds you force yourself up and walk away, daisy in hand.
As you walk you pull your phone out and shoot Jack a text.
You - I'm ready. Where are you guys?
Again, his response is almost immediate and you bite your lip at it, at the way he's sure to pay attention so that he doesn't make you wait right now, doesn't miss a text saying you need him.
J - We went over towards that group of trees that's off to the right if you walk in the direction we did. It's not too far. I put the blanket out and we've been chilling in the shade so I'll pack everything up and head in your direction
There's something about his message that you find adorable, though you couldn't say what.
You - Sounds good, I'll head in yours
You smile to yourself as you slide your phone back in your pocket and walk towards them a bit quicker. You're not rushing to get out of here, you just feel pulled to them, want to be with them.
Jack has just finished packing everything up and getting your son situated in his arms when your son alerts him that you've found them.
"Mama!" your son exclaims excitedly as he looks over Jack's shoulder. "Mama! Mama!" He starts bouncing against Jack in Jack's arm.
Jack turns around and sees you walking up to them with a daisy in one hand. Your son starts to clap his small hands together as he repeats "Mama!" over and over, making Jack chuckle as you walk up to them.
"Hi Baby!" you greet your son excitedly. You rest your free hand on his tummy and tickle it a little as you lean in and pepper kisses to his face pulling peeling laughter from him as he clings to Jack's shirt with one hand to help steady himself. It makes you and Jack both chuckle to yourselves and share a look as you pull away. "Hi."
"Hey," Jack says softly, giving you a small smile. His heart aches at your red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes, swollen lips and nose. You cried. Hard. A lot, he imagines. He knows what it feels like and he hates that it's something you have to feel too. "You okay?" The second the words leave his mouth it feels like the dumbest fucking question he could've possibly asked.
"Yeah," you nod slowly, return his smile and shrug shallowly. "You know."
"I do, yeah." Jack very deliberately doesn't reach out for you, doesn't hold his hand out for you to take. He wants you to initiate physical touch right now. He's not sure where you're at mentally and what you're okay with because he knows this has stirred up feelings for you and the last thing he wants to do is end up making anything worse.
He glances down at the daisy in your hand and keeps his smile as he looks back at you and raises his eyebrows a little. It's an invitation to tell him where the daisy came from, but a pressure-less one, the look in his eyes telling you that you don't have to answer at all. You don't even have to acknowledge it.
But you want to. You know he'll enjoy the story.
"I, um, I was talking to him about you and saying that you make me happy and you're really good for me, for us, and that I hope he doesn't hate me for being with someone else. Then there was that big gust of wind and it blew this daisy against my leg." You laugh softly to yourself as you look down at it. "The wind stopped at just the right time for it to settle there. I looked and there was a bouquet a few graves down that it must've gotten loose from."
"You got your own dove," Jack murmurs as he watches you study the daisy and roll the stem between the pads of your fingers, something so incredibly you about the movement that he smiles softly to himself.
"I did, yeah." You look at the daisy for another second before returning your attention to Jack. You take another step closer to him and hug him as much as you can with your son in one of his arms. When you hold onto Jack tightly he wraps his free arm around you and does the same and you sigh into him. "Thank you for coming. And for taking him so I could have some time."
"Of course, anytime." The way the peaceful quiet of the moment is broken up by the happy babbling of your son and his wiggles in Jack's arms is perfect. "And if you want to come back before we leave just say."
You pull out of the hug and nod at him, stick your lips out for a kiss that he happily gives you. "Thank you," you murmur again against his lips.
"Mama! Dada!" Your son starts bouncing in Jack's arms again, the hand not holding onto Jack coming to pat right where your and Jack's cheeks meet as you kiss how he seems to love to do whenever one of you is holding him and you kiss.
You and Jack smile into your kiss and press your foreheads together for a moment as you laugh and then turn to look at your son. "Can we help you Sir?" you ask him.
He stills for a moment and just observes you and Jack before giving a dramatic, airy "Gah!" and letting himself collapse on Jack's chest as he giggles.
You and Jack laugh together and shake your heads at him. "Ready?" you ask Jack. "He's getting tired. About time for a nap."
Jack knows you must be at least a little dehydrated with the amount of crying he's sure you've done. "Have some water first?" He raises his eyebrows slightly and gives you a hopeful smile that also tells you that there's no pressure.
The man melts you. He truly fucking does. He cares so much, so deeply, is so incredibly thoughtful. "Okay," you nod.
You grab a bottle from the side of the diaper bag he's wearing and have some. Maybe it's just your imagination or the placebo effect but you're pretty sure it starts killing the crying induced headache that was starting to build.
You put the bottle back in the diaper bag and smile at Jack. "Ready?"
He nods and your hand slips into his, fingers lacing together as you start to walk along the main path the way you came. There's as much quiet as there can really ever be with an awake nearly 17 month old as you walk for a few minutes, Jack giving you the quiet and space to settle back into things.
"I told him." You break the silence, squeezing Jack's hand. "After the daisy blew over and I stopped sobbing I told him that you were going to love this and feel so much better about your dove."
Jack lets out a quick sigh of relief and you both start to laugh. "Okay, I didn't want to say anything because it felt wrong and like it might seem like I was trying to make light of what happened which I wouldn't have been, or like I was trying to be funny at the wrong time, but you have no idea how much it makes me feel way less fucking crazy about my dove."
You and Jack look at each other and laugh harder.
"Hey, Dana." You smile as you walk up to the hub. It's a little after seven and you're here to drop your son off with Jack. Sometimes you wait for Jack at home and sometimes you come to the Pitt so your son can visit with everyone and just to change it up. "You seen Jack around?"
Dana's smiling widely at your son, mouthing hello to him before looking at you. “Hi!" Her smile falls a little and a touch of anxiety hits your system. "He’s uh, up on the roof getting some air. Robby should be in any second, I was going to send him up to go talk to Jack.”
Your smile drops and you look off to the side of her in thought.
You know about the roof. Jack has talked to you about it before. You know it’s somewhere he goes to think and contemplate and try to reset. You know it’s somewhere he’s gone to stand too close to a ledge that feels a lot like an answer and peace. A ledge you’re familiar with. A ledge that is sometimes just a thought and other times a little too much of a plan.
He’s told you he hasn’t been up there for that reason since he came over that time you were sick. The look on Dana’s face makes you think he’s not up there thinking or contemplating or resting. You nod slowly at her.
“Unless you want to go?” You can tell it’s her subtle way of confirming you know based on your reaction.
You give her a small smile and look down at your son and then back at her, nodding. “Would you mind?”
“Would I mind?” Her face lights up as she walks over to you with her arms out. “How could I possibly mind getting to hold and spend time with this perfect little boy? Who I was going to steal anyway!” Your son goes into her arms easily with a happy squeal.
You walk over and set his diaper bag on the counter of the hub. “He should be good, but if he starts fussing a lot please come get me, you don’t need to be dealing with that.”
“I think we’ll be just fine, right bud?” She walks with you over to the elevator so she can badge you to the roof since the button requires an access card. “Plus Uncle Robby will be here soon and you like pulling at his beard don’t you?”
You share a laugh as she steps out of the elevator. “Be good for Auntie Dana Baby,” you call to your son. “And thank you.” You look at Dana with a knowing smile and nod as the elevator doors close.
The ledge calls to Jack louder than it has since he met you. He feels bad about it, feels selfish, but at the same time his brain tells him that both of you would be better without him anyway. Your son deserves a better father figure than him and you deserve someone better and with far less baggage than him.
He’s not sure why this is what has sent him back to this spot. Well, he gets why. But in some ways it feels melodramatic on his part. He knows he’s tired and it’s been a long string of shifts, but still.
It’s just unfair. Life is so fucking unfair and he’s tired of it. Life has shoved it right back in his face again today. It conjures up too many thoughts. And just the thought of life being unfair to him again and taking you and your son away from him at the hands of a drunk driver, just like it did this vet, just like it did his wife, has Jack thinking about jumping just to protect himself.
Jack hears the door to the roof open and sighs. He knows it’s about that time. “Robby, I really don’t want to talk right now.”
Your heart drops seeing Jack past the guard rail. You don’t know what happened, don’t know why he’s hurting this bad but it terrifies you, as much as you understand the thoughts. You can feel your heart speed up as you walk closer to him.
If Jack had listened closer he would have been able to tell those weren’t Robby’s footsteps. “There’s a little boy down there who needs you and would be devastated if you jumped,” you call to Jack. Your voice is light. You’re not angry or aggressive or upset. You’re just stating a fact, trying to get him back to you. “Not to mention his mom. She needs you too and she’d be even more devastated, and sad, so fucking sad beyond words if you jumped.”
Jack’s head snaps to look at you over his shoulder. In his daze he’d forgotten you were dropping your son off this morning. He looks back out over the city without moving. “Who sent you up?”
You look at him as you lean against the guard rail. “Nobody sent me. I wanted to come up here.”
There’s silence for a moment.
“They’d be okay,” Jack finally says quietly, talking about you and your son in response to the first thing you said. It’s just loud enough for you to hear.
You shake your head to yourself even though he can’t see it. Your heart aches because you can hear his unspoken belief. They’d be better off without me. “They would have to continue on because that’s what life is unfortunately. And one day they would find a new normal. But they would never be the same. They wouldn’t be better off without you. You are important Jack. And I’m not saying any of this to guilt trip you, I promise I’m not. I just want to remind you that you are important to me. To him. That you’re needed. And wanted. I want you and I need you. I would miss you so fucking much Jack. I would have to grieve you. I would grieve you. The way we grieve them, and I'd grieve the time we didn't get together.”
Jack shrugs again. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“I’m not dealing with anything. I’m having a conversation with my boyfriend.” The way he’s unmoving and unwilling to acknowledge your words is starting to legitimately scare you a little. “Jack, I need you to come back on this side with me. Please.”
He can’t do this. Jack can’t solve a problem that doesn’t exist yet, especially in this extreme of a fashion. You’re worth so much more than the risk of the agony of losing you. So is your son.
He knows he’s important and needed and wanted, that there are at least two people depending on him. He knows he matters. He's known that of course, you've always made him feel like that, it's just easy for that to get lost in moments like these.
Jack lets out a long breath before turning and doing as you ask, slipping back under the guard rail and leaning his lower back against it. Your eyes track his movements and stay on his face as he settles, relief flooding you. “Thank you.”
He’s quiet for a moment before looking at you. A whole different batch of emotions joins the ones already storming through him. Guilt for putting you through this. Anger at himself for putting you through this and for feeling that way when he has you and your son. Worry that you’ll think he’s saying you’re not enough, not a reason to stay and so you’ll leave. “I’m sorry,” he whispers as he finally looks at you again.
You shake your head slowly. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” You know why he’s apologizing. You know the guilt he’s probably feeling right now.
He laughs a little. “Yes I do.” He looks away from you for a second and shakes his head before his eyes return to yours. “I don’t want you to think for a second that you aren’t worth it, that he isn’t worth it-”
“Hey,” you cut him off gently, reach out and squeeze his arm. “I don’t Jack. I promise you I don’t and that you don’t need to explain it to me, how your brain convinces you that people would be better off without you. Or that you’ll lose us so it’s better to leave before you have to feel that pain for even a second. These thoughts aren’t logical, they aren’t ones you’d normally take super seriously, but sometimes those thoughts are louder and all you can hear, even when you know at the same exact time they’re illogical. I know that it’s not about me and whether I’m enough or whether he’s enough or any of that. I know in the moment you think you’d be doing the right thing. Believe me Jack, I know."
"I had, have still sometimes, the same thoughts and I have a son. Just like you. It doesn’t mean I don’t love him or that he’s not worth it. But I understand that guilt and that worry and how it makes you feel like the worst person in the world for having so much to be grateful for and that makes you happy and still thinking about killing yourself. Still seriously considering it.”
You’ve never explicitly told Jack you’ve ideated about it before, but with what you’ve been through it doesn’t surprise him. He thought about it a lot, all the fucking time it felt like, for a while after his wife died. As much as he hates that you’ve ever been through the same pain and struggled with the same thoughts he’ll never be able to tell you what it means to him to have someone who understands. Who doesn’t judge. Who isn’t yelling or making it about them or threatening to leave, though he thinks you’d be justified for any of those.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, resting his hand on top of yours and squeezing. He’s silent for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, trying to figure out what to say. “I don’t even know why, why it got to me so badly and why I ended up here.”
“You don’t have to know why. Most of the time it rarely makes sense, why some things trigger it so hard and others don’t. And that’s okay.” Jack nods. You let another silence linger, wait to see if he’ll volunteer anything or if he needs you to ask, to let him know it’s okay for him to talk about it because you get the feeling it’s more that he needs you to say it’s okay than it is he doesn’t want to talk. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jack stiffens slightly. This is where it gets hard. He does. He wants to talk about it. He wants to let some of it out. He needs to talk about it. He could text Robby eventually. But he wants to talk to you about it. His girlfriend. His partner.
He knows he can, that's not the problem at all. He knows he can talk to you about anything. It’s just so hard when it’s something that could potentially greatly upset you and he never wants to be the cause of that, put you through any pain if he doesn’t have to. And only a week has passed since the anniversary of your husband's death.
“No, it’s okay.” He gives you a little smile. The definitiveness of his ‘no’ tells you that there’s a very specific reason he’s feeling like this and that he knows what it is. It tells you something happened and that it’s not him getting in his head for whatever reason. Confirms it really, because Dana’s expression had already told you something had happened.
“Jack, you can tell me,” you start gently. “You can talk to me. About anything, no matter what. I’m not going to force you of course, but whatever it is. I’m here if you want or need. And if you need I can go ask Robby to come up instead or-”
“No!” He interrupts because he doesn’t want you to go. Doesn’t want you to think he doesn’t want to speak to you. He doesn’t want you to move your hand off him. “It’s just. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It was just a little moment and it’s passed.”
“It matters to me. Whatever made you hurt this bad matters to me, a lot. It’s not a little moment if it has you contemplating jumping. It doesn’t matter what it’s about, how small you think it is, how trig-” Your sentence ends as going to finish it makes it dawn on you. It must involve either a DUI or a patient in the military or former military. Jack shifts on his feet and looks away. “Jack, you can talk to me about it. It doesn’t matter if it’s something you think might hit close to home for me or trigger me. If it’s too much and I can’t handle it I’ll tell you and we’ll figure out what to do, okay? You don’t have to talk to me, I mean that, but if you want to I’m here and I just really want you to know you can talk to me about anything.”
“I know I can, I promise.” He looks back at you and you can tell he means it. “I just don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.
You nod at him. You get it. You really do. You try to tell him with your eyes. “I promise you that the thought of you hurting and suffering alone like this hurts me far more than anything you could ever tell me would. And that doesn’t mean you have to talk to me about it. Just someone.”
Jack swallows thickly because he knows you’re being honest, he knows he means that much to you, that you care that much and that deeply about him. Those three words inch closer to the tip of his tongue. He shuts his eyes as he takes in a deep breath and lets it out. The urge to not look at you when he speaks is strong, but his need to read your face and reaction to see if it’s too much for you is stronger and so his eyes find yours again.
“Drunk driving victim.” He sees your grimace, your brows furrowing and lips pulling down. You know drunk driving victims are probably more common than you’d like to know, especially with him being on the night shift, but you’re sure it’s never really gotten better or easier for him. Jack lets out a breath. “He was a veteran. I coded him for the last two hours.”
"Fuck," you breathe out. Your eyes flutter closed for a couple of seconds as you squeeze his arm, not because it’s too much or hits too close to home but because you know that was a double hit to Jack and because your heart is aching for him, is hurting because you know how badly and deeply he's hurting.
And two hours. Two hours. Jack couldn’t let him go. Wouldn’t. Two hours is a long time, but especially to run a code. He must be exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally from that code alone, never mind the other ten hours of his shift.
“Oh Jack,” you murmur as you open your eyes back up. You pull your hand out from under his and away from his arm gently and he almost reaches out to grab your wrist to keep you from going anywhere. Because despite seeing your face and knowing it’s not, he’s convinced in those few seconds that it is too much for you, that it’s too close to home and you’re mad at him for telling you, that he’s too much for you. He won’t keep you here though so he doesn’t grab for you. Doesn’t move at all.
But you step back and stop leaning against the guard rail only so that you can step in front of him and wrap your arms around him tightly. “I’m so sorry. For him and his family and you.”
He’s still for a moment as your reaction processes. Your touch and your words. And then Jack’s hugging you back even tighter and you know you’ve just become all that’s grounding him to the world and keeping him from losing it right now and you’re glad you can be that for him, that he trusts you like this.
Jack bends at his hips and hunches to lean down into you and pull you closer as he rests his face in your neck. You let him pull you closer, squeeze him a little harder and bring one hand up his spine so that your fingers can scratch under the curls at the nape of his neck. You know how much he loves it already. He hums at the feeling, nuzzles into your neck a little more and breathes you in.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he mumbles against you. “It’s just unfair. The world is so fucking unfair. Survived over there just to come back here and get taken out by someone who just couldn’t be fucking asked to get an uber. Who, of course, walked away with a bruise and a scratch.”
“It is,” you agree with him. “It’s unfair and it’s cruel and I know I didn’t cause it but I’m sorry you were hit with such a huge reminder of that at the end of your shift. A reminder of her and of there.” Jack squeezes you tighter at that and takes in a shuddery breath. He won’t cry. Not here. Not at work. He can’t.
You stay as you are for a few minutes, Jack soaking in everything he needs from you. Your physical comfort and reassurance. Your understanding words about all of it, the ideation and standing on the ledge and being triggered and having so many things he’d rather not think about shoved in his face.
“Shitty way to end a shift,” Jack laughs humorlessly. You know what he means. Know he needs everything to lighten up because it’s threatening to drown him a bit and he can’t do that here.
“Shitty way to end a string of on days and start a string of off days,” you murmur. You feel his small smile against your neck and it makes you smile a little. You know things aren’t better, that he’s still hurting and it’s still weighing on him immensely. But you know it’s at least a little better. That somehow you’ve helped dull his pain. “Can I do anything?”
Jack shakes his head against you, basks in your warmth and closeness for another moment before straightening back up and loosening his grip on you so that you’re standing close together but can see each other. You keep one arm around him and let your other hand rest on his chest. “Seeing you and being here with me and listening and understanding is more than enough. Helps more than you know.” Jack brings one of his hands to rest over yours on his chest. “I’m lucky to have you.”
You nod at him. “I meant it Jack.” His eyebrows raise slightly in question as you look each other in the eyes. “He and I would be devastated if you died. You’re important to both of us and needed and wanted by both of us.”
Jack’s head tilts just slightly, a glassy sheen in his eyes for just a second. “You’re both important to me too,” he whispers. “And wanted and needed. And we’d both be devastated if you died, so you’re not allowed to either. Deal?”
You give him a soft smile and nod. “Deal.”
Jack smiles back at you, eyes roaming your face and dropping to your lips for a second before looking back up at you.
As Jack leans down and in to kiss you, you move up and in toward him, your smile remaining until a second before your lips connect in a sweet, tender kiss that lingers. That kiss, and the next, and the next, and the next that gets a little more intense as Jack's tongue gently licks along the seam of your lips and then into your mouth when you open it for him, are all healing, speak so clearly to how you feel for each other, say words that have been spoken a thousand times and words you've never said out loud at all yet.
“Thank you,” he murmurs as he pulls away, giving your forehead a kiss as he does.
“Thank you,” you giggle back at him. Jack loves the sound, loves knowing that he’s the one who pulled it from you. That kissing him puts you in a giggly mood even if only briefly under the circumstances.
He laughs softly with you, huge smile on his face. You really do make him feel better. “How about we go find that little boy and get you off to work?” Jack slips his hand into yours, lacing your fingers as you start to walk towards the elevator together.
You hum at him. “Yes to the first part. I think I’m going to take the day off though. I’ve been wanting a three day weekend.”
Jack stops walking and looks at you, a kind of horrified panic flooding him. “I would never do anything with him in the house or do anything to put him in danger-”
“Hey hey hey,” you’re quick to interrupt and soothe him. “I know that. I didn’t even think about that, it wasn’t a concern for me at all. I just want to be with you, okay? I promise. I just want to be with you.”
The thought alone could make Jack cry because he knows you’d never lie, that you’re being honest. You just want to be with him. Even if you don’t say it he knows you’re saying more than you just want to be with him. You’re saying you want to be there for him. Not let him be alone. You’re saying you know he needs you right now. “You really don’t have to, I’ll sleep while he naps anyway.”
You raise your eyebrows at him a little, a small, knowing smile pulling on your face. You both know that he’ll try to nap but that he won’t. Not if he’s alone with his thoughts. “I will too then,” you shrug. You look away from him for a second and your smile falls as you realize maybe he doesn’t want to be near you. He just had the death of his wife shoved in his face. Maybe he just wants space, to go sleep in his own apartment alone. That would be completely understandable. “Or you can go to your place and I can keep him, of course. I shouldn’t assume-”
“I’d like to be with you like normal.” Jack drops his voice. “I don’t want to be alone. I’d like to be with you too.” He gives you a small smile that you can’t help but return.
“Okay, then let’s pry him away from Dana and Robby and get out of here.” You give Jack a little smirk.
He laughs because he knows it’s probably close to the truth. Dana and Robby won’t want to part with him. Nobody in the Pitt will.
In the elevator you let work know you’re going to be out today before taking Jack’s hand again and walking back into the Pitt and to the hub. You come into view for your son first and he gets excited, a big smile and calls out “Mama!” for you. But when Jack comes into view his excitement skyrockets, and he calls out “Dada!” over and over again while he squirms in Dana’s arms and makes small grabby hands at Jack. Robby’s standing by her and the four of you all share a laugh at how excited he is to see Jack.
“Hi!” Jack greets him with a huge smile and outstretched arms. Dana has to keep a firm grip on your son until Jack gets close enough to take him because he loves to try and launch himself into other people’s arms sometimes.
“Dada, dada, dada,” your son coos at Jack, small hands clapping and then grabbing at Jack’s shirt.
“Good morning Kid, how are you today? You seem very happy.” He leans his head down and presses a couple of kisses to your son’s cheek, earning him happy giggles. Jack presses the side of his face against your son’s and turns slightly so they’re both looking at Robby. “Were you good for Aunt Dana? And a menace for Uncle Robby?”
“Really?” Robby shakes his head at Jack as you stifle a small laugh.
“He was a perfect angel for us, weren’t you?” Dana coos at him, tickling his leg and pulling more laughter from him.
You, Dana and Robby all chat once you’re able to coax your son from Jack so that he can go gather his stuff. It doesn’t take him long and after he runs over the board with Robby quickly the three of you are walking out, your son back safely in one of Jack’s arms. You grab breakfast for Jack on the way home and before long you’ve been at home playing with your son for long enough that he starts to fall asleep in Jack’s arms.
“I’ll go put him down,” Jack murmurs to you, standing and walking towards the nursery.
You nod at him. “Do you want me to meet you in the bedroom or do you need to be alone?"
"Meet me in there, please?" He gives you a small smile.
You can tell how exhausted he is, can see it in his eyes and how his movements are just a little more sluggish than usual. And even though you’ve only been together a little over five months and a bit, and have only been sleeping in the same bed together for two-ish months, you know that Jack won’t sleep a wink without you. You know that if he and you weren’t together he’d be back at his place alone staring up at the ceiling still, not getting any sleep for another twelve hours until sheer exhaustion forced him to get a couple of hours.
If he hadn’t jumped.
You pick up the front room a little, put some toys back in their spots even though you know they’ll be right back where they were within an hour of your son getting up. When you get to the bedroom Jack is already there, shirtless and in his boxer briefs sitting on the side of the bed taking his prosthetic off. “I probably won’t really sleep that much, so if you’d prefer to stay in the living room and watch something on the couch we can.”
“I bet you will more than you think.” Jack stays on the edge of the bed facing the opposite direction of you checking over his leg and giving you privacy while you slip out of your clothes except your underwear and into one of his shirts you pull off the top of the hamper. “I know you’re exhausted.” As soon as you start to slide into bed Jack follows. “Hand me the monitor. If he wakes and you’re asleep I’m going to leave you to sleep.”
Jack grabs the baby monitor from his nightstand and goes to hand it to you. He stops when he sees you in bed in just his shirt. It’s not the first time you’ve worn one of his shirts but it still makes his brain short circuit for a few seconds every time he sees you in one. He swallows hard as he hands you the monitor.
Once you set the monitor down you settle down into bed and roll onto your side to look at Jack. You scoot a bit closer to him and press your bottom leg against his. “Can I ask you a question? And you don’t have to answer it and can tell me to stop and to never ask anything like it again.”
Jack’s eyebrows raise sharply at that because he cannot imagine anything you could ask that would make him have that reaction. “Of course you can, and I really doubt that’s how I’ll react.”
You shrug and shoot him an I don’t know look before taking a second to gather your thoughts, grabbing Jack’s hand in the meantime and playing with his fingers. His eyebrows furrow. You’re genuinely quite nervous about whatever it is.
“I know you told me that you started working nights after your wife died." You pause for a moment trying to gather the courage to ask and praying you're not about to fuck everything up. "Remember a while ago you told me that your therapist said you found comfort in the darkness and so that’s why you like working nights?”
Jack nods slowly. “I do, yeah.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek for a second. “Do you think it’s that or do you…” you trail off, worried you’re about to make him so upset or mad or some emotion that he’s going to leave and never come back. “Do you think that’s really why you work nights? Or is it because there’s generally more drunk driving accidents on the night shift? And so it’s a way to, I don’t know, punish yourself almost. For not being there when it was her. I just wondered, I thought about it today on the roof. I wasn’t sure if being able to save them is more or less painful than losing them, like if saving them is almost worse in a way because you weren’t there to save her or if it brings you comfort, to know you’re preventing others from going through what you went through. Or if it’s some of both. Or I don't know, maybe it's not to punish yourself and it's just your way of honoring her. I shouldn't have assumed it would be negative.”
Jack blinks at you before looking away, eyes glazing over in thought.
He has never, never, thought about it like that. But fuck, now that you say it, it seems so fucking obvious.
You shut your eyes and let out a deep breath. Why did you have to ask him that? Especially now? Why did you put that on him and in his brain? He probably hates you for bringing that up and trying to psychoanalyze him. That’s not what he needed. He just needed support and what did you give him? More pain.
“I’m so sorry Jack, I really am, I don’t know why I thought I should bring that up.” You go to start pulling away your hand so you can get out of bed and at least give him some space until he’s ready to leave but the fingers you’d been playing with wrap around your wrist loosely, giving you the option to continue pulling away while telling you he doesn’t want you to.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m not upset, I’m just thinking.” He brings his eyes back to yours and nods reassuringly, sliding his fingers back through yours and squeezing your hand. “I think…” he trails off, trying to find the right words. He lets out a soft laugh and smiles at you. “I think my therapist is going to have a fucking field day with that one when I tell him about it.” Jack shakes his head. “I can’t believe neither of us ever thought about that. Or maybe he did and has just never said anything.”
"I'm not judging you for working nights or trying to say you need to stop or trying to say anything at all really." You give him a small smile back, try to let go of the fear you just had that you fucked everything up. "I don't know why I thought about it or asked."
Jack lets out a small laugh through his nose. "You see people." He shrugs with his top shoulder and makes a face to match. "I'm constantly in disbelief that you're not a therapist, honestly, with the way you see people and can get right to the center of them, the root of their problems."
"You'd think I would've learned to keep my observations to myself by now," you murmur. “Just listen when others talk, verbally or with their body. I’m happy to listen.”
There's something in the tone of your voice, an undercurrent to your words, that makes Jack start to crumble like he wanted to on the roof. Your words are an invitation for Jack to say whatever he needs to say, to do whatever he needs to do, to let go. They're a promise that you're going to be here with him through whatever happens next and for every whatever happens next in the future. They're a promise that he's safe and you've got him and that he can feel what he needs to and express it how he needs to and it won't make you go anywhere. They're a promise that he doesn't have to be alone through this pain again.
Jack's lips and chin tremble slightly but then even out because he's not quite there. "I don't want you to keep anything to yourself," Jack whispers, swallowing thickly as the walls he'd put up to keep it together at work and breakfast and for your son start to disintegrate, never meant to be permanent or particularly long lasting.
"I don't want you to keep anything to yourself either, Jack," you whisper back to him.
It lets him finally break.
Jack's face crumples as the first tears fall and he shakes his head slightly because he doesn't want this, he hates this, he hates making you deal with him like this and he hates that you know how he feels and he hates that his wife died and he hates that five years later it can still be so intense like this that it feels like yesterday, like he's back in that bathroom at the Vegas airport finally accepting it, and he hates this pain and how much it hurts, how it consumes every part of him and leaves no part of him unscathed.
"Come here, Sweetheart," you murmur as Jack drops your hand and starts moving closer to you, buries his head into your neck just below your chin as you remain on your sides, his bottom hand clutching at the shirt you're wearing at your chest, his top arm wrapping over you and clutching at the back of your shirt, legs tangling with yours.
You don't say anything. This isn't one of those times where whispered reassurances are really going to do anything or even be particularly helpful. You know from experience. Instead you make sure Jack knows you're there by running your fingers through the curls on the back of his head and scratching at his scalp and by kissing the top of his head and by rubbing his back with your top hand as you hold him close and let him fall apart into you.
And fall apart he does. Jack comes completely undone in your arms, sobbing into you and holding absolutely nothing back as he does, choking on gasped breaths and coughing, letting out nearly screamed higher-pitched sobs muffled against you at times as it all comes pouring out of him.
You hold him through all of it. Through every moment it seems like it might be slowing or stopping just to start back up again, through every hiccuped breath that doesn't want to come and makes him choke, through every sob and through every tear. You hold him.
Slowly Jack's sobs begin to slow and stay slowed until they finally stop for good for now. All that's left in their wake are swollen red lips, a swollen nose and sinuses, swollen, bloodshot eyes, and exhaustion that Jack can't fight against. That he doesn't want to fight against and that he knows you don't want him to fight against.
He pulls back his head so he can blink up at you, unfairly long eyelashes still a bit clumped together from his tears. Seeing him like this is heartbreaking but also a privilege in a sense. It's a privilege for him to trust you with himself and his heart when he's this upset and feeling this broken and in this much pain.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, voice heartbreakingly raw and cracked.
"Don't be," you whisper with a soft shake of your head, the set of your brows and eyes and lips empathetic and loving. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
There are a million other things you want to say. You want to ask if he needs to blow his nose, you want to ask him to have some water for you, want to say you're sorry and you wish you could make it better. But you don't. Because right now more than anything else what Jack needs is sleep.
"Okay." Jack can already feel himself starting to fall asleep, his blinks becoming longer and longer. "I…" It almost slips out. But even like this he manages to catch himself. "Thank you."
"Always, whenever and wherever you need, Sweetheart." You settle your hand back in his hair and your lips back against his head when he tucks it back under your chin. "Rest now, okay? Let yourself rest."
"I can't believe it's been six months." You smile up at Jack. "In a good way."
It's been a few weeks since you went to DC and you and Jack are strolling along the river on a North Shore Riverfront Park trail with your fingers laced together, the air chill and crisp, but not cold. It's comfortable in your light jackets. You've just finished a romantic date, not really to celebrate your six month anniversary because that feels almost a little cheesy, but also not not to mark the occasion.
Jack smiles down at you amusedly. "As long as it's in a good way." He winks at you and playfully bumps your hip with his as you walk.
As he'd hoped, the move pulls a little giggle from you that you speak through. "The best way."
Your words and your reaction and just the energy of the night and this feeling he's having tell Jack that this is it. This is the right time. Or as close to the right and perfect time as it's ever going to get.
He spots a bench coming up and nods at it. "Wanna sit for a little?"
"Sure," you nod, give his hand a squeeze and let him lead you over to it. You swear it sounds like there's the smallest hint of something to his voice but you can't place it and tell yourself you're imagining it. He, like you, probably just wants to prolong the night however possible. You miss your son of course but you know he's in good hands with Robby and Ro, and even if you went home right now, he's already asleep.
Jack thinks to himself that this is good. It feels right and it's not at home. He decided when he first started thinking about telling you that he didn't want to do it at home. He doesn't want it to go poorly and have it ruin your space for you.
He starts to second guess this being the right time as he sits on the bench with you, but he knows it's truly just that he's nervous, not in a bad way, but that typical kind of way for this admission, especially with the added layer of you both being widows. Sometimes he thinks it's a bit ridiculous of him but he told his wife, went to her grave one day a while ago and told her first. It just felt right for some reason.
One of his big things with this, like everything he supposes, is making sure you don't feel pressured. He doesn't want you feeling even the slightest bit of pressure about how to react or what to say in response and he doesn't want you to feel bad about any reaction you have or anything you do or don’t say and he doesn’t want you worried about him.
You both settle in on the bench and you lean into him, the outside of your thighs pressed together. It's not truly now or never, but Jack knows it is now.
Jack squeezes your hand and looks down at you. "I, I have to tell you something. Nothing bad, don't worry about that. It's not bad at all." He's giving you a real smile, but Jack has never sounded as nervous as he does now.
And despite him saying it's nothing bad your heart still begins to race. What if he just got diagnosed with some terminal illness or is moving to California for a job, or something like that? What if your definitions of 'not bad at all' are completely different?
He clears his throat a little and continues. "Once I tell you, if you need space after, need me to go back to my place tonight or for however long or forever or sleep in the spare room or anything like that, don’t hesitate to tell me because you’ve got it. Whatever you need."
You manage to keep your face neutral as you take in his words, try to think of something you think he would and could say that would make you effectively kick him out of either your bed or your house or your life. But you come up with nothing.
"It's, it's just that I keep almost saying it and the last thing I want is for it to slip out at the wrong time or in the wrong place. And I need to say it so that you know. I want to say it. I want you to know. But you don’t need to say it back," Jack shakes his head a little and it clicks immediately, you know.
Based on that statement alone you know what he needs to tell you, what he wants to tell you. What he's about to tell you.
He takes in a soft breath and lets it out, makes sure your shared eye contact is strong. "You don't have to say it back now, or ever, if you don’t feel it. But I do feel it, I've felt it for a while now, have known for a while and have been trying to find the right time and the courage to say it and I guess now is the time and I've found the courage."
“I’m in love with you." Jack lets out a breathy laugh and smiles at you, beams at you, honestly, in a way that makes him look so young and carefree and truly happy. Because as nervous as he is, he's not afraid of it. He's not afraid of how he feels about you. Jack isn't afraid of being in love with you, of loving you.
So with that same smile on his face Jack says it again, even simpler this time. Just three words. "I love you.”
I really do love these two, I'm so soft for them and reader's son. I'm so soft for dad!Jack and domestic Jack. 🫠🫠 I think we'll see much more of reader's son next time (though I honestly can't remember where we're going after this as I'm writing this note) and might skip some bigger chunks of time as their relationship gets more fully established. Thank you so so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed!! ♥️ I love hearing all of your thoughts and comments!
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𑣲 J .. ACKSON ᐟ brooks. :: extra, extra read all about it . . . brooks’ in his feelings & he can’t get out of it.
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 ₊ ݁ 𖥻 𝓷ali. 𑁤 no, i have not listened to ‘the bodyguard’ on quinn, so this might be a mischaracterisation! “HOLY MISCHARACTERISATION!” i tried not to do much, this is a grain. but i wanted to contribute to the bodyguard au tag for tyriq withers! if you’ve watched scandal, the scene between early olivia pope and governor (at the time) fitzgerald grant at the back of the bus inspired this. eeeeeeeeeeeek. no real warnings, other than mature language, implications of drug abuse, and a single mention of m!masturbation. & this is blackfem governor’s daughter x bodyguard! ˙𐃷˙ .ᐟ.ᐟ
——— 𑣲 Politicians were a superstitious bunch by nature. There was so much outside their control that they were worse than baseball players. Just as a pitcher couldn't account for a sudden shift in the wind, even the best political operative couldn't keep a campaign focused forever. It had been a bad month for Ensley-Bowser for America, and Leanna Yates, the relentlessly logical Leanna Yates was starting to believe they were cursed.
It started when one of your mother’s opponents — it didn't matter which, the guy would be gone before the Philadelphia State Fair — leaked the medical records of Demetrius Bowser. Your father’s been a dental surgeon in the state of Maryland for over two decades, and never has his practice seen such a drastic decline. He’s losing clients left and right now that his frequent stints in rehab have made national news. For two days, the Ensley-Bowser campaign has been forced to deny at the top of their lungs what looked like a Black man with a massive drug problem. Husband second, Black man first.
“We need to figure this out before the Wisconsin speech,” you could hear much of the conversation sitting just a row behind your mother and her campaign manager, Leanna Yates. After a while, the talk was becoming too . . . It was an ear-full. So, you hooked your tan-hued trench under an elbow and stood, holding the chair ahead as the campaign coach bus bumped and wobbled through a rainy Illinois night.
He’d been looking at you already from where he sat; the second to last row on the coach bus. That way, he could watch over, not just you and your mother, but everyone aboard. He practically grew up in the Yates’ family, joining her eldest son serving in the Marine Corps branch. Mrs. Yates referred him over to your mother nearly three states ago in the campaign run, convincing her that you needed a babysitter.
Though she didn’t use babysitter flat-out, she might as well have. She couldn’t understand how someone so educated, so introspective could be so rash and so stubborn; a loose-cannon, she told him. Mrs. Yates wasn’t the biggest fan of you . . . but the kids adored you: The youngest generation of today’s voters; called you The People’s Princess, Philly’s Finest.
You were relatable; constantly participating in the current media trends, responding to all inbox messages and comments under your posts. You were silly; the youth would recognise you out during your free period in their state and ask for photos, videos, you’d even crash a few backyard family functions and play rounds of basketball. You were unapologetically Black; wearing your hair big or wrapped low or just in a scarf if you must, clacking bangles and custom gold-grills.
It was easy to get a reaction out of you . . . which also had its tough consequences.
But that’s where Jackson Brooks came in.
There hadn’t been a brawl since Kentucky. Your mother, the Governor of Philadelphia, hasn’t issued a formal apology for your ‘unruly behaviour’ in three months. That was gold-star worthy . . . no one but Yates was counting.
He gave the seat beside his own a light rub, inviting you. After draping the trench coat over your new seat, you settled down and folded your hands in your lap, not yet saying anything. Before you made your way over, he’d been staring hard at the rain slipping down the tall window in torrents and listening to the creaky whipping of the bus’ windshield wipers. It was making him sleepy.
But he was up now.
“‘Least the problem ain’t me,” and you’re giggling. It was a great attempt at getting a conversation started, because Jackson did grin. And that grin tipped into a smile . . . dimples hiding as fast as they were shown off. “Almost four months clean,” he said then, teasingly: “you should be proud of yourself.”
“Am. Very much so.” Grinning at your playfulness, he shook his head and turned toward the window, fingers absently tracing up and down the denim dressing his thighs. “Need somethin’?” he muttered, glancing back. On a bus like this, boxed in, nowhere to go . . . he didn’t know what you could possibly ask for that he could safely give. Still, when it came to you, he’d handle it.
“No.” Because being next to him like this, you couldn’t ask for anything more. “Just a friend.” Jackson huffed a low response; he could be that. Turning ever-so-slightly that the moonlight slicing in glittered over the campaign button tagged on the pocket of his pale-white polo. The Ensley-Bowser logo reminded you: “Where I was sitting, I could hear my mom and Yates, ‘nd, y’know- “ A humourless breath. “- they were talkin’ next steps as I was tryna sleep.”
“How bad is it?” Jackson turned just enough so his shoulder pinched the cushion in, angling himself toward you without fully closing the distance. “Think Yates could clean this up?” Yates was a woman of her word; if she said she’d fix something, she did. But this was different. For how long could the team deny your father’s problem? Even after he and your mother preached his sobriety to a bunch of news outlets.
“You know her better than I . . . better than my mom- can she ‘clean this up?’” His tongue poked the soft inner flesh of his cheek, not actually thinking but just watching how your gemmed-earrings jiggled with the bus’ chugging. Aside from his personal bias, he’s witnessed Yates clean up the most stickiest, nastiest conditions for previous candidates. “Before Wisco’? Probably not,” he said, and honestly too. “Iowa though? Definitely.”
Which gave Yates a little under two weeks.
“What happened there? Were you shipped to Yates’ for disciplinary reasons, or . . ?” You’re adjusting your weight, trying to mimic his current position in the tight space provided. “I read somewhere that over forty-percent of misbehaved students end up joinin’ the U.S. military.” Structure, authority, promised to fix people.
Jackson was not a bad-kid. “Where d’you even read that?” His curiosity was genuine. “Forty percent sounds made up,” he said, staring at the fluff peeking just beneath your headscarf, and then to the soft cotton of that baby-blue silk blouse you were wearing so well; stolen from your mother’s suitcase. “Y’kinda just believe anything you read, or . . ?”
Then he caught it: your eyes, not quite where they should’ve been. Fixed on his lips. Maybe it was nothing. Just you following along, listening closely. That’s what it could’ve been. But he noticed. And he wasn’t exactly innocent either.
“No- didn’t get ‘shipped’ off . . . Dad died overseas, Mom didn’t think she could do it alone.” And your expression fell on instinct, guilt slapping hard across the face. “I’m sorry.” For more than just that. “God- Please don’t. Don’t be,” Jackson said, almost too calm for the subject, “Most people don’t know . . . ‘nd I like it that way.” He leaned back, shrugging to shake this feeling off.
And without even realizing it, you found yourself slinking downward until you were close to his level again, almost mirroring the way he was sitting peacefully. Hands fidgeted in your lap, plucking at the dried gel-polish for a moment before your eyes settle above his collar at the exposed part of his neck, hesitant but drawn in.
“. . . He would’ve liked you.”
You blinked up at him, mouth agape, trapped between surprise and disbelief: thoughts scrambling, fumbling for anything to respond with. “Jackson- “ you breathed, the word barely more than a whisper. He loved that. How his name sounded sooo good rolling off your tongue. “Say my name again,” he’d only ask once.
Swallowing, the faintest shiver ran down your spine and made the hairs on your arms stick up.
You really were beautiful, Jackson thought to himself. He thought it would be sooo easy to reel you in with soft looks and strategic light touches along your foreman, wrist, then hands. Jackson pictured it often: what you’d look like pressed against his body. All sweaty and hot. It’d be nice. But nice wasn’t the word that should be associated with sex, not when you were a seat away. Not when he could have —
Nope!
That line of thinking had to be shut down.
He’s spent too many nights fisting one out into a napkin and shaming himself for doing so. A month and some worth of tension wasn’t indicative of love. It probably just meant that the forced proximity of being your babysitter heightened his general horniness.
“Jackson . . .” carrying a low sigh that slipped through your teeth, paired with a weakening smile. And that was all it took to have Jackson melting and hardening in his boxer briefs. There’d been a glint as his fae softened, brows furrowing inward in a way that made your heart hang.
Jackson laid his head further into the cushion, eyes half-closed, posture loose but hungry; both fragile and needing at the same time. “You always sound so . . . pretty,” he said, hand dropping to pat a spot on your thigh. And before you could react, he leaned over and rested his head atop your shoulder, heavy in the most comforting way.
You stared down at his hand, tense, for touching it could somehow summon a few wandering eyes. This was so ordinary, so unassuming, and yet it felt monumental, frail in a way you weren’t used to. Your hand hovered above his, fingers curling and uncurling, unsure if you had the courage to close the gap.
Eventually, you let it happen. Your hand fell and brushed light over his. “Don’t fall asleep,” before you pressed down fully, fingers curling over his in a soothing gesture. He didn’t pull away, “Won’t.”
Relaxing slightly, you tilted over, letting your head lie gently on his. Eyes closed, you whispered, “I’m serious . . .”
cameron cade x black!oc
warnings: courtroom stuff, legalities and what not (y'all I barely watch criminal minds pls bear with me)
Tension clung to the polished wood of the courthouse. It settled in the soft rustle of pressed suits and lingered in the low hum of anticipation that always followed a high-profile name. Sianne sat at the prosecution table, posture straight but not rigid, fingers lightly resting against a closed file. She didn’t need to read it again. She had already memorized every detail that mattered. Across from her, the defense table remained empty.
“You’re quiet.” The voice came from beside her.
District Attorney Linda Taylor sat with her usual composed ease, one leg crossed over the other.
“I’m always quiet before a hearing,” Sianne replied.
Linda tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing before she continued. “Don’t tell me that you’re unprepared for this.”
Sianne allowed herself the smallest exhale. “It’s a straightforward case.”
“Mm,” Linda hummed sharply. “Seemingly straightforward cases are the ones people get comfortable in.” She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, gaze flicking briefly toward the courtroom doors. “Comfort is where mistakes happen, and we don’t make mistakes on record.”
Sianne’s posture didn’t shift, but her focus sharpened.
“Sounds like a circus outside,” Linda added, almost dismissively. “Which means every eye in that room is waiting for us to slip.” Her gaze returned to Sianne. “We don’t give them that.”
Not with this case. Not with this audience.
Because the defendant was Cameron Cade. Atlanta had loved him first, long before Hollywood decided the rest of the country should too. Sianne didn’t say it aloud. She simply adjusted her posture, smoothing out a wrinkle in her blouse that didn’t exist.
The courtroom doors opened.
Loud.
Chaotic.
Voices dipped, heads snapped towards the entrance.
Cameron didn’t rush, he owned the room as soon as he stepped inside. His suit was dark and tailored. Unremarkable at first glance, yet everything about him held attention anyway. He was composed. Effortlessly so. But there were details the media didn’t capture. The faint line near the back of his skull, barely visible. The slight tension in his shoulders when he paused. The way his eyes assessed every face in the room until it landed on her.
It was brief, but long enough for recognition to pass between them.
Opposing sides.
Sianne held his gaze a second longer than necessary, then looked down at her file as if she hadn’t noticed him at all.
By the time she looked up again, he had taken his seat. The last traces of movement faded as the room reset around them, attention shifting forward.
“Counsel, you may proceed.”
Sianne rose smoothly, buttoning her blazer as she stepped forward. The room quieted.
“Your Honor,” she began, voice steady, “the State of Georgia intends to demonstrate that on the night in question, the defendant knowingly engaged in illegal street racing on a public roadway, endangering not only himself, but every civilian unfortunate enough to be in proximity.”
A faint murmur moved through the gallery.
She didn’t look at them.
Her focus stayed forward.
“Mr. Cade is not unfamiliar with risk. What he is unfamiliar with…is consequence.” she continued, pacing once. “But risk, when removed from controlled environments, becomes recklessness. And recklessness, when it endangers the public, becomes criminal.”
Across the room, Cameron didn’t shift. Didn’t fidget. If anything, he looked almost thoughtful. Sianne’s gaze flicked toward him briefly before returning to the judge.
“The State will show—”
“—that I was driving fast.”
The interruption wasn’t loud, but it landed. Sianne stopped and the courtroom stilled.
The judge’s expression tightened slightly. “Mr. Cade, you will allow counsel to finish.”
Cameron inclined his head once. “Of course, Your Honor.” But his eyes moved to Sianne.
Sianne held his gaze for half a second before continuing.
“The State will show,” she repeated, unfazed, “that this was not an isolated lapse in judgment, but a deliberate choice made with full awareness of the potential consequences.”
She turned slightly, angling herself just enough to include the jury.
“Speed alone is not the issue. It is the context. It is the presence of others. It is the understanding that one wrong move, one miscalculation, could have resulted in irreversible harm.”
She let that sit.
Then—
“Mr. Cade,” she said, turning fully now, “would you agree that you were operating your vehicle at a speed exceeding the legal limit?”
Cameron leaned back slightly in his seat, one hand resting against the edge of the table.
“Yes,” he said simply. No hesitation or denial.
“And would you also agree,” she continued, “that you were not alone in doing so?”
A brief pause.
“Yes.”
“Engaged in what is commonly understood to be a race?”
Cameron’s jaw shifted slightly. “I’d agree there were other cars on the road moving at a similar speed.”
A few subtle but present reactions rippled through the jury. Sianne didn’t miss the wording.
“Similar speed,” she repeated. “Not coordinated?”
Cameron’s gaze met hers again.
“Coordination implies intent to compete,” he said. “I don’t remember signing up for anything.”
A faint almost suppressed laugh emerged, from somewhere in the gallery.
The judge’s gavel tapped once. “Order.”
But the damage, or benefit, was already done. The jury had heard it. Charm, restrained just enough to feel natural. Sianne adjusted her stance.
“Intent,” she said evenly, “can be inferred from behavior, Mr. Cade. Two vehicles accelerating in tandem, maintaining proximity, exceeding legal limits—”
“And yet,” Cameron interrupted again, more carefully this time, “no collision. No injuries. No property damage.”
He tilted his head slightly. “So we’re discussing what could have happened.”
“What could have happened,” she replied, calm but firmer now, “is exactly why the law exists in the first place.”
Silence stretched between them.
Sianne Garrett didn’t care much about making examples out of people, but she understood why the world kept trying to turn Cameron into one.
. ݁₊ ⚖️⊹ . 🏛️.ᐟ
The judge’s gavel came down with a measured finality.
“We’ll take a brief recess.”
The courtroom responded in layers rather than all at once. Chairs shifted, fabric brushed against wood, and conversations rose in low, careful murmurs that never quite crossed into disorder. Sianne allowed herself a slow breath as she gathered the papers in front of her, aligning edges that were already straight, smoothing corners that didn’t need smoothing. The movement was habitual more than necessary. Something to anchor herself in the brief lull between arguments.
Across the aisle, Cameron hadn’t moved.
It wasn’t unusual for a defendant to remain seated during a recess, especially in a case like this. There were conversations to be had, strategies to be adjusted, optics to be considered. But something about his stillness held her attention a moment longer than it should have.
“You’re pacing it well.”
Linda’s voice came from beside her, low enough not to carry.
Sianne didn’t turn. “He’s making it easy.”
A soft hum followed. Acknowledgment, but not agreement. “Don’t lose control of it.”
“I won’t,” Sianne replied, just as evenly.
She felt Linda’s gaze linger before it shifted away, already moving on to something else, someone else.
Sianne rose from her seat a moment later, moving just far enough to stand outside the immediate center of attention. Her attention had already shifted back across the room.
Cameron stood then. His hand slipped from the table, fingers flexing once before settling at his side. A flicker of disorientation, gone just as quickly as it came. The motion was small enough to go unnoticed by most.
It didn’t go unnoticed by her.
He lifted his hand, brushing it along the back of his head with a casualness that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It wasn’t a fidget or idle.
It was a check.
His gaze lowered, enough that the composure he’d carried moments ago seemed to slip out of focus. Then it returned. Then slipped again.
His attorney said something quiet, close enough that no one could dare to try to lip-read. Cameron didn’t respond immediately. He blinked, slower, and when his gaze lifted again, it didn’t return to his attorney.
It found her.
The noise of the room receded, dulling into softness. Whatever performance he had been holding onto disappeared with it, leaving behind a silent realization that he knew she had seen more than she was supposed to.
Just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed. Cameron straightened, whatever had slipped, settled back into place with practiced ease. The composure returned, seamless enough that anyone who hadn’t been watching closely would have missed the disruption entirely. His attorney guided him toward the side door with a brief, almost imperceptible touch at his elbow.
Sianne’s gaze followed him until he disappeared from view. Only then did she look down again. The file in her hands remained unchanged, its contents as familiar as they had been an hour ago: minimally documented prior head trauma, traffic citations, dismissed disorderly conduct. What had once felt like a steady pattern of poor decisions now blurred at the edges. Compensatory, maybe. If the behavior wasn’t the source of the problem, it most definitely was the result of it.
Her thumb moved absently along the edge of the pages as her thoughts shifted, reorganizing and reframing. Her grip tightened slightly on the file before she closed it, the sound soft. People began filtering back into place and Sianne returned to her seat, her posture composed and controlled, even as her thoughts remained anything but.
Cameron reentered her vision with his attorney at his side. Whatever moment had existed before the break was gone, smoothed over, tucked neatly in the crevices of his suit. If she hadn’t seen it herself, she might have believed it hadn’t happened at all.
Linda returned shortly after, taking her seat next to Sianne. She leaned in slightly, her voice low, precise. “Finish it.”
Sianne gave a single nod.
“Counsel.”
The judge’s voice pulled her cleanly back into the room. Sianne looked up, already rising as Cameron resumed his place at the stand.
“Mr. Cade,” she began, her tone even, less edged than before, "you've acknowledged exceeding the legal speed limit.”
Cameron’s gaze lifted to meet hers again. “I have.”
“And you’ve acknowledged that other vehicles were present.”
“Yes.”
Sianne took a slow, deliberate step. “What you haven’t clarified,” she continued, “is intent.”
Cameron’s brow shifted slightly. “I thought we covered that.”
“Not entirely,” she stated calmly. “There’s a difference between matching speed and initiating it.”
Silence settled, lighter this time, less confrontational.
“Were you trying to outrun someone?” she asked.
Cameron blinked once, slower than before.
“No.”
“Were you trying to prove something?”
His jaw flexed, but not in deflection this time.
“No.”
Sianne held his gaze. “Then help me understand the decision.”
The room stilled. Cameron leaned back slightly, his hand brushing the edge of the table before settling in his lap. For the first time since he’d taken the stand he didn’t answer immediately.
“I was driving,” he said finally, quieter than before. “Too fast.”
Sianne didn’t interrupt.
“And I misjudged it,” he added after a moment. “That’s it.”
A subtle shift moved through the jury. Sianne nodded once. “No further clarification on that point.” She stepped back slightly, giving the moment space. Across the room, Linda went still. It was subtle, but Sianne felt the piercing stare on the side of her face.
She continued to keep her argument clean, laying out the facts without overreaching, guiding the narrative without pressing for more than what was already there. Where she might have tightened, she allowed space. Where she might have pushed, she held the line instead.
It was enough. More than enough, really, but not everything she could have done. And she knew it. The judge’s final words came not long after. A reduced charge. Probation and community service. A consequence, but not a devastating one.
A murmur moved through the courtroom, subtle at first, then spreading in quiet waves as the judge’s decision settled over the room. It wasn’t loud enough to disrupt order, but it carried, threading through the gallery in low, indistinct reactions. Some sounded satisfied, others less so. Most, simply curious, the outcome had given them just enough to talk about but not enough to fully resolve what they had come to see.
Sianne gathered her things, sliding the file back into place as if nothing about it had changed.
“Your close wasn’t as strong as it could have been.” Linda’s low voice came from beside her.
Sianne didn’t look up immediately. She adjusted the clasp of her bag, ensuring it sat exactly where it should before responding. “It was sufficient.”
“I don’t ask for sufficiency,” Linda pointed sharply. “I ask for decisiveness. You had him.”
Sianne met Linda’s gaze directly. “I had the case.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Linda’s eyes narrowed, a small frown passing through her expression. Too brief to define, too controlled to linger.
“I’ll see you in my office Tuesday,” she said finally, already turning, her attention shifting forward before the conversation had fully settled.
Sianne watched her for a moment, the weight of the exchange settling more in its restraint than in what had been said outright. The earlier hum of conversation dispersed into smaller, quieter fragments as people filtered toward the exits. But as she turned toward the aisle, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she felt it again. Felt him, again.
Her gaze lifted almost instinctively, drawn across the room, and found his. Their eyes met across the space between them. There was no challenge in his expression, no trace of the easy deflections that had come so naturally to him earlier. His head tilted slightly, searching almost curiously.
Before the moment could stretch any further, the atmosphere beyond the courtroom began to shift. It was faint at first. Raised voices filtered through the heavy doors, the swell of commotion building just outside the controlled space they occupied. Then sharper. Louder. Distinct enough to interrupt the rhythm of departure inside the room. The sound carried in waves. Voices called out, movement pressed forward with the edge of impatience that came with his name.
Sianne turned toward the aisle, her steps more purposeful as the noise outside continued to seep into the edges of the room. She slipped through the remaining clusters of people without drawing attention, her focus set firmly ahead. As she pushed through the doors, the bright lights and raised voices hit her all at once. She angled away from it immediately, slipping past the edges of the crowd with practiced ease, her pace quickening just enough to put distance between herself and the chaos gathering behind her.
Inside, he remained.
And whatever had passed between them stayed there.
-
a/n: first chapter, who's exciteddd (moi)! saur sorry this is up so late y'all, i didn't know it was gone be over 80 degrees today so I was #outside. as always, thank y'all for taking the time to read and I appreciate each and every one of y'all! muahh, until next timee <3
You sit on the edge of the bed, Jack beside you, his voice low and careful. He traces the gentle planes of your face with his fingertips, speaking quietly about the little joints and hidden bones beneath your skin. His touch lingers, deliberate, as if memorizing every curve.
“This is your supraorbital ridge,” Jack leans closer, his fingers brushing lightly over your brow.
Then his hand drifts lower, cupping your chin. “And this,” he murmurs, tilting your head slightly as he traces the edge of your jaw, “over here is your mandible, and your zygoma,” His thumb lingers a moment, warm against your skin.
“Open your mouth for me,” he whispers. You obey, and his finger rests gently on the side of your face. “Good, this is your temporomandibular joint, feel that hinge?”
You can’t help but giggle, a soft, nervous sound that makes Jack’s lips twitch. With slow, deliberate precision, he slides two fingers gently into your mouth, pressing lightly on your tongue to examine its movement.
His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every little reaction and small movement, like he’s memorizing you completely.
Jack’s fingers slide a little further along your tongue, gentle but deliberate, following the line he’s been tracing. You feel the warmth of his touch deepen as he moves closer to the back of your mouth. After a moment, a light gag escapes you, soft and involuntary.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, keeping his touch careful as he holds your chin steady. “Here is the median sulcus of the tongue, and back there is the uvula.”
Jack gently withdraws his fingers, letting you close your mouth. You swallow, your cheeks still warm from the closeness.
“Good job baby,” he whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “But I’m not done yet.” He pats the bed beside him, guiding you to lay back, his voice soft but insistent. “Lie down, I need to see the rest.”
