BARE YOUR BLADE AND RAISE IT HIGH

33. She/Her. Australian. Fall Out Boy. Ghost. Rammstein. The Last Of Us. Dragon Age. Call The Midwife. The Pitt. Law and Order SVU. Criminal Minds. Alfred Molina. Pedro Pascal.

[mstarajoy]

the highest praise, the biggest compliment

[rr-after-dark]

“Everything Good in You” - Brendon Park x Reader

Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.

Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!

Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare

NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie

Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist

A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive

Word Count: 18.3k

Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.

In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund

[acecroft]

Ready or Not 2: Here I Come (2026) dir. Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Where the dead don't follow, part 4b

Summary: Finally united and on the way 'home', Jack and Y/N realize their feelings are becoming increasingly difficult to deny.

Warnings (for the entire series): age gap romance, unhealthy relationship dynamics at times, sexual content, descriptions of dead bodies, blood, injuries, murder, euthanasia, death, zombies, mentions, descriptions and insinuations of humans doing the worst possible things (stealing, physical, mental and sexual abuse), big trust issues (with reason), mentions and descriptions of mental health issues (anxiety, depression, grief, panic attacks, PTSD). It's not a light read, be mindful of your triggers and choose what's best for you.

Word count: 12k

Pairing: Jack Abbot x female!reader (Set in The Walking Dead universe)

Where The Dead Don't Follow - Series Masterlist

Nexalunne ~ "A longing to connect with another soul on a level that words can't touch."

----------------------------------------------------

They move through the forest slowly for her benefit. It’s not long before she realizes he’s once again adjusting his stride to match hers. She sees it in the way his shoulders angle forward before he reins himself back, in the tension bracketing his jaw whenever her step falters behind him. He knows better than to offer his hand every five minutes. Though they’ve been orbiting each other for a limited time, he’s learned that much about her. Help, pushed too hard, feels too much like a trap.

So he does something she finds worse and far more endearing. He takes shorter paths around fallen trees, holds branches aside until she passes, steps on unstable patches of moss first, testing them with his own weight before she reaches them, chooses ground that won’t be as draining for her leg, and he often pretends the detours are natural. All these little things make her chest ache in a way she refuses to reward with softness.

The forest is colder beneath the clouds. Staying on the edge of the city was too dangerous for Jack, so he lead them back into the forest where trees offer enough coverage until the team reaches them. He had offered waiting, but she insisted she could walk.

That was a mistake.

Damp leaves cling to her boots as rotting branches lie black and slick across the ground. Every few yards, something rustles in the undergrowth, and her fingers twitch toward the scalpel she still has, though it feels laughably small now. The dead are not near, but the woods remember them. There are drag marks in the mud where something without coordination moved through, scratches on bark, a torn strip of fabric caught on thorns, stiff with old blood.

Jack walks ahead, dirt on his hoodie, dried blood at his sleeve, exhaustion pressed into every line of him. He’s more worn down than when she met him in the mall. That Jack had more control over his moves, and over his own emotions, equipped with sharp humor she undeniably connected to first. This Jack looks like a man who has spent days wrestling death away from his home and returned to find she had invited it to walk beside her.

Still, he stands tall and watches. When the trail narrows, he turns sideways and holds back a dripping branch so it doesn’t slap her in the face. Y/N ducks under it, close enough to catch the scent of sweat, smoke, and pine lingering beneath the blood on him. Her pulse answers the familiar longing she’s been wrestling with before she can silence it.

“Where were you?” she asks.

Jack releases the branch only after she clears it. It snaps back into place behind them with a wet whisper. He doesn’t look at her.

“You were gone for almost a week,” she adds, hating the accusation in her voice and hating more that it sounds like hurt.

His steps slow a fraction. “Had to lead a horde away,” he replies dryly. “It took longer than expected.”

A horde.

The word’s enough to turn her blood to ice. She pictures him beyond the walls, silver hair damp with rain, knife in hand, walkers spreading between trees in numbers large enough to bend the world around them. Jack was out there on his bad leg, drawing them away from the only place left that has children laughing in gardens.

Her throat tightens. “Are you hurt?”

Now he does glance back. A lopsided grin cuts across his face, tired but still devastatingly attractive. It starts at one corner of his mouth, pulling the line of his cheek upward, deepening the faint crease beside his eye. Dirt and exhaustion should dull it, and yet, somehow the grime makes him look even more infuriatingly alive, roughened at the edges, silver hair falling over his forehead only make him more difficult to look away from.

“Are you worried about me, sweetheart?”

Y/N abruptly steps to the far edge of the trail, pretending to watch the dense undergrowth. He lets out a quiet, amused breath through his nose, his lips stretching into a proud, knowing smile as he tracks her sudden modesty. Her eyes track the passing tree trunks, but the bright flash of his teeth breaks through her peripheral vision every time he turns his head to check her reaction.

“I’m worried,” she mutters finally, “that if you collapse, I’ll have to drag your oversized body back to civilization. And I don’t have that kind of generosity in me.”

His low chuckle ripples through the foggy air, dissolving her fragile composure. It enters her chest like a sudden splash of warmth against the damp chill of the woods, making it impossible to draw a full, steady breath. She keeps her eyes turned to the trees, wishing the autumn wind could cool the sudden, burning evidence of his effect on her.

She turns just enough to scowl at him, refusing to hide away and let him be smug about it.

Jack’s eyes brighten at the brave glance. “I find it cute.”

Her brows lift. “Excuse me?”

“You’re like a hedgehog.”

Sighing, she locks eyes with him. “I’m going to regret asking -”

“Prickly all around.” He leans slightly toward her as they walk, voice dipping lower. “Mushy on the inside.”

Her mouth falls open. “I’m sorry, did you hit your head dealing with the horde?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he continues, all too happy with himself. “It’ll be our little secret.”

Rolling her eyes, she presses her lips in a thin line, refusing to let a smile loose. Before she can produce a decent insult, the sound of engines growls through the trees.

Y/N’s body reacts instantly as the sound rips through her like a bullet. Her hand snaps out, catches Jack’s, trying to yank him along as she rushes toward the nearest tree. Bark scrapes her shoulder and her heart bolts into her throat. Engines mean people, and people mean weapons and that always leads to violence.

He stops at the tree, but he doesn’t budge, remaining standing tall in the open like a stubborn broad shouldered wall of warmth.

She turns on him, whispering harshly, “You might be strong and trained, but you’re not winning against a group.”

The engines grows louder…more engines that she can count now.

Her grip tightens around his hand. “Jack, please.”

His expression softens before he can hide it, the amusement draining from his mouth, his eyes warming in a way that makes her hate how desperate she must sound. His fingers close around hers, firm and grounding. Then he lifts her hand.

Holding her breath as the back of her hand brushes his mouth for one brief kiss, just barely felt, but burning like embers sends heat flashing up her arm so suddenly she forgets the approaching group for half a second.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs against her skin. “They’re my people.”

She stares at him through the gloom of the forest, trying desperately to anchor herself to his words, yet her heart continues to hammer a frantic warning against her ribs as if navigating a completely different reality.

Even with her fingers securely folded inside his steady, unmoving hands, an involuntary tremor ripples through her palms, rendering his physical reassurance entirely useless. She understands intellectually that he means her no harm, but that rational realization dissolves against the primitive, unyielding language of her own trauma, which recognizes only threat and refuses to translate his comfort.

“You could have warned me,” she bites out, yanking her hand back.

Jack’s mouth curves faintly as the first motorcycle breaks through the trees. “I would have,” he says, “but you were busy running away. Besides, you knew they were meeting up with us.”

Her eyes narrow.

Three motorcycles emerge from between the trunks, engines rumbling low, tires chewing through wet leaves. The riders wear layered jackets, weapons strapped close, faces alert behind dirt. They move with a synchronized precision that immediately sets them apart from the chaotic brutality of raiders, their tight formation fracturing the moment their headlights catch Jack standing in their way.

In an instant, the aggressive momentum of their advance stalls, their shoulders dropping into a profound deference that borders on reverence, tempered by a sharp, visible caution. Y/N watches the transition with a mounting sense of wonder, her instinct picking up on the invisible threads of Jack’s authority binding the group together well before she can rationalize the scene, understanding intuitively that these men do not merely respect the man holding her hand; they are utterly terrified of failing him.

“You didn’t think we’d walk all the way back with the state of your leg, did you?” Jack asks.

Her attention snaps back to him. His gaze flickers to her calf, then to her face, gauging the damage without making a show of it.

“You’ll have to ride with me,” he explains.

The blood drains from her face. “I’m not -”

“You’re free to choose one of them if that makes you more comfortable.”

He says it evenly, but his tired hazel eyes stay locked on hers, searching, waiting to see which fear wins: him, or strangers.

A sharp breath flares her nostrils as the full weight of her situation crashes down, forcing her gaze to dart frantically toward the overgrown city path stretching out behind them. It lies there like a fading lifeline to the world she knows, and she stares at it with a desperate, trapped longing, acutely aware of how quickly this has transformed into something she’s not entirely sure she’s ready for.

Reading the desperate intent written across her face, his voice lowers. “Don’t run.”

Her body stiffens with his warning. “Are you saying I have to go back with you?” she asks. “That I’m a prisoner?”

Jack closes his eyes for a brief, pained moment, releasing a sharp breath through his nostrils as he steps forward to offer comfort, a movement that only succeeds in sending her stumbling backward over the damp leaves.

The muscles in his jaw bunch tightly with an irritation aimed solely at his own lack of foresight, a quiet fury because he constantly underestimates the deepths of her fear, which reacts to his physical presence as an act of aggression rather than an offer of safety.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he counters, the words carrying a desperate gravity as he tries to dismantle the invisible wall shifting between them.

“Then why did you come for me? Why are you trying to make me come back? Why won’t you just let me go?”

“Because I don’t play about your life.” The words come too quickly, with too much honesty. He looks briefly away, throat moving as though he has swallowed the wrong truth and it cut going down.

“I don’t…” His eyes return to hers, speaking quieter so no one would hear. “I saw you in that mall, and I swear to God I felt alive for the first time in years.”

The forest stills, or maybe she does.

Y/N searches his face for mockery, exaggeration, seduction, strategy. There is none. Dirt streaks his cheek, exhaustion shadows his eyes, yet his stare is steady, stripped of all his usual dark charm, and the honesty in it steals every sharp remark from her tongue. Warmth spreads through her chest in frightening intensity, pushing at her ribs from the inside, asking to be let out.

Jack Abbot, for reasons she cannot understand, cares about her in a way that is not casual, or convenient. Not the way a doctor cares for a patient or a leader cares for a liability. It’s heavier than that, more personal and far more dangerous.

“Are you saying you like me?” she raises her brows. Her lips part, twitching as if a smile is trying to break through.

Jack doesn’t fight his. The smile comes slowly and then all at once, brightening him in a way that makes the forest seem less gray. His eyes crease at the corners, the hard line of his mouth softens into something almost boyishly reckless. He looks pleased with her for asking and pleased with himself for making her ask, but beneath that is relief, deep enough to make his smile tremble at the edges before he steadies it.

“I’ll tell you if you come back with me.”

“On a motorcycle?”

He snorts. “Yes.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, biting her lower lip before the threatened smile can fully betray her. “If I come with you, I get ten questions. Nothing’s off limits.”

Jack folds his arms across his chest. The movement stretches his hoodie over his shoulders, and even annoyed with him, she notices. His body is made to be noticed.

“Five,” he counters.

Her eyes narrow. “Eight.”

“Five,” he repeats, rougher.

She crosses her arms too, mirroring him without meaning to. “Six.”

He shakes his head, slow and warning. “Three.”

“Hey.” She points her index finger at him. “You said five.”

“And now it’s three. Keep arguing, it’ll be one.”

“You negotiate like a dictator.”

“Three questions! Going once…going twice!”

She locks her eyes onto his, her gaze sharpening into a fierce, beautiful challenge that refuses to give him an inch. He absorbs the impact of her look with absolute ease, his eyes crinkle at the corners as a smug, knowing smile bleeds across his features, transforming his teasing warning into something that feels intoxicatingly intimate.

“Fine,” she snaps.

Jack claps once, startling a bird from a nearby branch. “Great. We’ve got ourselves a deal.”

She mutters something unkind under her breath.

He turns toward the riders. “Owen, you ride with Seth. I need the bike.”

One of the men dismounts immediately. He is broad, bearded, and armed, but the second Jack addresses him, his shoulders tighten. He nods without question and backs away from the bike, eyes lowered for a fraction before meeting Jack’s again.

“Yes, sir.”

Y/N tracks the silent communication passing between them, acutely aware that the comfortable respect Jack commanded among the doctors and nurses has been replaced by something far more formidable. The riders fall into an alert, protective formation that positions Jack as the literal axis upon which their survival spins, their movements projecting a tight restraint that keeps the untamed forest at bay.

It’s a darker, far more serious brand of loyalty than she has ever witnessed, grounded in an instinctual recognition of a power that requires no loud threats or posturing to maintain its flawless, terrifying control over the men who serve it. Their immediate compliance exposes a deep-seated discipline that springs not from the fear of a tyrant's temper, but from the sobering knowledge of an ultimate accountability under a leader whose directives are absolute law.

She suspected Jack was near the top of the food chain for a while, but now she sees the truth: Jack is the top.

He looks back at Y/N, and the command in his face gentles so quickly it gives her emotional whiplash.

“Normally, I’d say don’t ride a bike without a helmet,” he tells her, leading her toward the motorcycle. “But we’re deficient in those, so we’ll have to skip the safety lesson today.”

“How comforting.”

“You wanted honesty.”

“I wanted answers.”

“You negotiated poorly. I’ll have to teach you to do that too.”

She whips her head around to look at him, her eyes flashing with a beautifully manufactured hostility designed to melt the smug grin right off his face. She locks her jaw to keep her lips from turning up at the corners, throwing every ounce of her energy into a mock scowl so he won't catch the exact moment her defenses crumble under his charm.

A lopsided, knowing smirk settles onto his face, marking the exact moment he claims his victory over both their argument and her stubborn pride. He tracks the sharp lines of her little scowl with pure delight, completely immune to the venom in her eyes because he can already feel the invisible threads of his charm pulling her closer, regardless of how much she fights it.

When he turns to his men, the warmth and charm vanish instantly.

“Sweep the trail,” he orders. “Make sure we weren’t followed by the dead, especially by the living. If you stumble onto anything hostile, make sure it never takes another step. Clear?”

The response comes in unison. “Yes, sir!”

Y/N stands beside the bike, watching him, further confirming her initial theories about him were entirely wrong. Maybe she will keep being wrong until there is nothing left of her old assumptions but ash.

The riders start their engines and tear away toward the city’s edge, leaving churned leaves and exhaust behind. Jack remains with the bike, one hand resting on the handlebar, the other extended toward her.

“Shall we?” One cocky brow lifts.

Y/N looks at his hand, then at him and this time, she doesn’t hesitate. She takes it. The contact lasts only a second, just long enough for him to help her onto the back of the motorcycle. His palm is warm, callused, steady. It sets her nerves alight, heat skittering beneath her skin and climbing into her cheeks before she can look away.

“I’ve never been on a bike before,” she confesses.

Jack swings one leg over and settles in front of her, broad back filling her view. The engine rumbles beneath them, vibration traveling through the frame into her thighs, her stomach, her ribs.

He glances over his shoulder. “It’s pretty straightforward. Hold on tight, keep your head down, and don’t fall.”

“How poetic.”

“I save my best material for women not bleeding all over me.”

She smiles despite herself as her arms snake around his middle carefully, at first, testing. His body goes still for half a breath.

“Like this?” she asks.

His fingertips brush over her forearm, adjusting her hold a little lower, firmer around his waist. She cannot see his face, but she hears the grin in his voice.

“Perfect.”

The word sends warmth through her that has nothing to do with the motorcycle or the fever she hopes is gone.

Y/N rests her left temple between his shoulder blades. His body is solid beneath her, strong, warm through the hoodie and alive in a way that feels almost overwhelming after so many months of avoiding human closeness like a loaded gun.

She tightens her arms when the bike lurches forward, and Jack covers one of her hands briefly with his, pressing it against his stomach like a silent instruction, a reassurance and a claim he’s careful not to make too obvious.

Then they are moving.

The forest begins to blur. Wind lashes her face, pulling at her hair, carrying the smell of wet leaves, exhaust, dirt, and Jack’s pine and smoke scent. She keeps her head low as he told her, cheek pressed to his back, eyes closing after a while because the motion is too much and not enough. Fear lives there, yes, coiled tight around her spine, but beneath it is something wilder: freedom and his quick, powerful heartbeat under her palms.

For the first time in longer than she can measure, closeness is something she chooses, revels in and while this choice scares her half to death, it feels good…more than good. It feels right.

The thought makes her hold him tighter.

Jack’s hand drops once to cover hers again, only for a second, like he understands.

They ride until time loses edges. Trees streak past, the trail narrows, dips, rises. Jack handles the motorcycle with terrifying competence, leaning into turns, adjusting for mud, avoiding roots and debris with tiny shifts of muscle she feels through her entire body. At some point, exhaustion catches her from behind and her eyes close. Her grip stays locked around him, but her mind slips into darkness.

A violent jolt snaps her awake and her body jerks. Jack’s hand clamps over her wrist, keeping her pressed tight against his back.

“Hold on,” he barks.

She lifts her head as the bike swerves hard. Her stomach flips. “What’s going on?”

Then she sees them. Behind them, between the trees, the dead are pouring through the forest. There’s dozens…more than dozens of loose, staggering tides of bodies moving in their direction Some still wear scraps of old jackets, work uniforms, hospital gowns, hiking gear shredded by weather and teeth. Their faces are a horrifying: cheeks torn open, eyes filmed white, scalps peeled back, teeth snapping at empty air. One walker stumbles with both arms missing below the elbow, useless stumps lifted as it lurches forward. Another drags its intestines through the leaves, black ropes catching on roots until it tears itself free without noticing.

They groan as a mass, like a rotten choir clawing at Y/N’s sanity. Panic floods her chest so quickly her hands lock around Jack’s hoodie.

“The fucking horde is making its way back,” he grits out, taking a sharp left between two trees, “and I’m going to steer them away.”

Away from the city, from Dana, Perlah, Mel, away from children and laundry lines and hospital rooms with clean sheets, away from the only last breath of civilization Y/N has seen in two years.

She presses her face back against Jack and holds on.

Hours stretch into a fever dream of speed and terror. Jack rides just close enough for the dead to follow the engine, far enough not to be surrounded. Whenever the horde begins drifting toward the direction of the city, he angles away, drawing their attention back with bursts of noise, revving hard, circling once, then cutting through trees where the motorcycles can pass and walkers cannot move quickly enough to swarm. The dead follow because the dead don’t understand strategy, they understand sound.

Y/N keeps her arms around Jack tight, his back against her chest, his body leaning, her body following as one.

The sky darkens and the forest grows unfamiliar.  She knows they won’t make it back tonight without him saying it.

His shoulders shift beneath her arms, tension gathering.

“Hold on tight,” he orders.

She obeys without arguing, without sarcastic remarks. He needs her to stay in line, to keep herself safe, because if she falls off, or even loses her bearings for a moment, he’ll lose focus and they’re both lost.

So, her hands knot into his hoodie, fingers pressing against the hard muscle beneath. The bike surges forward so suddenly she swears her soul lags behind, still sitting somewhere in the last patch of mud while her body tears through the trees with Jack.

The ground drops ahead, leading toward a chasm they won’t survive.

Using the last of her breath to utter his name, she closes her eyes as he speeds up impossibly.

“Jack -”

They hit the rise and for a moment they are airborne. For a heartbeat, there is no world, only cold air, roaring engine, Jack’s body under her arms, and the impossible sight of a chasm opening beneath them. The horde behind them reaches the edge in a shuddering wave, some walkers already tumbling forward, bodies dropping without fear or understanding.

The bike lands hard, and her breath comes back in a gasp.

The impact slams through her body and pain erupts in her leg. The wind is knocked out of her, lungs clamping down as if she has forgotten how to breathe. Jack fights the bike into control, tires skidding over loose ground before finally stopping several yards from the edge.

He’s off the bike instantly.

“Y/N.”

Only a thin wheeze comes out as an answer.

Jack’s hands are on her cheeks before she can decide whether to flinch. Warm palms and steady fingers steady tilt her face up so he can see her eyes.

“Look at me.”

She drags in air. It hurts, but she shakes it off.

“I’m fine,” she breathes.

His eyes move over her face, down her shoulders, her arms, her leg, back to her pupils. Hazel is sharpened by guilt, fear, focus. His thumbs hover near her cheekbones, barely touching, as if he wants to hold her harder and knows he has no right.

“I’m fine,” she repeats, stronger this time.

Jack releases a heavy breath. His hands remain there another second, before reluctantly letting go. Guilt stays etched across his face, deepening the lines around his eyes. He looks back toward the jump, toward the chasm, toward the distant groans of walkers trapped on the other side or tumbling uselessly into the dark below.

He hates himself. She sees it clearly. He hates that he put her in danger after promising safety, that he risked her body to save the community, that he had to make the kind of decision leaders make and lovers resent.

The realization hits her with strange tenderness. She doesn’t feel anger and no resentment rises. If anything, awe moves through her. Jack made the choice in seconds: calculated speed, distance, terrain, risk, the horde’s movement, her grip, the bike’s weight, his own exhaustion. He did something reckless only because competence made it possible.

Her respect for him deepens until it becomes almost indistinguishable from the feeling she keeps trying to deny.

“What you did there,” she starts.

Jack looks away, already bracing for words of judgment. “Was reckless. I know.”

Y/N reaches for him with a sudden, beautiful recklessness that closes the remaining distance between them with a breathy boldness that catches both of them entirely off guard. Her hands cup his face, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his jaw. His beard scratches lightly against her palms. His skin is warm, covered in sweat and dirt and she doesn’t care. The position brings him closer, forces his eyes back to hers, where she most desires they’d stay. She can feel the tension in his jaw and the way it loosens by a fraction under her touch.

“No,” she says. Her thumbs rest near his cheekbones. One moves before she can stop it, brushing gently across the dirt there, over the hard line of bone. “It was incredibly brave.”

A profound shadow falls over Jack’s gaze as his eyes darken, losing every trace of the formidable leader, softening into something beautifully unarmored, because his heart recognizes exactly what this gesture means: she’s giving him the touch and the unforced trust he has desperately craved from her. He remains frozen under her hands, his breath catching in his throat in sheer incredulity as he drinks in the realization that she’s no longer retreating, but actively choosing to anchor herself to him.

She licks her lips, and his gaze drops for the briefest second before snapping back up, like he is fighting himself with every breath.

The forest around them grows heavy with distant, dead sounds from beyond the dark chasm, while the rapidly gathering night tangles itself hopelessly in the branches above. A sharp, rhythmic throb pulses through her injured leg, her entire body aching and still half-vibrating with the residual adrenaline of the jump they barely survived. It’s an entirely terrible, unglamorous moment to be vulnerable, but perhaps that is precisely why her carefully guarded defenses finally crumble, leaving her with no strength left to hide the truth of how she feels about him.

“I like you too, Jack Abbot.”

Holding his breath, he tilts his head as she continues with a softer tone, but her voice doesn’t lose strength. She means what she’s saying and she’s not shying away from it.

“More than I should. More than I deem safe.” A faint tremor moves through her fingers against his face. “I like you.”

The smile that rises on him is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. It doesn’t arrive like his charming smirks do. It begins slowly, almost disbelieving, as if her words have reached a locked room inside him and opened it without asking. His eyes change first; the guarded sharpness in the hazel warms, light gathering there in layers, relief and wonder and a flicker of dangerous joy he cannot quite contain. Then his mouth softens, parts slightly, curves upward with a tenderness so naked it makes her chest hurt.

The smile reshapes him. For a moment, the commander, the doctor, the man everyone fears, all of it falls away. He looks younger, like a man who has been handed something fragile in the ruins and doesn’t know whether to protect it, worship it, or beg it not to disappear.

Y/N forgets every argument she has ever made against wanting him.

Jack lifts one hand slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she doesn’t, his fingers wrap lightly around her wrist. His thumb presses over her pulse, feeling how wildly her heart is beating beneath her skin.

“Y/N,” he murmurs.

There is too much in the way he says her name; too much hunger, too much restraint, too much aching relief.

As she leans an inch closer, a dead groan drifts from somewhere behind them, separated by distance but still present. Jack closes his eyes briefly, his smile turning smaller, almost pained as reality comes knocking. When he opens them, the softness remains, but discipline folds itself around it.

“Come on,” he says, voice rough. “We have to find a place to rest for the night.”

She lets her hands fall from his face slowly. His fingers trail from her wrist as if reluctant to stop touching. For once, she understands the reluctance because it’s in her too.

“Do I still get my three questions?” she asks.

The corner of his mouth quirks. “If we survive long enough, I may consider it.”

“I’m serious.”

“You held a blade to my neck…twice! Ran away from my hospital, stole medication and food, forced me to chase you through the woods, and then confessed you have feelings after we both nearly died.”

She gives him a tired look. “And?”

“And yes,” he says, that smile flickering back, softer now. “You get three questions.”

“Nothing off limits.”

His expression grows more cautious, but he nods. “Nothing off limits.”

Above them, the first stars begin showing through the torn clouds. Y/N studies him in the darkening forest. She should ask about the community, about the rule, about his past in the army, his residency, his relationships or family.

Instead, she asks, “Are you going to kiss me if I ask you to?”

The playful words leave her lips and Jack becomes completely rooted to the spot, the casual arrogance of his smirk vanishing instantly as the air between them turns electric. All the playful banter of their game dissolves in an instant, his eyes locking onto hers with an unguarded desperation that proves he’s entirely at the mercy of her words. In the heavy silence, his eyes drop helplessly to her mouth, lingering on the curve of her lips just long enough to send a wave of heat crawling up her neck, before he forces his focus back up to meet her stare with a visible, breathless effort, trying to keep himself leashed.

“That’s one question,” he says.

Her pulse rages beneath her skin. “You said nothing’s off limits.”

“I did.”

“And?”

Jack takes a single step closer, slowly, in the way he does when he wants to make sure she doesn’t frighten, or run from him. The last thing he wants is to ruin the moment with his own impatience.

The space between them narrows until she can feel the warmth of him again, smell him, see the tiny cut on his cheek, the dirt along his jaw, the way his chest rises beneath the fabric.

“If you ask me to kiss you,” he says, voice low enough to make the words feel secret, “I will.” His eyes soften, but his jaw remains tight with restraint. “But I need you to be very sure it’s what you want. Don’t ask because you’re scared, or because we almost died, or because I found you.”

A sudden ache constricts Y/N’s throat as she watches him fight his own instincts, recognizing that familiar, heartbreaking hesitation where he prioritizes her comfort over his own desperate longing even when she’s handing him exactly what he’s been aching for. There he is again, choosing to be infinitely careful with her even in the absolute peak of his desire, a profound gentleness that disarms her far more completely than any calculated seduction ever could. It’s the sheer beauty of his restraint that finally shatters her remaining defenses, making her realize that his willingness to wait for her is the most intoxicating thing he could ever offer.

“And if I am sure?” she tilts her chin up.

His thumb brushes once over her wrist before he lets go. “Then I’ll kiss you like I’ve been thinking about since the first time you threatened to stab me.”

A small, breathless ripple of laughter breaks from her lips. Seeing her defenses melt into genuine amusement, Jack’s lopsided smile returns in an instant in a sudden, beautiful flash of white teeth and radiating warmth.

“But,” he steps back before she can decide whether to close the distance or save herself from it, “not while your leg is bleeding through the bandages and there are walkers behind us.”

She glares at him. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m responsible.”

“You jumped a motorcycle over a chasm,” she deadpans.

“And we’re still breathing.”

She shakes her head, but the smile stays. It feels strange on her face, almost sore from disuse.

Jack notices and looks at her as if he wants to memorize it before the world takes it away. Then he turns to the bike and checks the fuel, the engine, the tires. His movements are efficient again, but something has shifted. Even when he steps away, he feels close. Even when she looks at the trees, she’s aware of the warmth his hands left at her wrists, the place her palms touched his cheeks, the promise sitting unsaid between their mouths.

He glances back at her. “Can you walk a little?”

She looks down at her leg. Blood has seeped through the edge of the bandage, not pouring, but enough to make Jack’s eyes darken when he sees it.

“I can.”

“Y/N -”

“I can walk a little,” she repeats. “You can lecture me when we’re somewhere safe.”

“I can multitask.”

“Of course you can.”

He comes to her side, but doesn’t touch her. She reaches for him this time; only his sleeve at first, then his forearm.

His body stills under her hand, a subtle pause that tells her the touch matters to him as much as it terrifies her. The muscles beneath his hoodie are firm, his arm warm, steady and waiting to be held. She uses him for balance, and he adjusts instantly, taking some of her weight without making her feel carried.

They begin walking.

The motorcycle is too loud now, so Jack leaves it hidden beneath branches and marks the spot with a small strip of fabric tied high where only someone looking would see. They move deeper into the trees, away from the chasm, away from the horde’s direction, toward whatever shelter his mind has already chosen from some invisible map.

Night closes around them. The forest after sunset is a living thing with too many eyes and whispering leaves. Far behind them, the horde continues its restless chorus, quieter now but still present, hundreds of torn throats groaning without thought or end. The sound fades, returns, shifts with the wind.

Y/N leans more heavily against Jack than she intends, and he doesn’t protest, reveling in their closeness. Only his hand comes to hover near her back whenever the ground dips, catching her before she stumbles, releasing when she steadies. Each almost-touch raises sparks beneath her skin. Her body no longer reads him only as threat. That may be the most frightening development of all.

After several minutes, she speaks. “That was my first question.”

“Yes.”

“I have two left.”

“Yes.”

She glances at him. “You’re not going to try to convince me that asking how many questions I have counted as one?”

“Sweetheart, if I tried, you’d stab me. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“What I’m hearing is the scalpel was effective.”

“It was certainly memorable.”

Her mouth curves for a moment before the humor thins out. “Did you really mean it?” she asks.

Jack slows. “Which part?”

“That you felt alive when you saw me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. They step over a fallen branch together. His hand closes briefly around her elbow, steadying her. He lets go as soon as she is balanced.

“Yes,” he says.

The simplicity of it makes her stomach flutter. “Why?”

“That’s your second question.”

“I know.”

Jack breathes out through his nose, gaze fixed ahead. For a while, she thinks he may not answer after all.

Then he speaks, “Because you were cornered, exhausted and terrified, and you still had both knives up.”

Her throat tightens. “Jack -”

“You were shaking. You were hurt badly enough that standing looked impossible, but you were still fighting.” His mouth shifts, not quite a smile, not quite in sadness. “I’ve seen a lot of people give up. I’ve wanted to give up myself more times than I’m proud of. Then there you were, in the bakery aisle of a grocery store, glaring at the end of the world like it was a mere inconvenience.”

A weak laugh escapes her.

He looks down at her, and the softness in his eyes makes the laugh fade into something quieter. “I wanted to know you,” he admits. “Before I knew your name. Before I knew anything else. Now, that I had time to absorb it…all I want is you.”

The forest seems to hush. Y/N looks at the ground because looking at him hurts in the best way, which is terrible for her survival goals. It makes her want to crawl closer and press herself against him so tightly he’d struggle for breath, yet a part of her wants to run in the opposite direction just as badly.

“That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone like me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know what someone like me means.”

“No,” he concedes. “Not yet.”

The yet settles between them without pressure this time, with no ultimatums.

She walks beside him in silence, hand still wrapped around his forearm, her steps uneven but steadier than they should be. Somewhere above, a night bird calls. The sound is soft, almost mournful.

Eventually, Jack nods toward a dark shape ahead. “There.”

At first she sees only trees. Then the shape resolves into a small ranger station half hidden by vines and shadow. It’s a one story with a slanted roof and windows boarded from inside. Old sign hangs crooked near the door, letters faded by rain and years. The porch sags, but the frame looks intact.

Y/N stiffens. Jack feels it through her hand.

“I’ll clear it first,” he says.

She grips his sleeve tighter before she can stop herself. He looks down and her fingers loosen instantly.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m not scared.”

His brow lifts, inviting a glare in return.

“Fine. I’m scared. But not because I think you’ll leave.”

A warm smile flickers across his face, curving gently before he looks away to give her fear privacy.

“I won’t be long.” He eases her toward a tree near the porch. “Stay here. Back against the trunk, keep the scalpel ready. If anything comes out that isn’t me, aim for the eye.”

“Comforting instructions.”

“I’m known for my outstanding bedside manner.”

“You’re known for being bossy.”

“Two things can be true at the same time.”

He draws his knife and approaches the ranger station.

Y/N watches him become someone else again. The warmth doesn’t vanish entirely, but it hides away beneath skill. He checks the porch boards before putting weight on them, tests the door, pauses to listen. His shoulders settle, his breathing evens, his head tilts just slightly toward every sound before he enters.

The dark swallows him.

Y/N stands alone beneath the tree, scalpel in hand, heart beating too hard. The forest presses close and a groan drifts somewhere far off; one or two dead wandering through the night.

Her injured leg trembles with fatigue and sweat cools at her temples. Her free hand hovers near the bark, ready to grab for balance. She stares at the black rectangle of the doorway and counts.

One. Two. Three.

By fifteen, her chest tightens. By thirty, she considers moving. By forty, Jack appears again.

“Clear.”

A breathless, visible rush of relief sweeps over her, and though her pride begs her to mask it, she fails so completely that the truth is written across every line of her face. The torturous time he spent inside had stretched her nerves to a breaking point, making her realize that her playful irritation with him is nothing more than a shield against the terrifying thought of losing him.

Jack stops in his tracks, completely disarmed by the endearing honesty of her emotions, and a soft smile settles over his features with a private, knowing look locked entirely within his eyes that treats her worry as the sweetest gift he could ever receive.

Y/N looks away. “Don’t look smug.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was thinking -”

“Don’t.”

He helps her up the porch steps after asking with a glance rather than words. She nods, and his hand settles at her waist, firm and careful. The touch lasts exactly three steps. Her body is aware of every second.

Inside, the ranger station smells of dust, old wood, and animal nests. Jack blocks the door behind them with a shelf while Y/N leans against the wall, breathing through the pain. There’s one main room with a desk, a map cabinet, a cracked leather chair, and a narrow back office with an old cot and a small bathroom. It reminds her of the cabin from that first night, the first time she felt her curiosity growing.

There’s no electricity, no clean sheets, nothing to make it comfortable, yet with Jack beside her, it feels strangely easy to breathe.

He lights a small oil lamp on the desk, keeping the glow low. Then he kneels in front of her.

“Bandage.”

She exhales. “Always so bossy.”

“And you’re always bleeding.”

She stares down at him. The lamplight catches in his hair, turning the silver warm. His face is tilted up toward hers, patient but firm. A smudge of dirt cuts across his cheek where her thumb had been earlier. Her thumb remembers…So does the rest of her.

“Fine,” she whispers.

Jack’s hands move carefully. He doesn’t touch her leg until she nods. When he peels the bandage back, his expression tightens, but he keeps his voice calm.

“Some bleeding. Stitches held…mostly.”

“See? Perfect.”

His eyes lift. The look he gives her is dry enough to start a fire. “Your definition of perfect explains a lot.”

She smiles. This one comes easier.

Jack stills for half a heartbeat at the sight of her, bandage in hand. The look on his face is not triumph, rather of pure wonder, like he knows better than to reach for a wild thing just because it stepped closer.

He returns to the wound, cleaning it with practiced hands, softer than the situation deserves, talking her through each step. She still tenses, her fingers still dig into the edge of the desk, but this time she watches him instead of covering her eyes.

When it hurts, his voice lowers. When she flinches, his hands pause. When she breathes too fast, he breathes slowly enough for her to follow without making it obvious.

By the time he wraps the fresh bandage, her throat is tight for reasons pain cannot explain.

“All done,” he says.

She looks down at him. “Thank you.”

Jack’s fingers linger at the edge of the bandage, then pull away. “You’re welcome.”

He is still kneeling before her and she’s still on the chair when she reaches for his face again, slower this time.

Jack’s eyes lift to hers, not daring to move. Her fingers brush the dirt on his cheek, the same place as before. She wipes it gently with the pad of her thumb, though it only smears.

“You’re filthy,” she murmurs.

His mouth curves. “You ran before I could shower.”

“You followed before you could shower.”

“I have my priorities straight.”

Her hand remains on his cheek as his gaze drops to her mouth briefly, only to drag itself back to her eyes.

The restraint in him is visible, felt in a held breath like a starving hand closed around food too afraid to eat. He wants to kiss her; she knows it with a certainty that sends heat rushing through her. She also knows he won’t unless she asks. That knowledge feels like power and terror at once.

She has one question left. She could use it now. Instead, a dead hand slams against the outside wall and Y/N jerks.

Jack is on his feet instantly, knife in hand, body between her and the sound.

The groan that follows is close. The night has found them after all.

Jack’s head turns toward the wall. One moment, he’s close enough for her thumb to be on his cheek, close enough for the air between them to feel like it might go up in flames. The next, his expression sharpens into something deadly. His hand closes around the knife at his belt, his shoulders square and every warm piece of him disappears.

Another thud hits the outside wall, then a scrape of fingernails, maybe, or bone, dragging along the wood with blind persistence.

“Stay put,” he murmurs.

She gives him a look. “You have met me, right?”

His gaze flickers to her, unimpressed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Then you know how well I do with orders.”

“You can practice.”

Another groan crawls through the boards. The sound is low and wet, the voice of a throat that has no business still making noise. Y/N’s scalp prickles. Her fingers tighten around the scalpel, pathetic little blade that it is. The ranger station suddenly feels too small, too old, too full of cracks. Every wall becomes something a dead hand might find its way through.

Jack moves toward the barricade. “I’ll handle it.”

“Jack -”

He raises one hand, not looking back. “Stay inside.”

Before she can argue, he shifts the shelf away from the door just enough to slip through. The door opens slowly, no more than a narrow slice, careful not to let the hinge complain. He slides into the night and pulls it almost shut behind him, but a thin gap remains.

Y/N stands there for two seconds, maybe three, then she limps toward the door.

Pain sparks up her calf with each step, but adrenaline is already spilling through her blood, wild and unforgiving. She presses herself near the gap, scalpel in hand, and peers out into the darkness.

Jack moves across the porch like a shadow. The moonlight catches in his silver hair, turns the edge of his jaw pale, lights the blade in his hand. He’s frighteningly beautiful like this, silent and composed with death in front of him. He must be tired from leading the horde away twice now, but the exhaustion doesn’t make him clumsy. If anything, it makes him more capable.

The first walker lurches from the side of the cabin, arms lifted, fingers curled into claws. It might have been a park ranger once. The remains of a uniform cling to its gray torso, torn open at the chest where ribs show through a nest of blackened rot. Its lower jaw hangs too loose, swinging with every step, teeth clicking against air.

Jack waits until it reaches for him, then he steps aside and drives the knife through its temple. The walker drops.

Another comes behind it, smaller, almost skeletal beneath a shredded raincoat. Its cloudy eyes roll without focus, mouth working around a long, hungry moan. Jack catches it by the shoulder, pivots, and shoves it down onto the porch rail hard enough that old wood cracks. His blade enters beneath the base of its skull.

Y/N’s breath catches. He’s capable in a way that should frighten her, and it does. But it also ignites a fire low in her stomach, startling her.

There is something obscene about wanting a man while he kills the dead. Something broken inside her must be watching him and thinking he’s safe. Something older than shame is looking at his precision, his strength, the deadly moves he performs, and translating all of it into attraction.

She can’t look away, admiring him in all his glory.

Then she sees the fourth walker and her heart drops. It comes from the left side of the ranger station, hidden until now by the sagging porch and the thick vines crawling over the wall. It’s a large one, broad, bloated, its flannel shirt dark with old blood. Its scalp is half-gone, skull gleaming through stringy strips of hair, one side of its face has collapsed, but the mouth is intact and filled with too many teeth.

Jack doesn’t seem to notice it.

He’s turning toward the third walker, which is dragging one useless leg and reaching for his shoulder with both hands. He’s focused on the immediate threat, not the one coming behind him through the dark.

He sees it, right? He has to.

Jack is always aware. Always reading the room, the trees, the path, her breathing, the smallest shift in danger. He cannot be taken by surprise.

But then he takes down the third walker, and the fourth is almost on him.

The air vanishes from her lungs. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes; no warning, no scream, nothing. Fear locks the words behind her teeth and breaks the key.

Y/N bursts through the door, half-running, half-falling down the porch steps. Her injured leg screams beneath her, but the sound barely reaches her brain. The world narrows to the walker’s mouth and Jack’s back. Her heartbeat slams through her skull so violently that the night seems to pulse with it.

Jack begins to turn too late.

Y/N throws herself at the fourth walker from behind. The impact drives pain through her shoulder, but she hits it with everything she has. The walker stumbles forward, then down, taking her with it. Rot bursts into her nose, mixing with the smell of wet clothes, dead flesh, soil and old blood. Its body is heavier than she expects, soft and rigid in wrong places, bones shifting beneath decomposing skin.

She raises the scalpel and drives it down. The blade strikes bone and stops

“No,” she gasps.

The walker snarls beneath her, head twisting, mouth snapping. Its dead hands claw at the earth. The scalpel is stuck against the skull, useless, too shallow, too delicate for this. She pushes harder, both hands on the handle, teeth clenched, arms shaking.

The walker’s head jerks. It drags them both forward, toward Jack.

Y/N realizes her mistake in the same second horror completes itself: she has not saved him; if anything, she shoved the walker closer.

The dead mouth closes around Jack’s right calf and everything inside her shatters. The scream that tears out of her doesn’t sound human. It’s raw, ripped from the deepest place in her body, an animalistic sound full of terror and grief before either has time to become thought. It breaks halfway through, catches in her throat, then bursts again as the scalpel finally punches through bone and sinks deep into the walker’s brain.

The corpse goes limp, hut Y/N doesn’t feel triumph. She only sees teeth marks on Jack’s pants.

“No,” she sobs. “No, no, no, no -”

Her hands fumble for him, slick with rotted flesh. She crawls over the corpse, toward his calf, breath coming in frantic little bursts that do nothing to fill her lungs. Tears flood her face before she can stop them, blinding, cutting through the grime on her cheeks.

“No, Jack, no -”

He’s saying something, but she cannot hear him. All she can focus on is the bite, the idea of the infection, wondering if amputation might prevent his death, wondering if she’ll have to see Jack’s beautiful hazel eyes going cloudy, his mouth slack with hunger instead of smirks, his hands reaching for her without knowing her. Her Jack will be gone, replaced by the curse that walks in borrowed skin.

Her mind cannot hold it, splintering.

She barely knows him, but her body doesn’t care. Her heart has already made some terrible, silent decision without consulting logic or survival. It beats against her ribs as if it has one purpose now and that purpose is him. If Jack dies, something in her won’t go on as it was. It may continue pumping blood, continue moving, continue finding water and shelter and food, but it’ll be another kind of dead.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry -”

Jack catches her by the shoulders.

“Y/N -”

She’s shaking too hard to focus. “I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I made it worse, I’m sorry, I tried -”

“Y/N.” His hands move to her arms, firm, grounding. Kneeling in front of her, he tries speaking, but her gaze keeps snapping to his leg, to the place he got bitten.

He doesn’t ask permission this time, nor wait for her fear to clear a path for him.

He pulls her into his arms. Y/N collapses against his chest with a broken sound. His embrace closes around her tightly, one arm across her back, the other cradling the back of her head. His hand moves over her hair, then down her spine, steady strokes meant to soothe a body too far gone to obey reason.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”

She cannot absorb it. Her apologies keep spilling out, messy and breathless.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jack, I’m sorry -”

He holds her harder. The dead are still in the yard and the ranger station door hangs open. The forest shifts around them with unseen movement and he knows it’s unwise to stay outside with her like this.

Jack curses under his breath, then scoops her into his arms.

She makes a small, startled sound, but doesn’t fight him. That alone tells him how badly she is unraveling.

He carries her back inside, one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, careful of her leg even now. Her hands clutch at his hoodie as if letting go might make the world finish breaking. He kicks the door shut behind them, sets her on the old couch near the wall, then drags the shelf back into place with one harsh pull.

Jack turns back to her. She’s folded inward, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking.

He crouches first to check her leg. The bandage has shifted, but it hasn’t bled through. Relief moves through him in an audible exhale. His hand hovers near her calf, then withdraws.

Her voice cracks behind her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Each apology lands like a stone thrown against glass. Jack’s eyes close briefly. He can take a lot, but he cannot take another minute of this. He reaches up and roughly pulls her hands away from her face, rougher than he has touched her since the day she tried to stab him in the woods.

“Y/N, listen to me.”

Her eyes snap to his, wide and wet and terrified.

His hands cup her cheeks, not gentle now, but steady enough to hold her attention in place. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. I’m not bitten.”

“I saw,” she croaks. Her voice sounds torn. “I saw it bite you.”

Jack lets out a dark chuckle, more breath than humor, disbelief and relief twisting through it as he sits back and grabs the fabric at his right pant leg.

“Look.”

She shakes her head violently. “No -”

“Look, Y/N.”

His voice cuts through her panic and she looks. At first, she doesn’t quite understand what she’s seeing. Her brain expects blood, torn flesh, teeth marks, instead, there’s no flesh at all.

The walker’s teeth left marks in synthetic material and scuffed casing, nothing more. Jack’s right calf is not skin and muscle and blood. It’s a prosthetic. The dead cannot bite what is not there.

Y/N stares. The tears keep falling, but her face blanks.

“What,” she whispers. “How is…”

“Before the world ended,” Jack says.

His voice lowers to a soft whisper. The hardness in him eases, his features softening. He pulls the pant leg higher for another second, letting her see enough to believe him, then drops the fabric back down.

“I lost my leg when I was deployed.”

Her gaze rises slowly to his face. His eyes are steady, but the pain beneath that steadiness is old enough to have roots.

“My leg,” he adds, “and my wife.”

Y/N’s lips part.

Leg. Wife!

The man in front of her becomes bigger somehow, not physically, though he’s already broad and solid. He’s bigger in story, in loss.

“It’s been fifteen years,” he says. “I’m fine.”

She blinks hard, trying to understand through the leftover panic. “About the leg or about being a widower?”

Jack’s mouth shifts as a small smile appears, tired and sad at the edges. It doesn’t erase the grief in him, but it helps find reason to keep reaching for the light over the alluring beckoning of darkness.

“Both.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He gives a faint shrug, almost awkward, and rubs his right thigh lightly. “It was a long time ago.”

“Not about that.”

His eyes find hers. She frowns, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand, angry tears still slipping free despite her efforts.

“Though I am sorry about that too.” Her breath catches. “I’m sorry I almost got you killed.”

The sharp lines of his face instantly harden, “You didn’t.”

“I did.” Her voice rises, then cracks. “I’m a fucking liability you should leave behind. Jack, I’m not made for that place.”

Jack stares down at her through the shadows, a sudden, heavy resolve overtaking his features as he reaches out in a motion that is slower and softer than before. His fingers find the delicate curve of her jaw, his thumb anchoring beneath her chin to coax her face back to his when she tries to hide from the intensity of his stare.

There’s a profound tenderness to his touch; firm enough to hold her still, yet entirely careful, holding her only because her body chooses to lean into the weight of his palm. His eyes drop to linger on her parted lips for a stolen second that’s just long enough to cause her heart to skip a beat.

“I want you there.”

The simplicity of it hits harder than any argument. Her breath falters with the truth, finding it impossible to look away. Jack’s thumb shifts against her chin, barely moving, but she feels it everywhere.

“There’s no scientific reason,” he continues. “No explanation I can offer for the way I feel, and believe me, I’ve looked for one.”

Something almost amused flickers through his eyes, but it disappears quickly.

“I fear who I’d become if I lost you.”

He swallows thickly. “I was fine before you walked into my life. Perfectly content with whatever fate waited for me in this fucked up world.” His voice roughens. “That changed. I’m not content with the world clawing pieces of you away. I’m not content not seeing you every day. I’m not happy just living anymore if it means I have to let you go.”

The words settle into her like warmth poured slowly over ice. She wants to reject them, her mind tries as it scrambles for reasons, warnings, explanations. Maybe he wants to fix what cannot be fixed. Maybe she’s a symbol, not a person. A thousand maybes cross her mind, but he is looking at her like a man who has already tried every argument against caring and lost. And truth be told? She’s fucking tired of denying herself the simple pleasure of his company.

Y/N’s throat burns.

Jack releases her chin and sits back slightly. “I mentioned rules of entry before.”

“Yeah.” Her laugh’s small and bitter. “I failed the first one, remember?”

He huffs out air through his nose, amused despite everything. “You did.”

“I was never good taking tests.”

“Don’t worry about it, because the second one is what really matters anyway.”

Her eyes narrow. “Yeah?”

Jack nods, then he reaches for her hand. He does it slowly, giving her time to pull away. His palm slides beneath hers, fingers curling gently around her cold, trembling hand.

Y/N doesn’t flinch. She realizes it at the same time he does.

His gaze drops to their joined hands. A smirk touches his mouth, but it’s not smug this time. It’s filled with kindness and yearning he tries to hide beneath his usual arrogance. His thumb brushes the side of her hand once, almost absentmindedly, and her pulse jumps.

“You noticed it too,” she murmurs.

“I notice everything about you.”

It scares her, but it also makes her hand relax more fully into his. Jack’s smirk grows faintly, then fades as he draws in a breath.

“There’s a marriage rule.”

Y/N stares at him. “A what?”

He bites his lower lip nervously. Jack Abbot, who faces hordes and armed men and commands an entire city actually looks nervous. The sight is so strange it almost distracts her from the words.

Almost.

His shoulders shift beneath the hoodie. He doesn’t look away, but the confidence around him falters at the edges.

“Newcomers get to stay for a month,” he explains. “During that time, we do a background check, assess risk, let them recover if they need to. If they pass, they choose someone in the community to marry.”

Y/N blinks once, then again, trying to understand. “You’re talking about forced, arranged marriage.”

“I’m talking about a choice everyone gets.”

“A choice between death outside the walls or marriage inside them?” Her hand stiffens inside his. “What makes you believe marriage promises loyalty? People cheat in peacetime. You think apocalypse forces morality?”

“There is no paperwork.”

“That makes it worse.”

“It isn’t forced,” Jack says, voice careful but firmer now. “Both parties have to agree. Both parties have to choose it. Some treat it as companionship, some as protection, some as friends with benefits. And some…Some make it a real marriage.”

Y/N gives him a look. “Very progressive for a post-apocalyptic cult.”

His mouth curves despite the tension. “We’re not a cult.”

“That sounds exactly like what a cult leader would say.”

“I don’t lead a cult.”

“You have a marriage rule, Jack.”

“We have a pairing system,” he corrects, then grimaces because even he hears it. “That sounded worse.”

“It really did.”

He drags a hand over his face. She can see his frustration, but beneath it, something more complicated. Shame, perhaps, or fear of losing ground with her. He wanted this conversation controlled, but it feels like a wound that’s already bleeding out around the edges.

“Everyone is paired,” he says. “No one survives alone inside those walls. Not long-term. Partners are accountable for each other: resources, housing, safety, medical proxy, decision-making if someone gets hurt. It gives people responsibility; it reduces isolation and creates ties that are harder to break than convenience.”

“Convenience breaks easily. So do marriages.”

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

His eyes hold hers. “Because when people have someone to come home to, they fight harder to come home.”

That silences her for a second…Only a second.

“And I’m supposed to choose someone to marry,” she says, voice tight, “within the next three weeks?”

Jack nods.

She pulls her hand from his.

He lets her.

“I was hoping you’d choose me,” he admits.

The world goes very quiet. The dead outside, the creaking wood, the wind pushing through cracks in the station, all of it seems to fall back.

Y/N looks at him.

Jack sits in front of her with his hands loose between his knees now, no longer touching her, no longer smirking. The lamplight cuts across his face, catching the silver in his hair, the scar at his neck, the exhaustion around his eyes. He looks older and younger at once. Fifty years of grief, command, discipline, and damage held together by a man suddenly asking for something like hope.

“I know I’m old,” he says.

Her brows twitch. “Jack -”

“I know I’m far from marriage material.”

That shuts her up.

His mouth curves, but no humor reaches his eyes. “I have too much baggage, too many responsibilities, too much history. I’m controlling, I make decisions people hate, and I’m not going to pretend I’m easy to live with.”

“That’s quite the proposal.”

“I’m not done making it terrible.”

Despite herself, something warm flickers through her.

Jack’s gaze drops to her hand, then returns to her face. “But I will protect you. I will keep you safe. And I will accept whatever arrangement you want. If you never want more than friendship, I’ll comply.” This vow hurts him.  “I’ll be whatever you need,” he says, quieter now. “Just don’t leave.”

Y/N cannot move.

The proposal is insane.

That’s the first clear thought.

Completely insane. Marriage, of all things.

In the old world, marriage had felt like a distant, decorative institution other people wanted and she observed with curiosity. She had never pictured herself in white, never dreamed about rings, never made secret Pinterest boards or imagined walking down aisles while people cried. She had been too busy trying to become something, trying to survive the shape her own life had taken. Then prison happened, and marriage became as irrelevant as vacations, apartments, book launches, and every other future she lost.

But then the world ended, and suddenly marriage has become an entry requirement. It’s ridiculous, almost barbaric, but practical in a way that makes her hate it more, because she understands the logic.

That’s the worst part.

Pairing people builds accountability, reduces abandonment, gives everyone someone who notices when they don’t return, creates intimacy because loneliness is a liability. It sounds less like romance and more like a community.

Still, the idea of choosing a stranger makes her skin crawl. The idea of being chosen by one curdles her stomach. A man with rights to her name, her room, her body if he decides the arrangement means something she didn’t agree to?

Jack says both parties have to consent. Jack says there are choices…but Jack says a lot of things.

Her old fears don’t care. They begin screaming anyway.

Marriage is a cage. Marriage is a door closing. Marriage is a man with legal ownership.

But Jack’s looking at her like he’s terrified she will vanish before his eyes, not like he owns her.

His eyes are darker in the lamplight, hazel turned almost black at the center, brown at the edges. His mouth is held still, but tension flickers along his jaw. His fingers flex once against his knees, then settle. He wants to reach for her, but resists the urge. He wants to reassure, persuade, maybe beg, and refuses to turn any of it into pressure.

That restraint tugs at her heart harder than the offer itself.

She’s attracted to him. There’s no point lying inside her own mind anymore. She likes the silver in his hair, the broadness of his shoulders, the strength in his arms, the veins along his forearms, the hard line of his nose, the dangerous intelligence in his eyes. She likes his terrible humor, his dry little comments, the way his smiles shift from cocky to tender to devastatingly bright. She likes the way he says sweetheart as though the word belongs only in his mouth when aimed at her.

She likes his hands. God help her, she likes his hands, even after everything hands have done to her.

Jack makes her want to stay, not because the city is safe, not because Dana is kind and Perlah gentle and Mel competent, not because antibiotics and hot showers exist behind those walls…Because Jack is there. Because some foolish, bruised part of her wants to learn how his arms feel when there’s no panic between them, wants to know whether he sleeps better if someone stays beside him, wants his lips, his touch, his voice in the dark, wants the home she has trained herself not to need.

The uncertainty gnaws at her.

What if he changes his mind once he knows all of it? What if the conviction becomes real to him in a way it hasn’t yet? What if the friend she helped die becomes a murder victim in his eyes? What if he looks at her differently after she says the words out loud?

What if he does not? What if he stays kind? What if she lets herself build something and the dead take him anyway?

Her chest tightens. She looks down at her own fingers, curled into the fabric of the couch.

“Can I think about it?”

Jack inhales sharply. The sound is small but unmistakably pained as his eyes flicker, and the softness there grows cautious, bruised at the edges.

“Of course.”

He gives one nod, then another, firmer, as if he’s instructing himself as much as reassuring her.

“It’s a big decision. I won’t push you on this.”

His hands fold together loosely between his knees.

“I won’t bring it up again. When you decide, tell me.” He manages a faint smile, the kind that tries to be easy and fails beautifully. “I won’t be mad no matter what happens.”

She believes he means it. She also sees the hurt he is trying to tuck away before it touches her.

That makes her fingers twitch. She wants his hand back. The longing is sudden and physical, an ache in her palm. She wants to reach across the space he created and feel his warmth again, wants to ask him to sit beside her, to wrap his arms around her and keep them there until morning, until the dead quiet outside, until the old voices in her head grow tired and leave.

But she has not said yes and she has not said no. She doesn’t know what she wants except that wanting him is becoming easier than breathing and twice as dangerous.

“Rest,” he says. His smile is worn thin and still beautiful in a way that hurts her to look at. It curves gently, touches the corners of his eyes, then fades before it can ask anything of her.

“I’ll keep watch.”

Y/N leans back against the couch, exhaustion pressing down now that panic has burned itself low. Her leg throbs beneath the fresh bandage. Her body shakes faintly from the fight outside, the near bite, the confession, the proposal. The ranger station feels colder than before, though the lamp glows steadily on the desk.

Jack rises and checks the barricade, then the windows, then his knife. He moves through the room with purpose, every step careful on the old floorboards. When he passes near her, his warmth brushes the air. She smells smoke, sweat, blood, pine, and the clean trace of him beneath all the mud.

Her eyes follow him and he’s achingly aware. She can tell by the way his shoulders ease slightly, by the faint angle of his head, by the almost-smile he hides when he turns toward the window.

He settles into the cracked leather chair near the door, knife on one thigh, posture alert despite the exhaustion. He doesn’t look comfortable. He probably doesn’t intend to be.

Jack glances at her.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he instructs gingerly. “I’ve got you.”

She believes him before she can stop herself.

Turning onto her side, she faces him without admitting that’s what she’s doing. The couch is narrow, the fabric dusty beneath her cheek, but she watches him through half-lidded eyes as he keeps vigil in the dim gold light.

Y/N closes her hand around the edge of the couch as her fingers remember his warmth.

Jack Abbot sits between her and the door; a man with a dead wife, a prosthetic leg, a city full of rules, and a marriage offer that sounds like madness until his eyes make it feel like shelter.

[usergambit]

CHANNING TATUM as REMY LEBEAU AKA GAMBIT Avengers: Doomsday (2026) dir. Anthony & Joe Russo

[puppiegracie]

the zoomout makes him look so small. seeing two babies on my screen

[roobydoos]

this seasons rabbot is husbanding hard.... also they both look gorgeoussss holy shit!!

[dearemma]

#very serious medical show

[kat-in-a-trashcan]

how do i explain im attracted to these gifs in particular…

[desmolbean404]

QUIZ TIME!! Take this quiz, then come back and answer the poll!

100 REAL or FAKE Pokemon

100 Different 'Pokemon' will be shown to you. Choose if you think they are FAKE or REAL. Goal is to get a high score so you can brag to ever

What Was Your Score?

0%-20%

20%-40%

40%-50%

50%-60%

60%-70%

70%-80%

80%-99%

100%! (You're one smart cookie!)

Remaining time: 18 hours 6 minutes

[rocktheholygrail]

Hannibal (2013-2015)

1x10 || 3x06

[jakeperalta]

Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping (1995)

[fleetwood-mac-andcheese]

[itsbasil]

you put those tags on this post where they belong

[ssahotchnerr]

THOMAS

[pedrospascaled]

JEFFREY DEAN MORGAN as Negan Smith The Walking Dead | S07E04 - Service

[maschotch]

he’s my favorite person in the whole world

[wizardarchetypes]

they should invent a grief that doesn’t define you in new and strange ways for the rest of your life

[wizardarchetypes]