everybody wants to rule the world

🌙 23

[not-neverland06]

Love for Sale

𝖠𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗐 ‘𝖯𝗈𝗉𝖾’ 𝖢𝗈𝖽𝗒 & 𝖿𝖾𝗆! 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Overview: You used to be one of Smurf's girls. Always at her beck and call- until Deran helped you escape. But when she decides Pope needs to blow off some steam, she's got just enough dirt on you to have you right back in the palm of her hand. (wc: 31k)

. mdni: 18+ implied sexual assault (not explicit, not done by Pope) one smut scene containing p in v, fem!receiving oral, rest is plot

. basically all of the smut is courtesy of my amazing beta reader @thebugsfollow— this whole story is also her idea so let’s all say thank you

Third act pregnancy- childbirth isn’t part of the story

a/n: I’m Your Man by Leonard Cohen is literally Pope Cody’s song, and no one will ever change my mind

Smurf has a few key uses for her girls. Honey pots to seal a deal with a prospective business partner. Easy ways to gain dirt on those she’s trying to hurt. Strangely, though, her most important use for you all had been with Pope. 

Personally, you’d always been kept for the clients. You were never one of those girls with her heels tossed over her son’s shoulders. She uses you all as a way to provide releases for the men in her life. You’re tools, barely even toys. Something good to be abused and tossed aside. 

It was Deran who had gotten you out from under her thumb. He’d helped you get clean, scraped together what little of your life was left, and convinced his mother you’d lost your touch. 

It didn’t take much to convince her. She’d been getting bored with you, anyway. You suppose you should just be happy that Deran got to you first, that you didn’t die with a needle in your arm like so many other girls before you who had “lost their touch.”

You never questioned why her rotation of women was so quick, why their employment was so short-lived. But you all knew. Smurf didn’t make mistakes; she didn’t leave behind messes, and she had no room in her life for other women. Especially not when it came to her sons. 

Her fragile hold over Deran is already tumultuous, though. She knows it's not you that poses a threat to that tether. It’s the fact that her emotionally fucking her sons’ heads when they were kids didn’t stick with him. His pendulum swings the other way. 

It always brings a little smile to your face in those rare moments you catch him and Adrian together. Just one instance where Smurf hadn’t gotten what she wanted. You’re sure that's why she never bothers coming by the bar. She doesn’t like the reminder of her failure. 

And you certainly appreciate having one aspect of your life free from that woman. 

Letting out a low sigh, you bend down and grab a rag to wipe down the bar. The little bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. “We’re closing,” you call out. Bootsteps still come closer, and you frown, glancing over your shoulder. “I said– oh.”

Pope pauses for a moment, surveying you. “Deran’s in the back,” you tell him, offering a strained smile. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rounding the bar and making his way through the kitchen to the back office. You continue with your closing duties, gnawing your lip as you think. 

You’re not scared of Pope, not really. You know what he’s capable of, but it’s Smurf that calls the shots. It’s always her that you have to look out for. The old lady’s a lot smarter than people want to give her credit for. 

You never knew why she didn’t let you have Pope. You’re certain you would have enjoyed it. There’s something about that intense look in his eyes– emotions so shadowed over, his gaze is almost empty. 

But Smurf never offered you up, always kept you hidden away. She knows how easy it is for you to get attached; maybe that’s why. You always struggled separating the act and the paycheck. 

In the back of the bar, you can hear Deran and Pope’s voices growing louder. Your head shoots up as the kitchen door swings open, banging off the wall. Pope storms through, jaw clenched as he stalks past you, muttering something to himself. 

You tilt your head as you consider him. The broad line of his shoulders, the strength of his body you can make out even under his loose shirt. He lets out a short huff, storming out of the bar. Yeah, you could definitely see yourself getting attached to that one in all the wrong ways. 

Deran comes out of the kitchen, and you jump, ripping your eyes away from the door. “Don’t let any more of my family come through,” he barks out. 

“You guys fight?”

He shoots you a sharp look that has you biting back a smile. “What the fuck do you think?”

“You know I don’t like your family, anyway,” you defend, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter. Deran goes quiet, and you roll your eyes, glancing back over at him. He’s giving you a knowing look that has you huffing. 

“I don’t like most of your family,” you amend. Throwing his hands up, he shakes his head, storming back to his office. You glance back at the door, almost wishing Pope would walk through again. He’s certainly more intriguing than the other Codys. 

Parties at Smurf’s place only have two directions they can go. High and low. High, of course, is when she brings out the good stuff, and everyone’s floating two feet above their bodies. Head lost somewhere in the clouds of smoke. Low is when some asshole, usually one of her sons, gets too drunk and starts a fight. 

It seems to be going high, this time, a good sign for you, considering you want nothing more than to relax tonight. Deran had been kind enough to get you a job at his bar. A handout, honestly, considering how much he already helps you out with. Turns out, the opening week of a new bar is hell on your back. 

You’re lounging back on one of Smurf’s pool chairs, lazily smoking a blunt Deran had handed you, as some girls flock around him. You’re certain they’re aware he doesn’t swing that way, but he's the tamer boy of the Codys. They probably just hope he might cut them a deal on whatever little baggies Smurf has him handing out. 

You don’t blame the girls. You’d rather take something from Deran than his brother Craig. You wouldn’t trust Craig as far as you can throw him. Especially not with that sleazy grin he always shoots you. 

A shadow falls over you, and the low tittering of the women goes quiet. You frown, lifting your sunglasses and glancing over at them. But the throng of women have scattered. Glancing up, you let out a little laugh, finding the reason standing over you. 

Pope has emerged from the house, arms crossed as he hovers at your side. You doubt he even realizes you’re beside him, or the effect he’s had on the partygoers. Honestly, you appreciate his presence for the quiet it provides. He’s got a good dampener effect on the rowdy parties that go on around here. 

“Having fun?” you try, not expecting much back from him. He glances down at you, brows raising. He probably just realized you’re there. 

“No,” he tells you bluntly, eyes narrowing on the blunt in your hand. You tap the tip of it, shaking some ash off by his feet. He lets out a little sigh that almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. 

“Really? You seem like the life of the party.” You shift higher up on the chair, back bowing slightly as you try to get comfortable. His gaze lingers on the top of your bikini before he looks away. His shoulders stiffen, arms tightening as he glares out at the rest of the party. 

“You’re too easy,” you mutter, flicking your glasses down and closing your eyes. 

The skin of his hand is rough, but his touch is barely there as he snatches the blunt from between your fingers. Your eyes shoot open as he gives you a sharp look. “Don’t fall asleep with this in your hand. You’ll burn the chair,” Pope quietly chides. 

You snort as he storms off, tossing the blunt into the trash as he goes. You wonder if he knows how often your stare lingers on him. How easy it is for you to seek him out in every room you walk into. You doubt it. And you really doubt he’d ever want used goods, as Craig so often calls you. 

You sink back into the chair, trying to get comfortable again. 

The universe seems to be flipping you one giant middle finger today. 

“Comfortable?” a rasping voice asks. 

You suck in a deep breath, mentally prepping yourself. “Yep,” you grit out, flicking your sunglasses up and offering a smile to Smurf. You’re certain it comes off more as a grimace than anything else. 

She offers something sickly sweet in return. It’s meant to come off as motherly or nurturing in some way. It does nothing more than set your nerves on edge. You don’t know why she tries any of her tricks with you. You know her intimately and have already seen past her many masks to the bitch below. 

She hums, laughing slightly to herself as she perches on the chair beside you. “Talking to Pope?”

“No,” you answer quickly. God forbid she think you’re trying to steal one of her precious boys out from under her. 

“Really?” She hums, sucking her teeth as she surveys the rest of the party. “Looked like you were the only girl who could stand being near him.”

You consider your response, wondering what constitutes her thinking you’re a threat. “He’s not so bad,” you finally settle on. 

Smurf says nothing for a while, and you begin to worry you’ve messed up. She knows that you're Deran’s friend. And, in no way, are you a threat to her already fragile claim over him. But Pope’s different than the others; she’s much more unpredictable when it comes to keeping her guard dog close. 

“Pope’s been having a hard time lately,” she finally tells you. “His mind isn’t where I need it to be.” 

Is it ever? You just nod, not voicing your skepticism aloud. 

“You know how it works with him. Usually, the girls I send in help soothe those fragile nerves.” Smurf lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. 

You tense up, muscles locking as you suck in a fragile breath. Yeah, you know how it works with him. You know all about the girls she sends to him. But there’s no reason for her to be bringing any of this up to you. Not now. 

“Pope…” she lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Pope’s different, you know that.” Everyone knows that. “It doesn’t work for him when he knows the girls are being paid.”

You hum, lips pursed tight as you struggle to think of a way out of this. “Interesting,” you whisper. 

Smurf lets out a little laugh, shooting you a sharp smirk. “Interesting,” she mocks, her tone cruel in its intentions. “You know what I want, don’t you, kid?”

You suck your teeth, arms winding tight around your stomach. You feel too exposed now. Body on display just like she wants. “I don’t do that anymore,” you bite out, forcing some sort of strength into your voice. 

“Please,” Smurf barks out a laugh, sitting back up and leaning in toward you. You can’t find the strength to meet her eye. But her stare is branding into your skin. “I know women like you. You’ll do anything if the price is right. Besides… don’t forget what I know about you.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. There’s no party, no throng of people getting high and drunk in front of you. It’s just you, small as you’ve ever been, and Smurf. With that god damn smirk on her face, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

“You said you were done with me,” you whisper, tears clawing at the edge of your voice. 

Smurf shakes her head. “No, I said I was done for now. And now, I need you again. I’ll even be nice and pay you, sweetheart. Four hundred a session, not hourly.”

Your eyes fall shut, nails digging into your arms as you realize you have no choice. You can keep fighting her, but all that’ll do is take away your pay. You’ll be forced to do what she wants, and you won’t even make anything off it. “What am I doing?”

“Just… entertainment.” She reaches forward, touch cold as she slides the falling strap of your top up. “And Pope doesn’t know about our little arrangement.”

It’s Smurf. You don’t have a choice. Not with the dirt she’s got on you. At the very least, it’s Pope, not someone like Craig or Baz she’s asking you to sell yourself out for. 

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes watering as you stare down at your lap. 

Smurf gets up and pats your head. “Good girl,” she mutters, laughing as she walks away. One day… She’ll be dead. Buried somewhere six feet deep, and you’ll be there. 

Dancing on her fucking grave. 

You let yourself in with the key Smurf had given you. Just like she used to, she sent you a time to show up. Normally, that was accompanied by a name and place. But you already knew who she wanted you to take care of. And since they’d sold his house, there was only one place for him to be. 

Heading into the kitchen, you drop your purse on one of the chairs. There’s a low murmur in the living room, something playing softly on the TV. Sucking in a sharp breath, you fix your shirt and adjust your hair. 

It’s not typical of you to be nervous before one of these appointments. But you haven’t done this in a long time. And you already know none of your old tricks are going to work here. Pope isn’t anything like the clients Smurf used to toss you to. 

They had been looking for something carnal. Something quick that they could wrench pleasure from and then toss aside. Pope’s already a hundred times different from them just for not wanting his girls to be paid to be with him. 

There’s another factor you’re worried about. At least, when Smurf pays the girls, Pope knows they’re coming. He knows what’s coming and how he’s expected to perform. He’s not been briefed for you, and you’re barely ready for him. You’re not sure you want to know what it would feel like to be rejected by him if this goes wrong. 

Rolling back your shoulders, you force yourself to move. Rounding the corner into the living room, you stop short. “Oh.” The plan was to feign surprise, pretend you had been looking for someone else. But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times, trying to recover from the sight of him being half-naked. He seems just as taken aback, clearly expecting to have the house to himself today. His brows furrow as he watches you, hand twitching on his lap. 

“Sorry. Is Deran here?”

“No,” his voice cracks slightly as he shifts against the cushions. You feel a little bad. You don’t think you’re making him nervous, but he certainly isn’t confident. “He’s at the bar,” he explains, jaw clenching. 

“Oh,” you wave your hand and step into the living room. “My mistake,” you dismiss airily, shrugging. “Mind if I wait for him here? He shouldn’t be long.” Pope doesn’t say much or invite you closer. But you move forward anyway, not like you have much choice here. He drags a pillow over his lap as you take a seat beside him.

You’re decent enough to give him a few inches of space between you both, though you doubt that helps much. 

You can’t confidently say that Pope is nervous. But he certainly seems affected right now. Your eyes narrow on the way his leg bounces slightly, the wrinkles at the hem of his boxers. Smurf left, the house is empty, and he’s been on edge lately. Maybe he’d been expecting one of Smurf’s girls. 

He was right, in a way. But he didn’t get to know that. 

Your skirt hitches as you tuck your legs under yourself. You shuffle for a moment, trying to get comfortable and “accidentally” slipping too close to Pope. He jerks away from your touch, not hastily, but carefully. You catch a sidelong look from him before he redirects his attention to the TV. 

It’s easy to tell, just from the tautness of his shoulders, that he’s not hearing a damn word Attenborough is saying. 

You settle back against the cushions and let out a little sigh, thighs flexing as you slip just a bit closer to him. It’s harder with Pope. You can’t get this started the way you would with old clients. They had been expecting you, and in turn, they’d been expecting a quick release. 

Smurf made it clear that Pope isn’t allowed to know a damn thing about this arrangement. You’re terrified of what she would do if you messed this up in the first session. 

You’ll have to ease him into this. 

Sadly, that means suffering through an hour of a documentary that has you biting your tongue to keep from passing out from boredom. You spend the time creeping ever closer to Pope. Letting your thigh accidentally brush against his and pulling back quickly. Watching the sharp intake of breath in his chest from the contact. 

Having your fingers graze the back of his hand as you stretch. You watch these little reactions flash across his face, making you wish you had a better understanding of his body language. You keep up this little game until he stops flinching from your touch and starts leaning into it instead. 

You move closer, thigh brushing his leg, arm nearly pressed to his. He doesn’t move, just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. Your arm stretches along the cushions as you let out a low sigh. 

“Pope?” you mutter, voice low as you lean in closer toward him. 

“What are you doing?” He tilts his head toward you, eyes narrowed, a little quirk to his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth. 

You’re slightly taken aback and resist the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?” you whisper, trying not to break the tentative bubble around you. He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes running along your form as you stretch closer. “I mean, I thought I was being kind of obvious.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you let out a breathy laugh. “I like you, Pope. But you know… I just can’t tell with you.”

He grabs the remote, turning off the documentary before tilting his body toward you. The pillow shifts slightly off his lap and you inch closer. “Can’t tell what?”

“Well…” the arm draped behind him shifts, and you let your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, teasing into his hair. “I’m usually much better at reading people. But I just don’t know with you. Do you like me, Pope?”

His voice is rough as he speaks, and you don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your lips. “Why do you care?”

You let out a little laugh, “I just said–”

His hand comes up, taking your wrist in his grasp. It’s not rough, but you can’t slip away. Your eyes widen slightly as you back up. “Did Smurf put you up to this?” His expression hardens; whatever reaction you might have been eliciting out of him is gone. 

“What?” Your lips part as you shake your head. You let your eyes go wide with surprise, faux hurt, leaving them open until a little bit of water builds at the edges of your lashes. “No, I just–” You cut yourself off, putting on a proper show as you try to move away from him. “I’m sorry, this was so stupid,” your voice cracks around the words. 

Maybe you’re laying it on a little thick. But Pope is sharp, sharper than you’re comfortable with. He couldn’t have caught onto you that quick… could he? 

Maybe you’ve lost your touch. 

“I’ll just leave.” You get on your knees, trying to pull away. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your wrist, and you lift your eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Pope?” you whisper, leaning just a little closer to him. 

He lifts off the cushions slightly, and you almost smile. You’ve still got it.

Tilting your head, you let your lips brush against his. Just barely, at first, hesitant like you really are nervous. And maybe, you are, just a bit. He pulls back for a moment, eyes darting along your face, gauging your honesty. 

After a moment, he tilts his head, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

But there’s something else that’s off. It’s like he’s simply not used to this. To something that hasn’t been paid for and wasn’t premeditated. His hands hover over you, uncertain. 

You let your palms drag along his broad shoulders, cupping his neck as you pull back. He stares up at you, lips parted and expression vulnerable in a way that makes guilt itch in your throat. 

He’s used to fucking and being done with it. He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

“Slow,” you whisper down at him, waiting until he nods to kiss him again. His hands drop to your hips, squeezing once before settling there. You do your best to guide him into something soft, slow in a way that lets him follow your lead. He’s a quick learner, pulling you closer to him as he finds his own footing. 

You get more comfortable, settling in his lap as you kiss him. Something begins to press up between your thighs, his boxers growing tight as you let your fingers tangle in his curls. His hips buck, and you let out a little gasp at the bold move. His tongue darts across the seam of your lips, and you tilt your head, letting him deepen the kiss. 

His arms shift, wrapping tighter around your back as he tugs you closer. Your knee slips along the cushions, bumping into the remote. You both jump apart as a loud infomercial suddenly comes alive on the TV. “Shit,” you mutter, laughing as your forehead falls against his. 

He lets out a rough sigh as your thumb lightly traces his bottom lip. Pulling back, he leans further into your touch, following you. He’s staring up at you, waiting for… something. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom,” you suggest quietly. The magic words, apparently, as he gets up from the couch. His arms are thick, secure around you as he carries you over to his bedroom. 

You lean down, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, trailing down his neck as he walks. You’re easing him into the idea of you. But you’re also trying to placate yourself. It’s a poor attempt to calm the racing beast in your chest. 

Your heart has been pounding against your ribs for the past few minutes. You know, in his own way, he’s not really a client. Certainly not like any you’ve ever done business with before. But your last experience…

Well, it had been your last for a reason. 

It’s hard to forget the kind of pain you’ve gone through, shoved into similar situations like this before. Always at the hand of the same woman. But it doesn’t have to be like that again. Not with Pope. 

He kicks the door shut behind him, turning and pressing you up against it. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

Rough hands flex around your thighs before he turns you around, walking you both back to the bed. Your legs slip from around his waist as he lays you down. Your hand trails up into his curls, tugging as his touch skates down your body. Pulling at the zipper of your skirt. You break apart, just long enough for you to peel your shirt off. 

His fingers drag up along your bare skin. Goosebumps break out at the soft touch as he pulls back enough to get a good look at you. You would laugh if it weren’t for that look in his eye, slightly panicked and overwhelmed. 

You’d made the choice to forgo a bra, knowing what you were getting up to today. His attention is unmoving on your breasts, and you let out a little huff. “I don’t bite,” you tease, taking his hands in yours and guiding them up to your chest. “Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, barely even moves. His gaze drags back up to yours, and you give him a little nod. Slowly, he cups your breasts, cold hands making you shiver. It’s been a lot longer than you’d ever tell anyone since you’ve been intimate. 

But… you’re liking this with Pope. For once, you’re not at the mercy of someone else. If anything, it feels like you’re holding the power here. His pleasure is only given if you will it. It’s certainly a feeling you could get used to. 

Your hands drag up his arms, resisting the urge to squeeze those thick biceps, and you draw him back down into another kiss. He’s already learning, softer with his approach, less aggressive. His palms skate down your body until he’s squeezing your waist. You try to pull him closer, legs closing around his hips, and his hands fall to the sheets. 

They flex at your sides as his body tenses. Pulling back, he won’t meet your eye, and you frown at the way his jaw clenches. There’s something sharp in his gaze that has your breath stuttering. You’ve seen the look before. In exes who knew what you used to be. 

That niggling question of whether you were clean? If you were still seeing your ‘clients’? You can’t blame him for thinking it, especially knowing his inclination toward cleanliness. But the hurt never lessens. That slight edge of rejection never gets any smoother. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, slowly releasing him. He says nothing, and you sit up on your elbows. “Pope,” you tell him, voice firm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You want to,” he mutters, finally meeting your eye. Your lips purse as you fight back the ache in your chest. You know that look too. The sudden fear that if you don’t give this person what they want… they’ll leave too. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he falls into the touch easily. “Come on,” you urge, moving up the bed and pulling the sheets back. 

He hesitates, hovering over you and still wondering if he should just do what you want. You pat the spot beside you, and he finally crawls under the sheets. You settle into the pillows, opening your arms to him. 

Pope watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly sinking into your touch. Your hand settles in his curls as his head falls against your chest. It doesn’t take him much longer to melt completely against you, not as you play with his hair, nearly falling asleep yourself. 

It’s comforting, in an odd way. Being pressed into the sheets by someone’s weight– but, for the first time in a while, they’re not expecting anything else from you. It’s a man you actually want. Not one that’s paid to own you for a few hours. 

You lean back, drawing him closer as the sun sets through the window. 

Pope is long gone by the time the sun rises again. Letting out a low sigh, you get out of bed, pretending you don’t miss the warmth he’d provided. Your skin is more chilled than you care to admit as you get dressed. 

It’s not as if you’d expected him to stay. Smurf always has him out running errands for her or doing the odd jobs no one else will. For someone who wants her attack dog close, she sure hates having him in the house with her. 

As you slip out of his room, the rest of the house is quiet, save for some clinking coming from the kitchen. Walking in, you grab your purse off the counter. There’s an extra weight that hadn’t been there the night before. 

Smurf stands by the kitchen island, stirring her coffee with that smirk you’d love to carve off her face. “Fun night?”

Sucking your teeth, you straighten your skirt and nod. “It was nice,” you grit out. 

She shakes her head and nods at your purse. Looking inside, you see a thick wad of cash rolled up and tossed carelessly inside. “Good girl,” she mutters, brushing past you. She gives your ass a little pat as she heads toward the pool. 

You bite back something venomous, nails digging into the soft skin of your palms as you take in a fortifying breath. It’s not worth it. 

You storm toward the front door. The anger inside you begins to dull as you start heading back home. You feel dirty. It’s the first time you’ve left a job of hers without someone else's fluids drying between your thighs. Or new bruises on your body. 

Still, you feel cheaper than you have in a long time. 

You want to convince yourself that you needed to do this to survive. You can’t survive off the shitty tips you make at Deran’s bar. And she could ruin your life with the knowledge she holds over you. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like scum. 

You’ve gotten better at noticing him before he makes himself known. It’s his stare, you think. It’s so heavy, so intent, it’s almost impossible to miss the weight of it on your back. His gaze is still something predatory to you– not that you don’t enjoy it. But you know better than to think of it as something empty, or compare it to the blind hunger of a shark, like you used to. 

Lifting your head, you offer Pope a small smile as he stalks into the bar. There’s not really another word you can think of for that unique stride of his. 

He brushes brusquely past the customers who are leaving. It doesn’t take long for people to simply make room for him. It's incredibly impressive– and attractive– how he can take control of a room without ever saying anything. Maybe people are just scared of his general energy, but it works. 

He sits at the corner of the bar closest to you. “What can I get ya?” You toss your towel over your shoulder as you make your way toward him. 

Pope fishes out his wallet, tossing too much cash on the counter. “Just a beer,” he tells you, turning to survey the rest of the people here. 

He’s leaning against the bar, but his posture still remains stiff. His eyes never stop watching everyone around him, looking out for possible threats. It’s hard to tell if that’s a result of his time in prison or just a skill inherent to the Codys. 

His mannerisms make you think of a man who should hate eye contact. But talking to him is intense enough to make you short of breath, sometimes. He never takes his eyes off of you, as if he’s one slip up away from being stabbed in the back. You wonder who the last person he trusted was. His sister, probably. 

The longer you meet his eye, the more you see, the worse it gets. Those little flecks of emotion hidden among the hazel, it’s too much for a man who's meant to keep his cards close to his chest. You look away first, reaching for his cash and counting out his change. 

“Keep it,” he dismisses when you try to hand it back to him. 

Your eyes narrow, but you can’t afford to argue. Pocketing the cash, you nod, going to retrieve his beer. “Deran isn’t here,” you let him know, placing the bottle in front of him. 

He wipes at the condensation before fetching a napkin, slipping it under the bottle. “Did you want to leave a message for him?” you ask. 

Pope looks up from the beer and shakes his head. “No,” he tells you. “I didn’t come here to see Deran.”

A smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “No?” you hum, pretending to wipe down the bar so he can’t catch that look in your eyes. The one that will give away too much, too soon. “Just came here for the shitty beer?”

“Exactly,” he mutters, taking a deep swig. Your eyes narrow as he plays along, a slight laugh huffing out of you. His idea of humor is so dry that it almost circles right back to not even being a joke anymore. 

Shaking your head, you move down the bar to top off some drinks. He lingers in that corner, nursing the beer. He owns that section of the bar, even as business picks up and more people shuffle in. They don’t take the stools on either side of him. 

There are these burdens, like shadows, ever present around him. It’s not something everyone can see, but they can feel the energy that radiates off him. That sort of ‘stay away’ warning that you’ve never been particularly good at following. 

It’s rare for you to get through a shift without at least one shitty pick-up line or a drunken slap on your ass. But, with Pope’s stare burning over your shoulder, you have a pretty good night. 

It’s interesting how quick he was to give in to your whims. How fast he now seeks out your company. You wonder: without Smurf’s prodding, would you have been able to lure him in like you had last night? Would he have given in to you the same way?

All this time you could have had him. But you’ve never been particularly good at taking what you want. 

Pope remains in his seat the rest of the night. It takes a herculean effort not to simply close the bar early, knowing what's waiting for you after your shift. His stare is heavy with intent. Still, you control yourself, letting the anticipation drag out for him too. 

“We’re closing,” you tell him, going around the bar and collecting the last of the beer bottles. Pope straighens up and slides from his stool. 

“I’ll wait,” he tells you simply. You linger by the kitchen door before shaking your head with a scoff. You carry the recycling to the back, and when you come back, he’s wiping down tables with the cleaning solution from behind the bar. You don’t object, getting your closing tasks done in half the time with him. 

“You know,” you start, as you count out the cash in the register. “If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have just asked.” He goes still where he’s standing. You offer him a wry grin. “I like being around you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a low huff. “Most people don’t.”

Your hands freeze as you shoot him a severe look. “Most people are idiots,” you tell him sharply. The corners of his lips twitch, and you sigh. Walking the envelope of cash to the back, you leave it in the safe under Deran’s desk. Out front, Pope waits for you by the door. 

Grabbing your purse from the bar, you catch up with him. He holds the door open for you as you step outside. “So,” you hum. “Your place or mine?”

Pope tenses up beside you as you lock up. “What?” he asks as you turn to face him. His eyes dart down to your lips and you grin. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. 

“Are we going to your place or mine?” you ask again, leaning against the door with your arms crossed. 

You almost expect him to back out or change his mind. He knows who you are, what you were. You haven’t forgotten that moment of hesitation from the other night. You’d be honestly surprised if he wanted anything to do with you. 

“Yours,” he tells you, voice so sure it takes you aback. 

“Alright,” you mutter, slipping past him with a surprised smile. 

Pope drives you to Deran’s place. You live in the apartment above his and Adrian’s home. A fact that you now realize you’ve never shared with Pope. But it’s not like you’ve ever had a reason to invite him over before. 

You lead him up the stairs, his hand in yours as you let him inside. He toes off his boots as you toss your purse on the entryway table. “Want a tour?” you ask, raising your brows. He nods, and you squeeze your hand around his, guiding him through the tiny apartment. 

It’s a decent enough place for somewhere that doesn’t charge rent. You’ve got your own little kitchenette and a depressingly small shower. It’s honestly not all that interesting. Lacking all of the personal touches that make a place home. You’ve learned to live small. 

You lead Pope past everything and take him straight to your bedroom. “Not much of a tour,” he tells you, rough voice teasing. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you really complaining?” You step closer, pressing your chest to his as you wind your arms around his neck. He shakes his head and you push up, lips just brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want a better tour?”

He cuts off your teasing with a kiss. For a moment, it’s too harsh. But then he’s remembering what you’d shown him. He backs off, grip loosening around your waist, his touch softening. You take his hands in yours, dragging them down your body and directing him to the button of your pants. He makes quick work of it, helping you out of them.

You’re pushed up against the doorway, his rough palms squeezing your hips while you work on the buckles of his belt. The second you’ve got it undone, he’s kicking off his jeans, pulling away from you to rip off his jacket. Your hands drag down his torso, greedy as your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, you eagerly palm the soft muscles of his stomach. 

Pope shudders beneath your touch, and you grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He searches for more, but you dart out of his reach, whipping off your shirt and flitting toward your bed. You beckon him forward with a small crook of your finger, and he follows obediently. 

You turn down your sheets, crawling onto your bed and waiting for him to do the same. He climbs over you, lips pressing against yours before drifting along your jaw, moving down your neck. He kneels before you, touch greedy as he palms your thighs. 

It feels like he’s teasing you as he moves lower between your legs. His eyes never leave yours. Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze. His fingers play with the band of your underwear before he slowly moves back up your body. 

You let out a soft breath, almost relieved he hadn’t traveled farther. You’re not sure how much of him you can handle at once. It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself be open with someone like this. And even now, you’re hiding things from him. 

You can only take so much at once. 

“Can we do what we did last night?” he whispers, tone hesitant. As if you would say no to that. 

You just nod, reaching up and letting your hand scratch through his curls. You sink back into the pillows, and he follows you. He seems more sure of himself as he sinks into your chest, arms winding around your torso as you both get settled. 

This seems to be becoming a tradition of sorts. You hold him until his breath settles and he falls asleep. Rolling over, you curl tighter around him, letting out a low, sated breath. 

The bed is cold when you wake up. There’s a dip where his body used to be, but he’s gone. Rolling over, you scrub a hand down your face, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Uncomfortable at the AC nipping at your bare skin, you tug the sheets up. 

Glancing over at your nightstand, you see a notification lighting up your phone. A part of you hopes it's Pope. But your heart sinks when you realize it’s a notification from Smurf. A wire transfer of $400 and a little ‘good girl’ memo, just so you don’t forget whose in charge. 

With a low huff, you sink back into your pillows, stomach twisting. How could Smurf possibly know what happened last night? Did Pope tell her? Had Smurf sent Pope to you?

You hadn’t gone home with him last night with a paycheck on your mind. You’d just wanted to be around him. 

Glancing back at your phone, you realize you finally have enough money to go grocery shopping for the first time in a while. 

No going back now. 

You have a tendency to follow Deran along wherever he leads you. Usually, you’re bored and looking for something interesting to occupy your time with. Most of the time, though, you have this feeling of obligation to him. For helping you more than he ever had to or even should have. 

Ultimately, that habit puts you right back at Smurf’s place. No matter how hard he tries–how hard any of them try–they always find their way back to her. There’s something magnetic about her that pulls the boys right into her orbit, even if they know they should have left years ago. 

Deran lounges by the pool while you get some water out of the fridge. You survey the area outside. The party is smaller this time. Likely thrown so Smurf could do business with someone, though you never have much clue what she gets up to. 

The sliding glass door opens, and you straighten up. The devil herself walks through, that familiar smirk on her face. “What’re you doing in here, baby?”

“Just getting something to drink,” you answer, moving out of her way as she gets some food she’d made out of the fridge. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” she hums, brows lifting as she motions you on. 

You lick your lips, swallowing roughly. It’s hard to string the right words together. To find that magical combination that will keep you looking like prey in her eyes, rather than another competitor. “You don’t–” Huffing, you start over, forcing yourself to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to keep paying me.” 

She shakes her head, feigning cluelessness and your nails bite into the plastic of your water bottle. “For Pope. I don’t mind keeping him entertained for you, but I don’t want you to keep paying me.”

“Now,” she chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Why would I stop? It’s not like you’re dating him, sweetheart. You’re just doing me a favor.”

Because it's wrong. Because every goddamn person in his life is using him in some way. And you can’t let yourself be someone like that to him. 

“Right, well, I don’t need to be paid for it.”

Smurf smiles, tilting her head as she swaggers up to you. She drapes her arm around your waist, leading you outside. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone.” You want to dig your heels into the floor and stop her, but you don’t have a choice. 

She leads you over to a balding man in an ill-fitting Speedo. There are already three girls surrounding him, each in skimpy bikinis with eager smiles. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his lecherous gaze onto you when Smurf brings you over. 

“Honey, this is Robert. We’re working out some business right now. But I thought I’d introduce him to the girls.” She sets her chin on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear. “Do I need to introduce you to him, too?”

You jerk out of her grip, stomach turning as you take in the other man. “I’ll take the money,” you hiss out, meeting her eye with a sharp glare. 

“That’s what I thought,” she grins. “Go on, enjoy the party,” she urges you along, and you run off to find Deran. You can hear that man objecting behind you. His arms are already full of beautiful women, but he’s still a greedy pig. 

Your throat tightens with nausea as you throw yourself down on the pool chair beside Deran. Why would you have ever thought that would work?

If Smurf stopped paying you, that would be like admitting defeat. She’d be accepting that Pope actually has someone stable in his life. Someone who wants to be with him and around him. It would be admitting that she made a mistake. She had given you permission to enter his life and had given him access to the affection and care she weaponizes against him. 

It’d be like his leash was switching hands. And she couldn’t have you cutting him free; of course she couldn’t. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to think she’d conceded so easily. 

“Everything okay?” You jump, the sound of Deran’s voice catching you off guard. 

You force a smile onto your face, shoving down your discomfort. “Yeah, of course.” You motion toward Robert and redirect the conversation. “So, what’s she got planned this time?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deran scoffs. He takes a hit from the blunt in his hand. “She doesn’t tell me shit until she wants something,” he mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

You hum, but you’re barely paying attention now. Something else has begun to occupy your thoughts. Well, someone else. Glancing over your shoulder, you see him. 

Pope is lingering. That feels like an ill-fitting word for him. Lurking, brooding, stalking, those all fit him much better. Lingering seems so meek for him. Still, you can’t deny, that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

It’s a silly worry, but you can see it clearly on his face as his gaze keeps darting back to you. He crosses his arms, pretending to be watching the rowdy partygoers. A smile pulls at your lips; you can’t judge him. You used to struggle keeping your eyes off of him, it’s easier now that you don’t have to pretend. 

Deran lets out a rough sigh, and you force your attention back to him. “What?” you chuckle at the aggrieved look on his face. 

He nods toward his brother. “What do you think? He’s weird but never this fucking weird.”

“Watch it,” you scold, shooting him a playful glare as you toss a sidelong glance at Pope. He’s only a few feet away; you’re sure he can hear his brother being a dick. It’s funny, though, how he acts like he hasn’t been waiting to talk to you since the moment you showed up. 

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You jump, head whipping back toward your friend. “Jesus, Deran, you make me sound like some sort of whore.” He shoots you a look that makes you laugh. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, are you a lady now?”

“Thin ice,” you warn, shaking your head at him. He holds up his hands, but that shit-eating grin doesn’t leave his face. 

It’s dark by the time Deran passes out on the pool chair. The party has grown louder, and more people have shown up after sunset. You groan as you stand, shooting Deran an amused look as you leave him. He lets out a particularly loud snore as you brush past. 

You glance around the pool for your shadow. He hasn’t gone far. Just retreated into a quieter corner, eyes never leaving you as you approach. “It’s getting pretty rowdy out here,” you whisper conspiratorially as you move to stand beside him. 

He nods, eyeing the party before his gaze inevitably drifts back to you. “Are you not cold in that thing?” He nods toward your bikini, and you scoff. 

You place your hands on his bicep and prop your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. Do you wanna help warm me up?” 

He swallows thickly, jaw clenching as he watches you. For a moment, you think you’ve finally got him. Then he looks away, rolling out his shoulders so you’re forced to let go. The rejection stings as you back up. “Don’t you have business to attend?”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “What?”

Pope just nods over toward the man Smurf had threatened you with earlier. You let out a disbelieving sigh, a stiff smile on your face as you shake your head. “Seriously?” you demand. Pope says nothing. “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Before he can say anything else, you continue. “And I don’t do your mother’s business anymore. But you can go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Pope. I’m just another whore, right?”

Shaking your head, you move away from him and back toward the house. Somewhere inside, you know that this is irrational. Smurf is paying you. Not just that, but Pope is now your business. He wouldn’t be, if you had one fucking iota of control over your own life. 

But you’re certainly not leading him on with this idea that you’re exclusive just to be fucking someone else behind his back. It hurts that he would think that lowly of you. That after the time you’ve spent together, you’re still nothing more than a prostitute looking for a quick buck. 

You hear footsteps rushing up behind you before someone’s taking your wrist in their hand. Whipping around, you see Pope. He says nothing, just starts pulling you through the party. People part for him; they always do. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss, not making much of an effort to break free. 

He leads you to his bedroom, letting the door close behind him. You can see it, as the sounds of the party fade, his shoulders lose that stressed hunch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the ground, unable to meet your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shrug. “Whatever. I can’t exactly blame you for not wanting to be with me.”

His head lifts, and he frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His shoulders roll back as he takes a step closer to you. “I want to be with you. But I don’t share.” 

It took him a second to find the right word before settling on share. You doubt there’s a word succinct enough to say he doesn’t like his women sleeping with other men for cash. “I can’t stand it when you’re around other men. I just–” his eyes are wide with this slightly panicked look, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of pissing you off and having you run, again. 

You surge forward, dragging him down into a kiss. You like this more than you should. That little bit of insecurity in his voice. The slight possessiveness as his hands squeeze around your waist. It’s nice to be wanted rather than scorned for situations far out of your control. 

Your back is pushed gently against his door, and his hands cup your cheeks. Your hands drop to his wrists, flexing around them as he pushes you higher up the door. His thigh slots between your legs as you throw your arms around his shoulders, desperate for some leverage. His leg flexes, and your hips grind down, a soft gasp escaping you as his grip flexes around your waist. 

This is different. More rushed than what you’ve done with him before. There’s intent behind this kiss, especially behind the way his palms drift. He cups your ass, lifting you until your legs are wrapping around his hips. He shuffles you higher up his body, dragging you away from the door. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, grip tightening around his curls, trying to anchor yourself in whatever way you can manage. He lets out a low groan that makes nerves spark beneath your skin. “Pope, what’s gotten into you?” 

You let out a low sigh as he bends, placing you carefully on the bed. He surveys you for a moment, jaw flexing as he debates answering. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs his shirt off, arms and stomach flexing as he does. You reach for the string of your bikini top, tugging it loose. 

You let it sit on your chest, beckoning him closer and guiding one of his hands to the thin fabric. His lips drag down your neck, calloused palm eagerly ripping away your top. He tosses it somewhere behind him, and you sink back onto the bed, letting him take the lead. 

He hasn’t seemed confident in initiating much with you; you don’t want to discourage him now. 

His rough palms travel down your body, lingering at the band of your bottoms. When his wide eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. He pulls, slowly, until the flimsy fabric dangles  from one ankle, then he settles back over you. 

His fingers skate across your stomach, touch barely there, but just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. His lips marks a slow, intentional path down your body. He lingers at your chest, careful as he slowly mouths at your breast. 

His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to scold him, push him away. You thread your fingers through his hair, nodding. You’re afraid of saying anything, of spooking him out of the moment. 

He sucks once and you tug at his hair, letting out a low whimper as his free hand tweaks your other nipple. “Pope,” you gasp out, spine arching into his touch. 

It’s so faint, so hesitant, you can’t stand how much of a tease he is. His eyes close as his hand wanders, searching. He wants to know how much you want him. Wants to feel it. 

Slowly, he parts from you; you have to stop yourself from reaching for him. His mouth descends until  he’s lingering  between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, making room for his broad shoulders. 

Just like everything else he’s done tonight, he’s tentative at first. A shallow dip of his tongue has you holding back a groan of frustration. You’re not trying to rush him; you want this to be good for him. To feel real. 

But it’s hard. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he’s right there, kneeling between your thighs, and there’s nothing you can do but be at his mercy. 

You tighten your grip around his hair, inching your hips ever closer to his mouth. His large arms wrap around your legs, keeping your back pressed flush to the bed. The corded muscles of his shoulders flex as he finally leans forward. You’re struck by the sight of his thick body pinning you down, the sudden urge to sink your teeth into him overwhelming. 

Instead, you tilt your head back, resisting the need. Your heart thumps fast, anticipation pushing you closer toward the steep edge of desperation. 

Something is flickering inside you, smoldering. A small flame sparked alive by the heat of his breath, catching like wildfire when you finally feel his mouth on you. He doesn’t hold back, ravenous as his hands flex around your thighs. 

A rumbling groan tears from deep within his chest, low and desperate with every swipe of his tongue. The vibrations leave you keening; your hips twitch, but his heavy arms keep you in place. He pulls away, ignoring your wanton mewl.  His hand pinches at your thigh and you look up. The second your hazy eyes meet his, he’s dipping back down. 

You could swear there’s a smile on his lips as his tongue thrusts into you, mouth greedy as he devours you. 

You wonder what he’s like with the women Smurf hires. 

You shouldn’t be thinking about her, not right now. 

But… does he take what he wants? Shove into them and take them until he finds release? Or is he tender with them, too? Reaching hopelessly for some sort of connection, one they’ll give him right up until the cash is in hand. 

You don’t want to be that; you want this. Want him. Want that desperate edge in his eye as he eats you like all he’s ever felt is hunger. Your hand tightens in his hair, a broken moan crawls up your throat as something inside you burns. The heat pools low, spreading to your every limb. Your muscles jump and contract as you squirm beneath his iron grip. 

The jerk of your hips, the sounds that splinter then shatter the moment they touch your lips, the closeness you demand with your fingers threaded through his curls— it all seems to spur him on. He buries his face deeper, tongue relentless as he burrows inside you, and the only thought your mind can conjure is Pope Cody. 

“F-Fuck— Oh, God,” you let out a sharp gasp. Losing all manner of control, you begin to writhe, grinding down on him until the fire burns so hot, it becomes cold. Pleasure crests over your body in waves, leaving you shivering. Your legs twitch, thighs practically closing around his head as his fingers dig into you, ten crescent moons carved into your skin. He doesn’t stop until you tug weakly at his hair. 

He’s panting slightly as he finally lets you go. When he pulls back, loosening his grip, your slick shimmers on his chin, though he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark and dazed, but no less intense, as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. 

Following your gentle pull, he crawls up your body, letting his lips mark a trail as he goes. His rough hands knead and soothe your spasming muscles. 

You drag him into a lazy kiss, palms smoothing down his back as you wrap your legs around his waist. His length sits heavy in his boxers, you can feel it pressing against your hip, the wetness that grows as he flinches away from the pressure. 

Carefully, you push at his shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed. You follow once he’s settled, sliding into his lap.“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your hips. Like he’s waiting for permission to touch you, despite the scent of you still on his breath or the messy sheen that’s drying on his chin.  

“I want to,” you promise, cupping his cheek and luring him into another soft kiss. Slowly, but surely, his palms find solace on your hips, and he nods into the affection. You rise on shaky legs and help him work his boxers down. 

He notices the slight quiver in your hands and guides them to rest on his shoulders as he lines himself up. You let out a shuddering sigh, lowering yourself onto him. Your breath catches as he fills you completely. He groans when you take a moment to adjust and it’s dizzying. All you want is to hear more. You want to know every pretty sound he can make, so you push him back, your hands sliding down to his chest as you lift your hips. 

It’s tentative and barely anything, you’re still slightly weak from before, but you can feel the anticipation tightening his grip into something almost painful. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to remind himself of control. 

“There we go,” you whisper, more to yourself as you find a steady rhythm. You peer down at him, noticing the clench of his jaw, the white knuckles of his hand. He won’t look at you. His gaze is far-out and set on the languid roll of your hips.

You let your nose trail along his flushed cheek as you wander lower,  pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. Your lips brush his ear, teeth just barely grazing. “You can touch me, Pope,” you promise. You settle back on his thighs, taking his heavy hands and dragging them to your breasts. “I’m all yours,” you whisper, enjoying the way his jaw loosens, wide eyes finding your own. “Only yours,” you swear.

That severe look softens as you slowly begin to circle your hips again, setting a steady pace. You let go of his hands, falling forward onto his chest as you brace yourself. Pleasure begins mounting again, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming as you pulse around him. 

Your body trembles as you begin to lose your rhythm, walls still fluttering from the feeling of his tongue. You’re too sensitive for this. It’s been so long since you’ve genuinely been with someone without performing that you’ve almost forgotten the right moves. 

Hesitantly, his hips buck, and you choke on your breath, sliding until your lips are pressed against his once more. Your hands drag up his chest, stroking his cheek as he winds his arms around your back. You set the pace, decide the rhythm, but his hips move in time, taking only as much control as you allow him. 

“There you go, just like that,” you pant, breathless as your stomach tightens. The encouragement seems to spur him on, his thrusts speeding up slightly. 

You pull back, biting your lip as you stare down at him. “God, that f-feels good.” His eyes light up, glimmering in a way you haven’t seen before. There’s a low, rumbling sound you quickly realize is coming from him, but it soon fractures into something softer, needier. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper, observing him intently. 

Your jaw drops open when you hear his voice, weak and wanton, stretching thin around a single word, over and over: “Yeah, y-yeah, yeah.” You gasp as he ruts up into you, reaching deeper than before. His movements are rushed, his brows furrowed; you can practically see his control fraying like old twine.  

He hits that spot inside you that has your vision going blurry and your nails biting into his chest as you cling to him. Your moans grow pitchy, drowning out his soft noises. Your attempt at keeping pace falls apart as you curl into him, your eyes shut so tight you begin to see spots whizzing around in the darkness. 

Despite the way you tighten and convulse around him, he keeps moving. Your spine arches, frozen and bowed in his unyielding grip. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple as his hips buck wildly. He’s speaking, you notice, muttering so quietly, your hazy mind can’t latch onto a single word. The only thing you can hear is the tide of raw desperation that rushes through and hollows out his tone. Then, his muscles pull taut; he holds you as close as he physically can, whining brokenly when he can’t drag you any closer. 

Chest-to-chest, you feel the heat of his breath rush over your face as his hips jerk, losing all coordination. Warmth. All you feel is his warmth as his head burrows into the crook of your neck and his length flexes helplessly inside you. 

With his heart thumping rapidly against yours, your fingers carding through his damp curls, you realize you broke your own rule. You hadn’t even thought about using a condom, let alone asking him to pull out. You wanted him. All of him. And now you have it. So you let him soften inside you as he carefully moves you under the sheets. 

You relish the ache in your body, succumb to the exhaustion in your bones. You’re pulled from a dreamless sleep when you feel the wet warmth of a washcloth between your thighs.

After a few moments, the bed dips beside you. Your hand wanders blindly, brow furrowing as you pat at the empty space. You don’t say a word as you grab his wrist, dragging him into your arms, closing the gap between you. He huffs softly—maybe a laugh, maybe a begrudging complaint, you’re not sure. It’s merely a rasp of breath, but it hitches, like it’s caught on something in his throat the second your fingers start to soothe the angry red marks on his freckled skin. Like a vow of surrender, he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, and you sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, speaking the words into your skin, and you can only hum, pulling him closer. 

Your laughter wakes him up, echoing from the kitchen and just barely reaching his room. It’s a light sound, without the baggage that he’s grown so familiar with. Frowning, he scrubs his hand down his face and sits up. 

Sun spills in through the windows, marking the spot you’d been lying in the night before. His hand runs across the sheets. It’s cold enough that he knows you’ve been gone for a while. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that settles in his chest at the realization. 

It’s probably a sensation you’ve grown familiar with, considering how often he leaves you alone in bed. He hates that every time you’ve woken up and seen the indentation where his body was, he’s left you with this. But staying would be admitting to an attachment that’s dangerous for both of you. 

He throws the sheets back, getting up and dressing quickly. He’s interested in whatever's got you laughing so hard this early in the morning. When he steps out of his room, he shouldn’t be surprised to find his brother sitting with you. 

You and Deran are seated at the kitchen island, cereal shared between you as you laugh at something Deran’s said. His brother has that bored look on his face, unaware of how rare the sight of you smiling like that is. 

Pope’s never elicited a reaction like that from you. The thought makes something sharp and ugly curl in his gut. He grimaces, shaking his head. It’s not like he’s ever said anything worth laughing at. 

Humor’s never been his talent. Most people don’t recognize his attempts; they just stare at him with that look in their eyes. Like they’ve been waiting for him to leave since he walked up. 

You’ve never looked at him like that. 

Pope storms up to the kitchen, and your laughter slowly fades. Something in his chest tightens at that. Your eyes widen at the look on his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He snatches up the milk and shakes it at Deran. “Why don’t you learn how to put things back?” he snaps, glaring at his brother. 

Deran shoots him an offended look. The moment’s broken by your laughter. It’s the light kind of sound that usually only his brother earns. Your eyes narrow, and you give Pope a funny look. 

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” you tease. Pope lets out a huff, shaking his head as he puts the milk away. 

“Yeah, with you on the right side,” Deran mutters. Pope glances over his shoulder, whatever he was going to say gone as he realizes you’re dressed in nothing but his shirt. 

You kick Deran under the counter and scoff. “Fuck off,” laughter still lingers in your voice. Pope can appreciate the sight of you like this. Happy, uninhibited. Usually, when you’re over at the house, you always look like you’re one good scare away from running out the door. The work of Smurf, he’s sure. 

He wants to think he contributed to your mood in some way. But he’s never been good at improving moods, just learned not to make them worse. He likes the thought of one day being the reason you have a smile on your face, but he knows it’ll probably never happen. There’s a reason he’s got a poor track record with dating. 

You jump up from your seat, dropping your bowl in the sink. When Pope moves to put it in the dishwasher, you intercept. You throw your arms around his shoulders with a small smile. “Morning, you grump,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

His hands hover over your waist, nearly returning the hug, but you’re already moving away. It’s so simple with you, isn’t it? Holding and knowing how to be held. It’s not such a foreign idea to you as it is to Pope. 

He wants to be comfortable with it, with you. But it’s hard to get rid of that feeling, like he’s ready to strip off his skin anytime you touch him so softly. Rougher is easier; it’s familiar. This just doesn’t make sense to him. That you’re around him willingly, that Smurf isn’t just paying you off to keep his head on straight. 

Pope’s still not sure how much he trusts this whole arrangement with you. He knows what you said, about not working, about only being with him. But he’d seen how Smurf had taken you aside last night, that terrified look in your eyes when you’d run off. 

A part of him is worried about what he’ll find if he digs much deeper than the surface. 

Deran lets out a disgusted sigh at the affection and moves outside. He leaves his bowl at the counter for someone else to clean. Pope glares at his brother’s back as you jump onto the kitchen counter beside him. You steal his attention easily. 

Pope could certainly get used to this feeling of someone being so eager to be the center of his attention. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, a lazy smile on your face. He knows he's greedy when he wishes he could keep that smile just for himself. To have you in a way no one else does, not even Deran. 

A part of him resents his brother for getting to you first. For being your friend first and making that unofficial claim on your time and presence. 

“You wanted to go to the boardwalk,” he reminds you, even though the idea sets his teeth on edge. He’d hate to be out in the sun surrounded by rowdy tourists and louder locals. But he knows you’ve been wanting to go, and you’ve been doing too many things he’s wanted to do.

Besides, he wants to hear you laugh again. Or get a real, genuine smile out of you. Not that teasing look that's ever-present on your face. 

“Seriously?” you scoff, tilting your head. “Don’t you hate that kind of thing?”

Yes. Pope just shrugs, focusing on cleaning up the mess Deran left behind, hoping you don’t notice the stiff posture of his shoulders or tight look on his face. “How about,” you slip off the counter and sidle up behind him, hand resting lightly on his back. 

“We catch a movie? It’s too hot to be outside, anyway.”

The weather’s perfect for a day out on the boardwalk. But he knows you’re lying for his sake. He should make the sacrifice to make you happy. But it’s surprising how easily you’ll switch your plans to accommodate him. It’s hard to say no to that. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. You smile, turning off the sink and taking his hand in yours. You offer Deran an absentminded wave as you lead Pope outside. He relishes the eye roll his brother sends you. 

Maybe you’d had plans with Deran today. It didn’t really matter, though, because you’d chosen Pope. He’s almost tempted to gloat, but you’re still dragging him along behind you. 

Pope helps you up into his truck. Your phone lights up, and you glance down at it, the smile on your face fading. It looks like a notification that someone’s sent you money, but you’re closing the door before he can get a good look at it. 

He gets inside and watches you carefully. You bite at the skin around your thumb, leg bouncing as you type something out on your phone. His mind shouldn’t immediately go to the thought that it's a client paying you. 

You’d told him last night there wasn’t anyone else. And he knows Deran does his best to keep you away from all that, now. 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel as he backs out of the driveway. 

Pope has no claim to you; he knows that. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, you still aren’t technically anything. But that doesn’t chase away the barbed feeling of possessiveness in his chest. He told you he doesn’t share, and he meant that. 

He can’t stand the idea of someone else being with you the way he had been last night. It makes something hot burn up in his stomach. The corners of his vision go dark as he glances over at you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask, frowning at him. 

He just nods, sucking in a sharp breath as he turns back to the road. You haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. 

The bell above the door rings out, and you already know who it is without looking. Pope takes his usual seat at the bar, and you grab him a beer. Just like he has the past few weeks, he’ll wait out the last hour of your shift with you and drive you home. You’ll turn on a movie, and Deran will still complain he can hear what you’re getting up to with his brother tomorrow morning. 

You smile at the thought, leaning against the bar as Pope watches you. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Smurf wanted me home for dinner.” He purses his lips, glaring down at the bar. “I don’t want to deal with that tonight,” he mutters, meeting your eye again. 

“I feel so special,” you tease, forcing the smile to stay on your face. 

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

Trying to distract yourself, you go back to topping off drinks and wiping down spills. You head into the kitchen to fetch a customer’s food. By the time you come back, there’s someone else waiting by the bar. 

It’s a tall man in a pressed suit with the posture of someone who holds themself in high esteem. Cop, you figure. Spend enough time with the Codys or working the jobs you used to, and you get good at sniffing them out. This one’s probably a detective based on that expensive watch he’s wearing. 

He’s eyeing Pope warily, probably well aware of his place in the Cody family. You’re sure they’re a hot topic at the station. “What can I get you?” you ask, walking back behind the bar.

A fool’s hope that he’s here for a shitty beer. He’s not even sitting down. Probably afraid to get a stain on his pants from Deran’s secondhand stools. The detective offers a smarmy grin and says your name. You hum, nodding. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen this man?” He digs around in the inside of his blazer and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the bar. You bite your lip, innately aware of the stare burning into the side of your head. It takes all your self-control not to look over at Pope. 

Your stomach drops so violently that you worry you might throw up as you stare down at the picture. You recognize that face. Green eyes framed by wrinkles from a life filled with laughter. Blonde hair that had been going gray the last time you’d seen him. Tears line your eyes as you stare down at the image. 

You suck in a sharp breath, blinking a few times before looking back up at the detective. “Can’t say I have,” you tell him, plastering on a smile. “Should I be looking out for him? Did he do something?” You play the “concerned citizen” role well, but not well enough. 

He’d caught you off guard, sent you stumbling from that reminder of the past. 

The detective sucks his teeth, smile tightening at the edges as he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. His name is Joseph Barker. He was murdered three years ago. The case has been closed, but some new evidence recently came to light that has us reopening it.”

“Oh,” you hum, eyes wide with naivety. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective pulls out his wallet, takes out a business card, and places it down. “I want you to keep that,” he tells you, nodding to the picture. “And call me if anything… jogs your memory.” His eyes cut toward Pope before he swiftly leaves the bar. 

You let out a low breath and lean against the counter, head falling between your shoulders. “What was that?” Pope asks, breaking through the quiet. 

You lick your lips, picking up the card and picture. “Nothing,” you mutter, throwing them both in the trash. You turn around to Pope with a tight smile on your face. Shrugging haplessly, you just tell him, “I have no idea who that is. Ever heard of him?”

Pope stares at you for a long while. Long enough to make your skin crawl with the paranoia that he sees right through your long list of lies. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Weird,” you mutter, voice cracking around the word. You have to turn away from him. Scrubbing a hand down your face, you suck in a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. His stare feels like a judgment weighing heavily on you for the rest of your shift. 

Pope’s mind is usually filled with a dozen different thoughts. What Smurf wants from him, worrying about his brother’s fucking something up, reminders of past failures. Lately, the new addition to that has been you. He normally likes his thoughts of you. They break through the rest of the noise and give him a chance to breathe. 

But his mind is jumbled up around how you’ve been acting. You’re barely ever looking away from your phone. Teeth always tearing through the skin of your nail beds until they bleed, uncaring as you frantically message someone on the other side of the screen. 

You’re jumpy and less touchy with him than you typically are. He has a hard enough time initiating with you, but you’ve been making it even worse by flinching at anything and everything. 

He was worried before; it’s only gotten worse since that detective stopped by the bar. You’ve withdrawn into yourself completely. You’re always quiet, with this look in your eyes that tells him you’re somewhere else completely. 

His worry is a poor excuse for what he’s doing right now. But there’s no one around to judge him but himself, and he’s never had particularly strong morals when it comes to protecting those he cares about.

Pope’s been following you all day. Trailing behind you in his truck, watching you run your errands and flit about town. You’ve never noticed him, not once. Which is worrying enough. He’s not been particularly subtle. Almost hoping that you’ll catch him so he can just confront you. 

He’s parked across the street from the gas station you’re at. Arm propped on his window as he watches you run inside. A sleek black car pulls up and parks beside yours. Pope frowns, shifting in his seat to get a better look as the detective from before gets out of the car. 

Detective Benson— he found out the name after he’d fished the man’s business card from the trash. He did a bit of digging into him. He typically handles the more Wall Street cases. Helps businessmen cover up their illicit affairs and bad investments. It makes sense that he’s got this Joseph guy's case. But Pope can’t figure out the connection back to you. 

He sits up as you come out of the gas station, reading your receipt and unaware of your surroundings. Benson walks up to you, cutting you off before you can get in your car. Pope can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can see the shock on your face. How quickly it morphs into fear as you look around for an escape. 

You were lying to him. 

He knew that at the bar. You’d looked like you were on the verge of tears after the detective left. And he’s not blind. Pope knows you’d recognized the picture Benson had given you. But you weren’t willing to open up to him. 

You look flustered as Benson starts talking to you, holding up your hands and shaking your head. You try to escape back to your car, but he stops you, stepping in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. 

Pope shifts in his seat. He doesn’t appreciate just how comfortable this cop is getting with you. His hand is on the door handle, almost tempted to head out and help you. But you already look calmer, head hanging down as you nod. Benson backs off, pulling out his card again and handing it to you. 

You take it without objecting, lifting your head to watch as the detective drives off. Pope can see you thinking, your foot tapping as you stare down at the card. He’s willing you to turn around and throw it away. To just forget about the cop. 

Instead, you pinch your nose, shaking your head as you put the card in your purse and climb back into your car. 

Pope’s seen enough. He sucks in a sharp breath, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he pulls out and away. The information he needs, he isn’t going to get from you. 

He drives back to Smurf’s place. And he knows that he should have just come to her to begin with. But he’s cagey about you. She knows he’s spending his nights somewhere else now. Somewhere away from her. 

He hasn’t told her about you. Going to her, asking about this Joseph guy, he knows it’s going to point right back to you. But you’re not talking to him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Pope lets out a rough sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face as he parks. He’s trying to think of anywhere else he could go. Anyone else he could talk to so he can figure out what your connection to a dead man is. But he knows what you used to do for his mother, who you were. She knows. He’s sure of it. 

He slams his truck door closed, storming up the front steps. He can hear her in the kitchen, making dinner. He’d forgotten she’d called a family dinner tonight. The last goddamn place he wants to be is surrounded by his family while he’s dealing with this shit with you. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Where you been?”

Pope leans against the counter, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further. “Do you know a Joseph Barker?”

Smurf frowns, tilting her head as she thinks. “Yeah,” she smiles at him and nods. “Yeah, I do.” She says your name, and the way her smile sharpens has his chest tightening. “He was her favorite. Something happened between them. Haven’t heard from him in years.”

Smurf shrugs with a helpless smile, but he knows she hasn’t been helpless a goddamn day in her life. “Not my business to tell, baby. Now, help me set the table.”

He takes the plates she hands him instinctively, going to arrange the table just like she asked. Her words ring through his head. Your favorite. He hadn’t realized escorts had favorite clients, but he guesses it makes sense. 

Doesn’t matter that the man’s been dead three years; something ugly and sharp still burns hot through his chest. He slams the plates down harder than necessary, thinking about you having a favorite anything. 

You’ve done everything she asked. 

And you did your job too damn well. That’s why she’s punishing you. It has to be. She wanted you to entertain Pope, keep him occupied, and stop him from spiraling. You did just what she asked. 

You entertained him, cared for him, provided him with the sort of affection she saves up until he’s desperate for any form of contact. Until he’s practically broken. You’ve done your best to stop him from breaking, and that’s exactly why she’s doing this now. 

Smurf is bringing ghosts back, sending the cops on your trail so you remember just why you’re so afraid of her. It’s what she has on you that has kept you so compliant for years. 

You were only meant to entertain Pope. Not become something to him that has him skipping family dinners and ignoring Smurf’s calls. You’ve created this gap between her and him that has her trying to scare you into submission now. You’re so certain she’s the reason “new evidence came to light” on Joseph’s case.

But you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. There’s nowhere you can run, not now. You’ve never been particularly good at covering your trail. She’s the one who’d taken care of everything. Sworn that it was over and done with. 

You pace your living room, biting at your lip and trying not to break down. What the fuck are you going to do now?

Someone knocks on your front door, and you nearly scream. Clutching your racing chest, you turn toward it, debating not answering. Maybe it’s that detective again. Coming by with more questions. 

He’d got you at the gas station today. Tricked you into admitting that you knew Joseph. He got in your head with all that soft bullshit about wanting to help you—– you just had to be honest with him. You’re fragile, and you’re fucking stupid, slipping up like that. 

“It’s me,” Pope calls from the other side. You can’t tell if it's relief or panic that has your stomach swooping. 

“One sec,” you call, voice cracking. Grimacing, you rush up to the door, opening it up for him. “Hey, thought you had a family dinner tonight?” Your smile is tight at the edges, crumbling under the weight of your panic. 

You know your eyes are wide, expression bordering on desperate. You just don’t know if you’re desperate for him to stay or leave. In some strange way, he terrifies you. He sees so easily through all your lies and defenses. He knows something is wrong with you, but he hasn’t probed. And that’s what's scary. 

Because if he hasn’t felt like digging deeper, then what does he already know?

“Left early,” he tells you, stepping inside. Your forehead falls to the door, and you suck in a trembling breath as you try to get your shit together. 

With a quiet exhale, you turn around. His back is to you as he takes in the mess of your living room. A result of your earlier breakdown this morning. “Did you need something—”

“Whose Joseph Barker?” His voice is rough, eyes sharp as he turns to face you. Your nails bite into your palms as your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You flounder, back pressed to the door as you shake your head helplessly. 

Pope huffs, crossing his arms as he glares at you. He’s not easing up in the slightest. “I talked to Smurf. I know he used to be one of your clients. You lied to me.”

“I—” your voice cracks, and you feel your chest heave as you drag in a breath. “I had to,” you mutter, pinching your eyes shut as you fight back tears. “Please, Pope, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, voice making you jump. 

Why is he here?

Did she send him?

“You lied to me. I want to know why.” He stalks closer, and you dart away from the door, trying to put as much space between you as you can. Your eyes flit over his body, the way he pauses as he watches you run. His hands— loose at his sides. 

You would be able to tell, wouldn’t you? If he was going to hurt you. You want to think you would know. But it’s Pope… As much as you think you mean something to him, you will never be Smurf. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Pope, okay? I still can’t.” You want him to leave. But you’re too afraid to say that. Your hand shakes at your side as you watch the way he blocks your door. He’s probably not even doing it on purpose, but it feels like the goddamn walls are closing in on you. 

He looks away from you, lips pursing as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Smurf told me he was one of your clients. That something happened—”

“God,” you scoff, cutting him off. “Are you really gonna trust a goddamn thing that woman says?”

His eyes flit back to you, and he shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” There is something so painfully broken open on his face. The sort of pain that’s only caused when someone you care about lies to you. And you’d done that. Repeatedly, you’ve lied to him about everything in your relationship. 

Your head drops as you rub your hand down your face. You can’t look into those hurt eyes of his for another second, or he’s going to break you open completely. “Okay,” you whisper, voice breaking around the word. 

He takes a step closer, but you can’t handle the proximity. Not while it feels like your ribs are seizing around your lungs. You shake your head, backing up and pacing away from him. “I knew him, okay? He was my client, you’re right.”

Pope watches as you pace, brows drawn in. Something guarded falls over his face. “She said he was your favorite.”

You pause, eyes lifting back to his. He can’t seriously be jealous of a dead man. “Yeah,” you scoff. “He was my favorite. That doesn’t mean a whole lot in my line of work. He didn’t hurt me, alright?” Not at first, anyway. “And I appreciated that.” Something flickers in his eyes, anger on your behalf that you’re not interested in. 

You look away from him, throat tightening as you try to find the right words to explain what happened. How it all went wrong. He takes a step closer, and your eyes dart warily to him. “Tell me,” his voice is softer now, a pleading edge to it. 

Sighing, you take a seat on your couch. He hovers beside you, waiting until you motion him over. He leaves some space between you, eyes intent on your face. “He was the first client Smurf ever assigned me to.” 

Licking your lips, you shake your head. “And the reason I needed Deran to get me out. It was… good, at first. I was still new, still fresh to the game. It was harder for me to remember that being with him was a paycheck. He made me laugh, and he never made me feel bad about who— about what I was.”

You finally look up; Pope hasn’t taken his eyes off you. His arm is draped over the couch behind you, his hand placed in his lap. But he’s tilted toward you, resisting the urge to touch you like you know he wants to. To try to ground you the way you do for him. 

“I killed him, Pope. What do you want me to say?”

You wait for it. The flicker in his eyes, the shock, maybe a little fear—though, you doubt he’s afraid of you. Something that registers just how despicable a creature you are. He tilts his head, “Is that it?”

You let out a sharp scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “Is that it?” You jump off the couch, whirling around on him. He remains seated, staring up at you with pensive eyes that make you so angry for some reason. “Pope, I thought I loved him, and then I fucking killed him. What do you mean, is that it?”

“Why?” He prods. 

“Why?” You let out take in a deep breath and forcing yourself to calm down. “Does that even matter?”

“Yeah,” he shoots you a sharp look, finally getting to his feet. “It matters. Tell me why.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes, staring down at your hands. It’s jarring, thinking about that night. You’ve done your very best to forget as much of it as you can. He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his own and stopping you from picking at any more of your skin. A little bit of blood blooms around the edges of your nail, and you grimace. 

“He wanted to play a game. I said I didn’t like it, but he insisted. And… He wouldn’t stop when I told him to. I got scared, really scared for the first time since I’d been with him. I forgot that he was paying for my time, that I really didn’t deserve a say. I grabbed whatever I could reach, a fucking pillow of all things, and I hit him.”

You clench your eyes shut as you think of it. “It caught him off guard, and he fell over. Knocked his head on the edge of the nightstand. I just watched as he spasmed on the floor, as blood started pooling under him. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

You suck in a sharp breath, your confession a whisper. “I ran.”

What you don’t tell him is how you called Smurf, told her what happened. She’d told you to leave the key to the room under the motel’s mat. That she’d take care of it. You never knew what she did with the body. But you’d been so panicked, you didn’t question why she wanted to deal with it herself. Why didn’t she just tell you to deal with it? 

You still don’t know what it is she has over you. An admission of where you were that night? Pictures of you and him together? Or maybe, just your DNA on the body. Whatever it is, it’s had you on a tight leash, tethered to her for the past three years. And if Pope knows about that, you’re afraid of how deep he’ll dig into your relationship with him. Of what he’ll find out if he goes looking. 

“Do you think someone can be forgiven?” You ask, looking up at him. “For hurting someone they love?”

To your surprise, his eyes water slightly as he stares down at your hands. “Pope?” you question, dipping down to try and catch his eye. He blinks a few times and sniffles, looking away from you. “What happened?” you ask softly. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he tells you. 

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. “You think I don’t know that look? What happened?”

He sucks in a shaky breath and purses his lips, finally meeting your eye. “I don’t think I can be forgiven,” his voice cracks around the words, and you tug him closer, dragging him down into a hug. 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder, arms tight around you as his shoulders shudder. “I killed Cath,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. Your eyes fly wide, and you struggle not to tense up beneath his touch. 

“Smurf had told me she was talking to the cops, and I— I killed her. I hurt her,” his voice is breaking down, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest. You hold him tighter against you, a shield so he can’t pull back and see the terror in your eyes. 

You’ve always been afraid of what he’s capable of under Smurf’s command. But in some—ridiculously stupid—way, you’d thought there were exceptions to how far he would go for her. You should have known better. 

Pope never stood a chance against that woman. She’s had her nails dug in since he was a baby, promoting the idea that there was no room in his life for any other woman but her. You thought love, real love, would stop that, but you were wrong. 

He cries as you hold him, and you grimace. Would he do the same to you if she told him to?

This was a reach for normalcy, you’re sure. 

Things between you and Pope have been off ever since you told him about Joseph and he told you about Cath. The pair of you are practically perfect for each other: always hurting the people you love. 

Things with him feel more intense now. Like you’ve shared these secrets, and there’s no going back. You’re both stuck with each other. You wouldn’t mind it if you just didn’t know about Cath. More specifically, if you didn’t know that he had been in love with Cath when he killed her.

You don’t judge him for it, not in the way you should. You’ve seen how Smurf gets into her sons’ heads; you see how she used to hurt Deran with her expectations of him. 

But he knew how to break away from her, at least marginally. Pope never got that chance. At each and every opportunity for a positive influence in his life, she cut it off. Even if that meant being the reason her own daughter was dead. 

To try and settle yourselves from the tension and the perception shattering reveals… he’s taken you out to dinner. It’s a nice restaurant; you’ll give him that. Nicer than where you typically go. The menu isn’t cheap laminated plastic, and your elbows don’t stick to the table. 

You’re surrounded by happy couples. They’ve either got rings on their fingers, or that content look in their eye that they’ve found the right person to spend their life with. The place is perfect on paper. 

But you aren’t. 

You’re unsettled, scared, and incapable of sitting with your back to the door because you’re so afraid of who could come up behind you. Smurf has gotten into your head with all the investigation bullshit she’s been throwing at you. As much as you want to enjoy this with Pope, you can’t. 

You’re too busy thinking about whether or not she’s fuming that he’s not at home right now. Is tonight the night she turns you in? Or tells him to hurt you?

Sucking in a sharp breath, you force yourself to focus on the menu. You can feel Pope’s stare burning into you, but you can’t find the energy to meet his eye. 

“Do you like it?” He suddenly asks, probably about the restaurant. 

You force a stiff smile on your face and nod. “It’s nice,” you mutter, unable to come up with anything better. His expression tightens, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Really, Pope,” you let out a stiff laugh. “You did good.”

That’s not enough to make him feel better, but he accepts it, at least. The waitress comes up, and you don’t even know what you order, just blindly saying whatever Pope did. The table is quiet as you eat. You’re one of the only couples in the place not whispering to each other or getting lost in each other’s eyes. 

He doesn’t prod, which you appreciate. After dinner, you take his hand and lead him down from the restaurant to the beach outside. You sit down on the sand, enjoying the way the moon’s light reflects off the waves. 

He settles beside you, arm pressed to yours, and watches the water wash across the sand. “Can I ask you something?” You rest your chin on your knees, turning toward him. 

“What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. 

You think of something Deran had once told you, about Pope being a nickname. “What’s your name?”

Pope lets out a little laugh, turning toward you. “You don’t know?”

You click your tongue with a disappointed sigh. “I thought it was Pope for a while, honestly.” 

He leans in close, tone almost teasing. “Why’re you asking now?”

“Because I want to know you, not…” Not the man Smurf made you into. “Humor me?”

The slight smile he’d had slips from his face as he turns back toward the waves. “Andrew,” he admits, his voice soft with what sounds like vulnerability. Something guarded falls over his face, and you look away. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, testing it out. He turns toward you, and you can tell he likes how it sounds on your tongue. “So… Where the hell did Pope come from?”

That earns a laugh from him. You grin, turning to catch his eye as he looks over at you. His smile fades slightly as his lips twitch, shoulders hunching up. “When I was younger, I started going to church. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, and I figured if anyone could help, it would be God.”

He sniffles and looks away from you, gaze distant as he stares out at the ocean. “I got close to one of the priests at the church. Smurf and Baz found out. They made me use that connection to rob the place.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues, but his expression remains guarded. He doesn’t want you to think it still affects him. 

“He tried to stop us, and I beat him with a fucking bible,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “They’d always called me Pope. For being… different. It just stuck after that.” 

Bile burns in your throat as you watch him, but he won’t look at you, not now. After everything he’s told you, does he really think that’s what's going to scare you off? It just makes you hate Smurf more. 

You wish you could have known him when he was younger. That you could have helped him in any way. But he never really stood a chance. 

“I like Andrew better,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head to yours, taking in a deep breath as his body goes lax under you. 

You can’t keep this up much longer. 

Pope wakes up to a message from you, asking to talk. His chest tightens as he takes in a short breath. He hasn’t had a lot of normal relationships, but even he knows that’s never a good sign. 

Pocketing his phone, he pinches his eyes shut, shaking off the feeling and heading into the kitchen. Smurf stands by the oven, flipping pancakes. “Breakfast is almost ready, baby,” his lip curls at the pet name. 

He’s not particularly interested in spending the morning with her. It’s been harder to stomach being around her after he learned about what you’d done to Joseph. There are these questions bursting at the seams of his lips. 

The type of questions that would only lead to trouble for you and him. 

Smurf turns from the stove and offers him a saccharine smile. She says your name, catching him off guard. He turns toward her with narrowed eyes, and that smile grows cruel. “Have you seen her around lately, baby?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he reaches out to straighten the plates she’d put out. “Why?”

Smurf lets out a little laugh and shrugs, plating some fruit and pancakes, passing it off to him like he’s a child incapable of getting himself his own food. There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

“I, uh, I got a business associate I’d like her to meet.” She offers a conspiratorial wink that makes his stomach sour. “He’d have some fun with her,” she mutters. She glances up through her lashes at him, just waiting for him to take the bait. 

Pope’s hands tighten around the edge of the counter as he glares down at his plate. “Is she still working for you?” he asks, voice strained. 

Smurf tilts her head with an obviously forced look of confusion. “Didn’t she tell you? I’m sorry, baby, I thought you knew.” 

Pope knows better, at this point, than to blindly believe her. Smurf does this with anyone he starts to get too close to. He’d like to believe he’s been subtle about you, good at keeping you behind closed doors. But she knows. She always knows. 

And she always finds a way to make him start to doubt. To make him start questioning what he thought was real. He doesn’t want that to happen with you. Not like it did with Cath. Not like…

Not like Julia. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her, voice strained with barely restrained anger as he storms out of the house. Her smirk bores into his back as he goes. 

You weren’t still working with her; you’d told him that. And after finding out what happened with Joseph, he doubts that you would ever willingly go back to that life. You don’t need to, either. You have him now; if you were struggling, he’d take care of it. Take care of you. 

He gets into his truck, knee bouncing as he stares out the windshield. After debating for a moment, he pulls out his phone. He swipes to the location app he’d installed, the same one he’d added to your phone when you’d been in the bathroom the other night. 

Your icon pops up… driving right toward some scummy motel off the highway. 

His chest seizes as he stares down at the address. Smurf’s words echo through his head. He knows she’s lying, that she’s just trying to get under his skin. But that doesn’t stop the images that start barraging his thoughts. 

Thinking of… someone else getting to touch you, to be with you. 

You choosing someone else… 

Something white-hot and furious floods him, has him peeling out of the driveway before he can really think about what he’s about to do. 

He follows the app’s directions toward you, not stopping until he’s parked at the far entrance of the motel. It doesn’t take him long to spot you. You’re still in your car, biting your nail as you stare down at your phone. 

Your eyes are frenzied in a way he’s never seen before on you. Everything about you seems off-kilter. This is a new low for you, he hasn’t ever seen you get to this point before. Not even when you were telling him about Joseph. You must be scared, then. You must know that this is wrong. 

And, still, he watches as you get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath before turning toward the stairs. Pope sits there. He should be getting out of the truck, dragging you back to your car, and demanding to know what you think you’re doing. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s willing you to turn back around. To change your mind and drive off. You don’t. 

He’s practically cucking himself as he watches you knock on one of the doors. A man opens it, close in age to you, and relatively good-looking. Not the type that should be in a scuzzy place like this. 

Pope opens up his glove compartment, pulls out the gun inside, and tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. He has no thoughts as he throws open the truck door, no plan for what he’s going to say to you to explain his presence. He’s not going to tell you he’s been tracking you. Clearly, you’re hiding things from him, too. 

Just as he gets out, the motel door closes. You move inside and stand in front of the open window. He waits a moment, but you take a seat at the table. The man sits across from you. Neither of you makes a move toward the bed. Instead, you seem to be talking amicably with him. 

Maybe this is another one of your “favorites.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The man you’re with slips something across the table to you. You grimace, glancing around. You seem to just be noticing the open curtains. Jumping up, you’re quick to pull them closed. Pope can just barely make out your silhouette behind them. 

He glances down at his watch with a sigh. You get two minutes, and then he’s coming in. Pope leans against his truck, eyes trained on the scummy door. The waiting is agonizing. Two minutes shouldn’t feel this long to him. 

You might not be meeting a client right now, but it’s clear that you’re still hiding something from him. He thought that after he’d told you about Cath, that would be it. You would realize you don’t have to hide anything from him anymore. He’d given you information that could end him if you wanted to. 

Checking his watch, he starts toward the stairs just as the door opens. “Shit,” he hisses, ducking back behind his truck. You walk out of the room with a little wave to the other man. You don’t look disheveled; your clothes don’t look like they’ve been put back in a rush. He lets out a sigh, but relief doesn’t lessen the pressure of his chest as he takes in the large yellow envelope in your hand.

Your head lifts, brows furrowing as you look around the parking lot. Pope ducks and moves behind his truck. He waits before popping his head back out. You’re already getting back into your car. 

He keeps his gaze intent on you as he pulls out his phone, dialing your number. He sees through your window as you jump, glancing down at your phone with a grimace. After too long hesitating, you answer. 

“Hey,” you offer awkwardly. He almost wants to smile at the way you shake your head at yourself. 

“Where are you?” He asks, getting into his truck as you start your car. 

He hears the way you swallow, fingers bouncing against your steering wheel as you sigh. “Grocery store, why?”

Why is it so easy for you to lie to him?

His jaw tenses as he works to control the tone of his voice. “You said you wanted to talk,” he grits out. 

“Uh, yeah. Not on the phone, it’s kind of a lot.” Your head falls back onto your seat as you let out a heavy breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up before you can respond, tossing his phone into the other seat. You frown down at your phone for a second before pulling out of the parking lot. He starts his truck, intent on following you when someone messages him. 

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, staring after you, before he finally picks his phone back up. Smurf’s name is the last thing he wants to see. 

Come home. 

Now. 

Of course, she doesn’t tell him why. She calls, he comes. That’s just how it works. That’s just how it always works. 

Pope throws his phone back and turns in the opposite direction you went. Right back to Smurf, ever the obedient son. 

“I was in the middle of something,” he calls out as he storms into the house. He’s expecting Smurf as he heads into the kitchen. But J standing beside her is disconcerting. Especially that look he’s got on his normally stoic face. 

J meets Pope’s eyes, and he swears there’s an apology in them. The oddity of it tames some of the anger broiling inside him. 

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Smurf tells him, lacking that normal saccharine tone she lays on too thick. 

Pope freezes, eyes darting between the pair before slowly nodding. Smurf lets out a low sigh, though he truly doubts this is hurting her as much as she’s pretending. Slowly, she slides a piece of paper over to him. He’s annoyed by the drama of it all and glares over at J before flipping it. 

His nails dig into the counter as he looks down at a picture of you. You’re standing in front of the police station, hand on Detective Benson’s arm as he stares down at you. It certainly looks damning. 

“Are you following her?” He grits out, eyes flitting up to meet Smurf’s. 

Her expression hardens as she scoffs. She glances over to J, but he looks less than enthused about involving himself. “You’ve had bad taste in women before, but this is a new low, baby.” Pope shakes his head, passing the picture back to her. 

“You know why they’re looking into her. That doesn’t mean anything.” It feels petulant to argue about this with her. He always feels so childish butting up against her because she is so good at making everything he says small. 

“Michael, one of my old associates and one of her former clients, was arrested today. Someone sent in an anonymous tip about his more illicit business practices. His warehouse got raided. And I’m supposed to think it’s a coincidence your girlfriend just happens to be talking to cops, right now?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” J interrupts. “She’s been around the cops, man. A lot for someone who seems so scared of them.”

Pope leans against the counter, letting out a low groan as his shoulders hunch over. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that.” But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to hurt him. Not to hurt his family. 

You’re desperate, and you’re feeling cornered. People have done worse for lower stakes than avoiding a murder charge. 

“Why wouldn’t you come to me?” He asks Smurf, eyes cutting over harshly to J. A warning to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want it shut for him. 

Smurf takes a step closer, and Pope backs up, watching her warily. She tilts her head with a sympathetic sigh. “Has she not told you, baby?”

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “Told me what?”

Smurf makes a disparaging noise that sets his teeth on edge. “I’ve been paying her to keep you company.” His chest tightens, and he jerks back, wishing J weren’t here right now. It’s bad enough Smurf is saying this to him; he doesn’t need a goddamn audience. 

He wants to object; he knows that's not true, and she just keeps going. “She’s not your girlfriend, baby. She’s just another whore who will do anything for the right price. And now, she’s someone we need to take care of. I’m worried about you, Pope. You knew she was talking to the cops, and you didn’t come to me?”

Pope has nothing to defend himself with. He doesn’t even want to. He just stands there, lungs tightening with pain as he tries to catch his breath. She was paying you to be with him. 

Was anything with you real?

“Are you still with us?” Smurf asks, tone biting. 

“What?” Pope croaks out, ignoring the way his eyes have begun to burn. 

“You knew that someone close to you— close to me was going to the cops. And you didn’t say anything. Are you going to let this girl, a nobody, hurt your family? You’re going to let her get away with this?” 

Smurf and J both stare at him with these expressions of betrayal. It’s muted in J. The kid holds everything so close to his chest; it’s the exact opposite of how Julia had been. And Smurf… she’ll say anything, do anything to make him hurt. Because for once, he’d been paying someone else more attention. Giving you more priority. 

But you’d just been another one of her girls. Playing the long game to keep him docile. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. 

Smurf glances over at J before leaning in close to Pope. “Just like Cath, baby,” she mutters, and something inside him snaps. 

He lets himself in with the copy he’d made of your key. It’s better if he doesn’t give you a chance to prepare. There’s a shuffling in your room, the sound of frantic footsteps as you rush from one side of the room to the next. 

Pope slowly makes his way through the apartment as he takes in the wreck you’ve made of it. Drawers opened and emptied. Random pieces of paper scattered throughout, sheets and blankets tossed around the living room. It looks like someone came through and raided everything. 

He walks into your room and watches you rip out all the clothes from your closet. You turn away from it and catch sight of him standing in front of your door. “Jesus!” You shout, jumping back, clothes falling to the floor. 

Letting out a laugh, your eyes widen and dart toward your bed. He follows your gaze, sees a suitcase open on the floor. That yellow envelope you’d gotten from the motel right on top. He looks back at you as you rush over and kick it to the side. 

“I thought you’d call first,” you deflect, giving him a flustered smile. It’s strained, shadowed by the panic in your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, the smile falls. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

Pope takes another step into the room, and you eye him warily, but you don’t back away as he expects. You move closer, face creased with concern. He doesn’t know if you’re worried for him or about him. He thought he knew you, thought he could read you. 

You loved proving him wrong, apparently. 

His hands flex at his sides, the gun in his waistband a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Probably because Smurf was watching him, expecting it. Pope knows he could never look in your eyes and pull the trigger, even with how much you’ve lied to him. He’s too weak. 

Too pathetic. 

“Have you been talking to the cops?”

Your brows furrow, and you nod. Easy admittance makes him doubt you. Everything you’ve done up to this point makes him doubt you. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get that detective off my ass.”

“Have you taken on other clients?” He demands, not letting you have a chance to tie your story together. 

“No,” you take a step forward, but the look on his face has you stopping short. “Andrew, why are you asking me that? You know you’re the only person I’m seeing.”

“Your only client,” he corrects, watching as your face falls, panic blanketing your features. “Smurf told me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demands, stalking toward you. To your credit, you don’t back down. 

Your eyes crinkle like you want to cry, but you don’t run away. “You’re lying to me. Again!” He snaps, voice rough as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you shake your head. “Please, I am begging you to listen to me. I love you, Andrew,” he jerks away from you as you reach for him. But you don’t stop, rushing forward and taking his face in your hands. He could fight you, but he lets you redirect his gaze back to yours. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” your voice cracks as you grimace. “Smurf, she would have made me take on more clients if I didn’t take the money. She—” you bite your lip, and your voice softens into something painful. “She knows about Joseph, okay? She took care of the body. She’s the one sending the cops after me.”

His hands come up to cover yours, and you smile, but then he’s pulling away from you. Eyes narrowing as pain seizes his chest. “You lied about that, too?”

“No, I— Fuck,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. 

“How am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve followed you,” Pope admits. There’s no shame in him as you look at him in surprise. “I saw you at the motel today. Who were you meeting with if that wasn’t a client?”

“I can explain that,” you rush out, breathless as you turn toward your suitcase. You grab the yellow envelope, your hands fumbling as you pour the contents out on your bed. There’s a stack of cash, some cards, and two passports that scatter across your comforter. You pick up two of the cards and turn back to him. 

“Smurf isn’t just idly threatening me with this Joseph thing, alright? So I’ve been meeting up with old friends and contacts. Trying to put together enough to get out of here.” He looks at you with hurt in his eyes. 

You were running… 

He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“But,” you hold the cards out to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Glancing down, he sees they’re new IDs; one of them has his picture on it. “I thought we could go together,” you rush out, a manic smile on your face as you nod. 

“You weren’t going to leave me?”

You suck in a sharp breath and shake your head. “No, I swear. I know I haven’t given you a good reason to trust me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Andrew, please, just look at me.”

He grits his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. A few tears run down your cheeks as you wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t know what he could say to you. He remembers when Smurf sent him after Cath. 

She’d told him that she’d been talking to the cops. That she was putting the family in danger. And he had done what she’d wanted. He’d killed Cath, the woman he was in love with. He can’t—

It makes him sick to think of pushing you down on the bed, to put a pillow over your face as he’d done to her. His hands twitch at his sides as you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Andrew. And you don’t have to believe me, okay? But I wouldn’t leave you, not without telling you first.”

There have been a lot of women in his life who have said they’d loved him. He used to believe Smurf when she said it, until it started to feel empty. Until it became something that hurt him. He’d believed Julia, and then he’d left her. Cath had never meant it. 

But you do. 

“I can’t,” he mutters, pushing away from you and shaking his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, I can’t.”

“Andrew, please.” He wishes you wouldn’t call him that. It’s too soft, too good for what he deserves. “What’s wrong?” Pope looks back over at you, that glint in your eye. You can’t be scared, can you? He wouldn’t hurt you. 

You reach out to him, and he falls into you easily, cheek pressed to your shoulder as he tries to get his breath under control. “I need to tell you something,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning, pressing his head into the nape of your neck. His arms squeeze tight around you, trying to keep himself grounded in your touch. Your arms drape low around his back, and he feels your fingers graze the handle of the gun in his waistband. 

He can feel the way your body tenses under him, breath stalling in your throat. The gun isn’t for you. Why did he bring it?

“I’m pregnant.” 

It’s his turn to go still. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls away, eyes watery as he glares at you. “Are you lying?” he chokes out, unable to take any more deceit from you. 

You shake your head, pulling away and running off to your bathroom. He’s left right where he’s standing, stunned and in disbelief. You can’t be. Can you?

It’s not as though either of you has ever been particularly picky about using protection. And he hadn’t ever bothered asking if you were taking anything. His stomach twists itself into knots as you walk back toward him. You hold something out, and suddenly he’s staring down at a positive pregnancy test. 

“Oh,” Pope lets out a rough breath, doubling over as he tries to get his head under control. There’s too much racing through it. Too many different commands urging for his attention. He drops to his knees, unable to meet your eye. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

He can feel you trembling beneath his touch, breath shaking as you cup the back of his head. “Please,” you beg, “don’t do what Smurf wants you to.”

His head shoots up, but you’re not looking at him. Your face is pointed toward the ceiling like you’re trying not to cry. Getting to his feet, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. 

He knows what Smurf wants, what’s expected of him. You’re a threat. A threat to her. To the family, just for knowing what they do. He has failed so many people he loves, but he’s never failed her. 

Pope can’t do to you what he did to Cath…

To Julia. 

His head drops, forehead pressing to yours. You let your weight rest on him, taking in shaking breaths while his eyes drop to the new IDs on the bed. “I won’t,” he swears. 

You’re on a hotel bed, expression bored as you watch Andrew. He’s sitting at the table, knee bouncing slightly as he reads through a magazine he picked up at the grocery store. It’s clearly marketed toward women with its swooping, pink font. But the pregnant woman on the front, the 50 tips for an easier pregnancy! has completely stolen his attention. 

There’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins by his elbow, and the dingy hotel fridge has been stocked with food for the past few weeks. He’s settling into this lifestyle a lot faster than you are. You miss your apartment above Deran’s place. You miss your shower and your bed. 

But Andrew had told you it was too risky to stay there. So he’d taken your suitcase and brought you to a decent hotel with “luxury” accommodations. You’re financing the stay for now. Just while he works on compiling savings in an account not attached to Smurf’s name. 

Your phone was trashed. A burner shoved in your hand instead. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to say anything to Deran. Andrew thought it was too much of a risk. 

“Are you feeling sick?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the magazine, brows pinched. 

“Huh?” you mutter, turning away from the crappy soap you’d put on TV. 

He gets up from the table and moves to sit beside you on the bed. He’s closer than he typically would be, eyes roving your face like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “Do you feel sick at all?”

You glance down at the page of the magazine he’s on, catch the words “morning sickness blues,” and grin. “I’m fine.” You promise, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes your palm, moving closer. “I don’t think I’m far enough along yet to be worrying about that.”

You actually don’t know how far along you are, period. Amongst the worry of running from the cops, escaping Andrew’s mother, and the general hell your life has turned into… 

You haven’t made the time for a gyno appointment. You’re sure that if Andrew weren’t so worried about Smurf discovering you, he would have already dragged you to one. 

Letting go of his hand, you get up to go to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you the entire five feet it takes you to get there. You’re quick to push the door closed, back pressed against it as you suck in a deep breath. 

He’s doing his best, you know that. Every day, he tells you that this is all temporary. He just needs time. Time to make a plan for you both. Time to get the proper amount of funds for your escape. 

Time, time, time

There doesn’t seem to be enough of it lately. Each day grows shorter, the walls shrink around you, and it’s harder to catch your breath. He’s settling well, his toothbrush beside yours on the sink, spare clothes folded in the dresser. 

He’s adapted to this like he could live in this hotel forever with you. Always keeps your shoes by the door, complains when you move them, and he trips on them. Keeps food stocked in the room and bought sheets that are actually comfortable to sleep in. As if this is just the home you’re going to share with him now. 

But you’re cracking around the edges. Every day that you don’t have a deadline for when you get to leave pushes you one step closer to the edge. He says it’s temporary, but it’s getting harder to believe him. 

Scrubbing your hands down your face, you move toward the sink, splashing cold water over your cheeks. He’s been fussier since he learned you're pregnant. He always looks like he thinks you’re going to keel over. As if being pregnant makes you this new, breakable thing. It’s slightly aggravating, but you understand where he’s coming from. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you find he’s right where you left him. Posture stiff as he continues flipping through that ridiculous magazine. You walk over, snatching it quickly from his lap and dropping it on the nightstand. “You know all of this is bullshit, right?” you tease. 

He only narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed as he huffs. “You should try reading some of it.”

You crawl into bed beside him, scoffing. “Are you calling me a bad pregnant lady?”

“No,” he mutters, immediately making room for you beside him. Even how he holds you at night is different, now. You’re not just you to him anymore. Suddenly, you’re carrying his child, too, even if you’re not showing. 

You settle with your back to his chest, his arms wrapping securely around your front. He sleeps on the side closest to the door. Always still slightly awake, just in case. 

Your hand drifts down, taking a hold of his and letting out a soft sigh. He shifts, pressing himself closer. “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” you whisper, afraid to break the peaceful quiet. 

“Until I can get some things together.”

He’d said that last week, but you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. Instead, you roll over, wrapping your arms around him as you let out a tired sigh. His arms tighten around you, cheek pressed to your head as you let the droning sounds of the TV put you to sleep. 

“What’s that?”

Andrew looks up from the groceries he’d been unloading. He shakes his head, and you point to the box on the table. “Cereal,” he tells you bluntly. 

“Yeah, some weird whole grain shit,” you sigh as you pick up the box. It proudly promotes whole grains, fiber in every bite, and absolutely no added sugar. Eating the box would taste better. 

Andrew stalks over with a sigh, taking the box from your hands. “It’s healthy. You need to eat more fiber.”

You shoot him an affronted glare. “You’re a doctor, now?”

He straightens up from the groceries with an aggrieved sigh. “Diet is important.” The stern look he shoots you goes unappreciated. 

“I resent that,” you pick up the cereal and shake it at him,  “and I resent this.” He shakes his head, undeterred by your complaints, as he continues to display all the healthy options he picked up today. You’re really starting to miss sugar. 

You wonder what he would think if he knew you went down to the hotel lobby and loaded up on soda and junk while he was out. 

Moving toward the dresser, you’re digging around for a pair of socks when you notice something plastic rattling around. “What…” Moving aside some of Andrew’s pants, you see a pacifier and baby bottle hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you pull them both out and turn toward him. “A little early for this, isn’t it?”

He straightens up, glancing over at you. His jaw tenses as he lets out a rough sigh. “They were on sale.” He tells you bluntly, striding over and taking them from you. You can’t help but snort as he carefully places them back in the drawer. 

“Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

He pauses, and you don’t really expect him to answer. But then he opens the top drawer and moves aside some shirts. Beneath are three parenting books. Each with stupider names than the last. “Wow,” you whistle. “You’re making me look bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment before frowning. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens as you look him over, that slightly unsure tilt to his lips. “You won’t,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and offering a soft smile. He just nods; you’re not sure he actually believes you. Clearing your throat, you try to break up the tense moment. “Besides, you’re definitely taking this a lot more seriously than I am.”

The look he gives you is tired. You’re just pointing out what he’s already been nagging you about. “You’re pregnant.” As if you need reminding. 

With nothing to do in this tiny room, you walk over to the bed, throwing yourself on it and grabbing the remote. The magazine from the other night is still on the nightstand. You glance over at it, thinking about the baby bottle and whatever else he’s bought in the dresser. 

“You know, that said not to start buying anything until after the first trimester,” you tell him, nodding toward the magazine. “When the risk of a miscar—”

“I know what it said,” he interrupts, glancing over at you. “It was just… It was on sale,” he mutters, not meeting your eye. His shoulders hunch as he reorganizes the pantry area he’d created. 

Guilt sours in your stomach, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” the words won’t come. He looks too uncomfortable for you to keep prodding at what you’re sure is one of his biggest worries right now. That anything might happen to you or the baby.

Your hand rests over your stomach, lips curling as you glance down at your complete absence of a bump. “It doesn’t feel real,” you muse. “I guess that’s why I’m not taking it more seriously.”

Andrew pauses what he’s doing, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I just keep thinking about when we’re going to get out of here.” He looks down at that, and you sigh. “Soon,” you mutter, before he can feed you the same empty promise he has been. 

“Look,” he gets to his feet, but his phone starts ringing on the table. You can see his name from where you’re sitting. Deran lights up the screen, and your stomach sinks with guilt. You wonder if he’s worried about you or if he just thinks you’re another unfortunate soul who slipped through the cracks. Andrew glances between you and his phone before picking it up and walking out of the room. You can hear him answer just as the door closes. 

Grabbing the TV remote, you spend a few minutes channel surfing before settling on an old sitcom. By the time you’re done, he’s coming back. He lets out a short sigh, jaw flexing as he tosses his phone on the table. 

“What was that?” you ask, motioning him over. He follows obediently, settling beside you on the bed. His back is stiffer than normal, shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead at the TV. “Andrew?” you murmur, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Andrew sinks easily into the touch, finally looking over at you. “Deran says he and Craig have a job. One Smurf’s not involved in.” Your heart rate picks up, and you try not to let your excitement show too much. “Could be enough,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“That’s good,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft. He just nods, not seeming like he’s truly present with you. With a sigh, you tug on his shoulder slightly. He moves easily, sinking further onto the bed as he lowers his head on your lap. His hand comes up to wrap around your thigh, more grounding than possessive in his intent. 

You let your hand smooth over his curls as you sink back into the pillows. “This is good,” you remind him, ignoring the worry that tightens your gut when he says nothing in return. He just settles closer to you, and you have to let yourself be content with what you have.  

Waking up alone has become foreign to you. Andrew doesn’t like leaving without you waking up first. Which, you’re sure bugs him on the days you’re particularly slow getting out of bed. Today, the spot beside you is cold; the shape of his body is still indented on the sheets. 

It takes you a moment to remember the job he’d told you about with his brothers. He didn’t have time to wait for you today. You throw back the sheets and let out a low groan, rubbing your back as pain shoots up your spine. 

God, you miss your bed. 

These hotel slabs were just making you stiffer every day. Glancing over at the table, you see he’s quite pointedly left out the fibrous cereal for you. Scoffing, you slip on your shoes and run down to the lobby. 

They have a little store full of grab-and-go snacks. With your warden out today, you grab all the junk you can carry and take it back up to the room. There’s really nothing you can do to pass the time besides turn on the TV and stuff your face with as much processed sugar as you can handle. 

You just have to make sure to hide the wrappers before he gets back. 

You make sure to keep an eye on the clock all day. There’s never a guarantee how long a job will take. That’s dependent on the materials they need, the plans they lay out, and whether or not the job requires patience rather than rushing in for a quick cash grab. 

Andrew hadn’t deigned to share any of the details with you, so you're left in the dark. 

You toss away the wrapper to a honey bun—that may have been expired—and feel your eyes begin to burn from staring at the same screen for so long. There's a sharp pain in your stomach, and you let out a groan, doubling over as you press down on the ache. 

Spitefully consuming a bunch of processed junk might have been really stupid. 

Grimacing, you get up and head to the bathroom. There’s another sharp pinch, and you let out a low gasp, grimacing as a cold pain shoots through your body. “Jesus,” you hiss out. 

Approaching the toilet, you pull your pants down and pause. It’s hard to tell; your underwear is a dark blue. But…

Yeah, just there is a little bit of blood. 

Your stomach swoops as you jerk your pants back up and rush toward the bed. You rip the magazine off the nightstand and flip through until you find the pregnancy section. 

It takes a few minutes of scanning, your foot tapping restlessly as you do, before you find what you’re looking for. “Spotting is completely normal in your first trimester!”

Letting out a low breath of relief, you almost laugh at yourself. You wish you could, but then you see that little asterisk next to the sentence, and your eyes drop to the bottom of the page. 

*You should always consult your doctor if spotting is accompanied by any sharp pain or abdominal discomfort. 

The magazine slips from your hands as you grab your phone off the bed. A million thoughts race through your head before everything just comes to a stop. All you can think about is that stupid superstition of not buying anything until the second trimester. Because what if… 

What if you lose it?

A cold panic spikes through your blood; it chills you down to your toes. And it’s not even for you; it’s hardly for this baby. Because this still doesn’t feel real to you. It’s not something you’ve gotten to know or love. But suddenly it's something you could lose. 

And it’s Andrew you’re thinking about. His face as you tell him you lost the baby. 

Shaking the thoughts away, you dial his number on the burner he gave you and wait. It rings for a minute before you hang up and try again. Your foot taps impatiently against the floor; another sharp pain digs its nails into your stomach and rips. 

Letting out a groan, you clutch your gut, kneeling on the floor while you dial him again. Halfway through, you finally remember that he’s not going to answer. Not while he’s on a job. 

That’s probably why he’d been acting so off last night. He can’t afford any distractions during a job. Meaning no phone and no you. You bet he was thinking of a situation just like this one. Where you need him, and he can’t get to you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. You throw your phone on the bed and turn toward the hotel’s landline. You jam your fingers into the numberpad, calling the front desk. It doesn’t take long to connect, but you can barely get the words out through the pain you’re struggling to breathe through. 

You ask them to order you a cab and force yourself off the bed. It’s a herculean effort to get downstairs and in the lobby. From there, it’s kind of a blur. It’s not until you’re in the waiting room at the hospital that you realize you left your phone in the hotel. 

“Shit,” you hiss, head falling back against the wall. 

“How are we feeling today?” 

You look up from your hands and glare over at the doctor who walks in. It’s rude, the look on your face. But how the fuck does he think you’re feeling?

“Not great,” you snap, eyes narrowing. He offers a polite smile and sits down on his little chair. He picks up a clipboard one of the nurses had left behind and scans over it, muttering to himself. 

“Um,” you clear your throat, trying to catch his attention. “Am I… okay?” 

It’s hard to get yourself to say the word miscarriage out loud, as if you’re going to manifest it into being somehow. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to respond. He holds one finger up with an impatient huff, and you scoff. 

With a sigh, he places the clipboard down and offers you a placating smile. “Good news is, everything’s a-okay with the baby!” 

“Thank god,” you mutter, curling into yourself as you let out a shaky breath. There’s another sharp pinch of pain in your stomach, but you ignore it for now. You’re not sure you would have been able to look Andrew in the eye and tell him–

You don’t have to worry about that now. 

Rubbing your eyes, you shake your head and look over at the doctor. “What’s wrong with me, then?”

He rubs his chin and considers you. “Pregnancy is always stressful, but would you say there’s anything that’s been making things harder for you?” You don’t even get to answer before he barrels on. “Is the father in the picture?”

“Yes,” you tell him, more defensive than you should be. Maybe because Andrew seems to care more about this kid than you do. When you can get out of that damn hotel room, that’s when you’ll let yourself believe this is real. 

“And, yeah, I would say I’m more stressed than normal.” Having your former pimp and the cops after you really isn’t great for your blood pressure. 

He purses his lips, “Spotting is normal in the first trimester. And I think you might be suffering a bit of indigestion, hence the stomach pain. But I want to be careful. I’m going to have you stay here overnight so we can monitor you.”

Panic spikes through you. As much as you hate the hotel room, being out in the open after spending so many nights sequestered inside is worrying. There’s no reason for Smurf to ever show up here, but paranoia isn’t logical. 

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“For the safety of you and your child, yes,” he tells you, that jovial tone leaving him as he gives you a stern stare. 

Letting out a rough sigh, you nod. “Alright. But is there a phone I could use? I need to call someone.”

He nods, getting up and holding the door for you. “There’s a payphone in the hall. I’ll have a nurse come and get you when a room opens up.”

You rush past him, heading toward the payphone. Rifling through your pockets, you manage to find enough change and push it into the slot. Picking up the phone, you bite your lip, trying to remember the number to Andrew’s burner. 

With a grimace, you type it in and pray you’re right. It rings for a while before you’re connected to his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–” the phone beeps before the line goes dead. 

“What the hell?” you mutter, trying to see if you have any more change. Fuck. You didn’t even get to tell him everything was fine. You let out a loud groan, leaning forward and letting your head thunk against the wall. 

He’s going to have a goddamn heart attack.  

Pope stands around a table with J and his brothers. There’s stacks and stacks of cash in front of them. More than J had even predicted. “Alright,” J has a smile on his face, relieved his plan actually worked out. It’s still odd to see the kid look anything but solemn. 

This newfound desire of his to start leading jobs, making plans, puts him on edge. There’s something off about it all. He’s been too busy with you to give that problem the attention it deserves. Something to be worried about later. 

“We’re taking a cut now,” J tells them, picking up a stack of cash and throwing it at Pope, then Deran and Craig. “I’m going to take the rest and…” he trails off, eyes cutting toward Craig. The one who could really screw this up for them all if he gets in the right mood. “I’ll take care of it,” he mutters. 

Pope counts through the cash quickly. A couple thousand, probably. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not if he wants to be able to find you both a place to stay, finance both of you completely starting new. And then he’ll need extra for the baby’s stuff in a few months. 

“I need more than this,” Pope tells J. 

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

J’s eyes narrow into slits, but he can’t object as his brothers start eagerly taking more money. When Pope’s satisfied with the amount, he nods at the kid. “Alright,” J snaps, stopping Craig from pocketing any more. “That’s enough.” he shoots Deran an aggrieved look. “Will that be enough?”

Deran cuts his eyes toward Pope before looking back at the kid. “Yeah, should be,” he tells him. J lets out a heavy sigh and starts bagging up the rest of the money. Pope takes his own cut and moves away from the table, pulling out his phone. He powers it back on as Deran moves toward him. 

“Hey,” Deran greets, eyeing him warily. Pope barely lifts his eyes to greet him. It’s only when Deran says your name that he catches Pope’s attention. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “I was wondering if you’ve seen her around? She just left the apartment a wreck a few weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pope’s about to answer that he cut you off once Smurf told him what you were doing for her. But his phone’s back on and the notifications he missed are popping up. His heart drops as he sees the missed calls from you. 

He walks away from Deran immediately, already heading toward his truck. Deran calls his name, but he isn’t listening. He tries dialing your number, but it just rings through until going to voicemail. Pick up, he thinks, gut twisting as he gets in his truck. 

He scrolls through the missed calls and sees an unknown number. Frowning, he clicks on the voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.”

His head falls against the steering wheel as he sucks in a deep breath. You sound fine, thank god. 

But then, you just have to keep talking. “Um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–”

Pope’s head whips up as the voicemail ends. His fingers are frantic as he replays the message. But there’s nothing more. Whatever you used to call him just cut out. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can hear the leather creak. 

He throws his phone in the seat and peels out of the driveway. It’s a blur as he drives to the hospital. There are so many thoughts swirling through his head, drowning out anything else, that he can barely breathe. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on the job today. He knew that he needed to. That this is more than enough for the two of you to get out of town and get somewhere safe. But he shouldn’t have left you alone. He knew that, and he still did it. 

He’s just incapable, isn’t he?

Incapable of becoming attached to anyone, of caring for anyone, without hurting them. 

He’d done everything right. He’d kept you safe and hidden. He found those prenatals at the store that the books all said were good for the baby. Smurf, for once, doesn’t know one of his secrets. And he still managed to fuck it up. 

Pope has to force himself to slow down as he pulls into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t want to hear you finish your sentence when he sees you. Doesn’t want to know that superstition in the magazine is followed for a reason. 

At the very least, he can hold onto the fact that you sounded okay. You were still good. But he wouldn’t blame you if he was the last face you wanted to see right now. 

Striding into the hospital, he beelines straight for the front desk. The nurse behind the counter offers him a soft smile. “Can I help you?”

He gives her your name, “She called me from here earlier.” His nails bite into speckled linoleum as she types your name into the computer. “Is she okay?” he demands, unable to stop himself. 

Her eyes barely lift from her screen. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“I just need to know if she’s okay,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s been impatient before. When CPS first took Lena, he couldn’t cope. Had lost his shit at the office and had to rely on Smurf just to see her again. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t keep messing this up with you. 

The nurse offers a strained smile. “I understand, sir, but I don’t have that information right now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”

His mouth opens before he goes quiet. “Um,” he glares down at the floor. What are you? “She’s carrying my baby,” he settles on, nothing else fitting right next to the idea of you. 

The nurse nods, typing something before letting out a sigh. “Alright, looks like she should be okay for visitors. Just log in here, and you should be good to go back. It’ll be the third door on the left.”

Pope just scribbles on the paper she passes him, taking the visitor’s pass and racing off through the door to his left. He’s counting under his breath until he’s in front of the third door. It’s closed, and the blinds have been shut against any prying eyes. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He’s never been lucky before. Baz always told him no one would ever want a baby with him. He had a point. Pope’s not… right. He’s not good for anyone, especially not for himself. Why would his luck suddenly change with you?

He has no other choice but to push the door open. 

Reruns of some old show are playing on the TV on the wall. And you—

You’re sitting on the bed with your legs folded, eagerly eating a pudding cup as you watch the show. Your head lifts as the door opens, a smile flitting across your face as you see him. It drops at whatever expression he’s wearing right now. 

“Hey,” you greet softly. “Stop lurking,” you tease, but it’s weak as your brows crease with worry. 

He takes one step inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. He can’t find the right words or the right questions. The magic words that will get you to tell him if everything’s okay. “Are you…” He trails off, coming to your side, hands flexing out toward you. He stops himself, checking over you, trying to find anything that’s visibly wrong. 

The possibilities of what could have happened to land you here are overwhelming in their intensity. Too many at once to possibly try and verbalize it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, reaching out and lacing your fingers through his. You tug his arm until he’s sitting on the bed beside you. You put the pudding on your nightstand and take his other hand, pressing it to your stomach. “Everything is fine.”

The relief is so staggering he feels ill. You let out a quiet laugh as his eyes fall shut; he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he left this morning. “C’mere,” you mutter, tugging him forward until his cheek is pressed to your shoulder and he’s squeezing his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, fingers flexing in the thin fabric of your hospital gown. “That stupid payphone cut me off. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Whoops! Don’t mean to interrupt.” Pope jerks back as the door to your room opens. You let out an annoyed huff, keeping your hand in his as he turns to see a doctor walking in. “The father, I presume?”

“What happened?” He demands, something about the doctor’s tone rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Well, I think a lot of the pain was caused by indigestion.” Pope frowns, glancing over at you, but you won’t meet his eye. “However, in your blood work I noticed a high level of cortisol and your blood pressure isn’t where I’d like it to be.”

Pope just stares at the man, waiting for him to continue. The doctor lets out an aggrieved sigh, but it's you he gives a sharp look. “You’re too stressed. Especially this early in the pregnancy.” Your hand tightens around Pope as you shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Some lifestyle changes will need to be made.” His eyes dart to Pope before he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door closes behind him, and you take in a heavy breath. Pope can’t think of anything to say, eyes cast down at the blanket. It’s his fault that you’re so stressed, that you’re even here. He knows that. He promised to get you out of that hotel room weeks ago. But he’s been stalling, selfish as he enjoys this time with you just to himself. No outside interference, no one to take away your attention. 

He got you here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

He waits for it, for you to take his hand, to tell him it's okay. You’ve done it so many times before. You’re so indulgent, so forgiving; he doesn’t deserve to expect it. But, God, he wants you to just tell him it's not his fault. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you tell him, and he can’t find it in himself to turn around and face the truth. Not right now. “Andrew,” you call, “look at me.” 

His hands dig into the blanket as he looks up at you. There’s nothing soft on your face, now. You seem severe; the circles beneath your eyes are darker than ever. You’re worn down in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“I can fix this,” he promises, and if you didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t blame you. He’s so good at fixing problems for his family. At being the one they call to clean up their messes. But he’s always been horrible at fixing his own. 

Your eyes flit down, and you nod. Silence permeates the air between you. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to fill it.  

The door to your room opens, and you know who it is before he walks in. Andrew hasn’t really left your side tonight. Despite your many assurances that you really are okay and you’ll be able to leave tomorrow. 

Luck was on your side, though. He stepped out to use the bathroom, and you had enough time to call someone. He’ll probably be back before Deran has a chance to leave, but it’ll be too late by then. And the both of you need Deran’s help. 

“Good to know you’re alive,” Deran tells you, voice flat as his eyes narrow on you. 

You grimace, “I’m sorry, Deran, really.”

His eyes fall shut as he pinches at his nose. He stands at the end of your bed, refusing to come closer. Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “It was Smurf, wasn’t it?”

Your eyes fall to your lap, and you nod. “Why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“It wasn’t that simple,” you mutter, looking up at him. His brows are pinched in concern. Deran’s done a lot for you since you’ve known him. He’s certainly been more selfless than his family ever expected him to be. 

You know you’ve been shitty, hiding everything from him. But it already feels like you’re wrecking Andrew’s life. You didn’t feel like you could drag Deran down with you both. Not when he had worked so hard to help you clean your life up. But you don’t have any other choice now. 

“Alright,” he shakes his head with a scoff. “Then make it simple. You move out, I don’t hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you call me up to tell me you’re in the hospital. You gotta give me something, here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “How’s this?” He shakes his head, waiting. You force the words out, “I’m pregnant.” 

Deran’s face falls; he takes a staggered step toward you as the door opens behind him. His head whips around as Andrew walks through. Andrew’s expression goes tight when he sees someone else standing next to you. 

“There’s the dad,” you offer weakly, trying for a joke and failing miserably.

Andrew closes the door behind him, eyes narrowed on his brother. “Why is he here?” He demands, looking at you. You can tell he’s holding his temper back. But it’s been on a short leash, already. You don’t want to risk making things worse. 

“He can help–”

“You knew where she was?” Deran demands, taking an angry step forward. Andrew doesn’t back down, expression twitching as he straightens up. “I asked you, man.”

Cody anger is volatile. It’s quick to spark and worse to quell. You can see it, swelling between them. Deran doesn’t take much to get going, he reaches out, shoving Andrew back. You grimace as Andrew grapples with him, trying to get him to stop before you’re all kicked out of the hospital. 

“Deran!” You snap, eyes darting toward the windows and praying no one looks inside. 

“You lied to me,” he shouts at Andrew, face growing red. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Andrew barks back. 

Desperately glancing around the room for anything to stop them, your eyes land on the empty pudding cup. You snatch it up and throw it at the back of Deran’s head. He flinches at the impact, head whipping around to face you. 

“Enough! Jesus fuck, Deran, I’m in the hospital because I’m too stressed. This isn’t why I wanted you here!”

Andrew still has a hold on him. Deran glances between the pair of you, expression turning embarrassed. He shoves his brother’s arms off of him and reaches up, trying to smooth back the hair that's fallen in his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?” 

At the same time, Andrew asks, “Why is he here?”

They both shoot each other severe looks that have you grimacing. It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if Andrew had just stayed in the bathroom. You scrub your hands down your face and let out a rough exhale, shoulders hunching. 

“We’re staying in a hotel right now. But I can’t keep living like that,” Andrew says your name, but you stop him with a look. “Look where I’m at right now, Andrew. Can you honestly say that the way we’re living is healthy for me?”

You purse your lips. You know this is dirty; you’re using one of his deepest fears against him. And it’s awful; you’re a horrible person. But you’re human, and you physically cannot take another day living like a fugitive on the run. “Is it healthy for the baby?”

His hands go lax at his sides, eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at you. Whatever argument he had ready is killed by your cutting words. You suck your teeth, shoving down the guilt burning in your throat. 

“So that’s what you want?” Deran asks, staring over at you with this strange look in his eyes. “Another place to stay?”

“I know that I shouldn’t ask you for anything–”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” You bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath. He rolls his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling. “But…” he lets out a sardonic laugh as he turns toward you. “I actually have a place.”

“Smurf,” he continues, “gave us properties.” he motions between himself and Andrew. Your brows turn in as you turn to him. Because he’d never told you about any sort of property. 

He can’t meet your eye, hand balling into a fist as he glares at the floor. “I couldn’t use any of them for you. She would have looked,” he doesn’t seem very defensive. And you’re sure he believes that excuse. But you’re stupid if you think he wasn’t also attracted to the idea of being so close to you, of having you all to himself. 

“Yeah, well she won’t go looking through any of mine,” Deran tells him. He turns back to you, “There’s a house by the beach you can stay in.” You want to get up and thank him, to hug him for the first time in weeks. But his expression is reserved as he moves toward the door. “I gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

The door slams behind him, blinds rattling from the force. He’s still angry, then. You suppose you can’t blame him. Not with the way you just disappeared. Sighing, you lean forward, head falling into your hands. 

Andrew comes up beside you. “I would have taken care of it.”

“Would you?” you scoff, glancing over at him. You don’t mean it maliciously, but it’s been weeks. And he’s apparently had ‘property’ this whole time. Andrew was working off his own schedule, and that just wasn’t good enough for you.  

The house is a slightly run-down bungalow by the beach. But it’s good. Anything is in comparison to that hotel room. It’s woefully empty of any furniture or anything to actually make a house a home. You can work on that, though. 

Slowly, over the course of a few monthss—long enough for your stomach to start to swell—you begin collecting everything for the place. The couch that Deran was going to get rid of makes its way to you. Your dining table is something you found at an estate sale, oddly enough. 

Bits and pieces make their way to you. Some old, some new. But it’s a start. A start to something that belongs solely to you and Andrew. Smurf had sold his house when he was arrested. It left him with nowhere to go but back to her. 

The bungalow is a few hours outside of Oceanside. Which makes it a commute for Andrew anytime she calls him back home to deal with family business. You know she must be growing suspicious by now. Especially because Deran stops by a lot. 

Where could both of her sons be disappearing to?

You don’t know what Andrew is telling her to keep her off his back, or if he’s even trying. You try not to think about it a lot. The pregnancy has begun to feel real to you. Your stomach is swelling with life; you’re outside of her control. Worries about her serve only to make you more stressed than you need to be. 

So, you linger in ignorant bliss. Andrew lets you, though you can see his worries about the future eating away at him. There’s only so much you can do for a man who refuses to cut the last tether to the most agonizing aspect of his life. 

His mother. 

“The appointment is at two, right?” 

Andrew nods; he’s busy putting together the bedframe you just bought while you go through the notes from your last visit with the gynecologist. He’d missed it, Smurf calling him home for some job. A bad time to miss it, too, considering the doctor said she was worried you were showing early signs of gestational hypertension. 

It’s not anything life-threatening, but you know he’d been bothered that he wasn’t there when you heard the news. He’s insisting on attending this one. You don’t mind the company, that’s for sure. When the doctor asks what prenatals you’re taking and what your diet looks like, a lot of that knowledge lies with Andrew. He’ll have a better time processing and planning around the information than you will. 

His phone rings, breaking up the quiet of the moment. You glance up from your computer with interest. His entire demeanor changes as he looks at the name. It doesn’t take much guessing to know who it is. 

The way his shoulders hunch up, his lips pursing as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Smurf?” you ask.

He just nods; he gets up, moving out toward the porch as he answers. You glance toward the window, trying to decide whether or not you want to listen in. You sigh before deciding against it. He’ll tell you about it if he needs to. 

You continue looking through the notes from your last visit, making sure you didn’t forget to tell Andrew anything. The door slams closed as he comes back in, making you jump. Your brows furrow as you look over at him. He’s glaring down at the floor, phone tucked back in his pocket. 

You hesitate on saying anything.  “That was fast,” you land on.

“She wants my help on a job,” he tells you. Letting out a rough sigh, his shoulders sink as he looks up. “Today.”

“Ah,” you click your tongue. She seems to have a psychic link to him. Always knowing the worst time to steal him away from you. Looking back at the computer, you bite back whatever venom you want to spew. Instead, you try to keep your voice calm as you ask, “Are you going?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you don’t want to look over. You don’t want him to see the hurt on your face that you even have to ask that question. Guilt shouldn’t be what makes him stay. He should just want to. 

A soft touch lands on your shoulder and you sigh, sinking back into him. “I’m going with you,” he tells you, firm on the decision. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, reaching up to squeeze his hand as he goes back to putting the bed together. “Did she say what the job was?”

Andrew considers for a moment before shaking his head. “She said she’d be coming along on this one. Said it was important.”

Something gnawing stirs up in your stomach. You frown as you consider him. God, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go?”

He pauses from where he was picking up his tools. You get a sidelong look as his voice quiets. “Do you not want me coming?”

Of course that’s how he took it; you feel like an idiot. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” You have a bad feeling about Smurf. But you have no evidence and no reason to voice aloud your doubt. “Of course I want you there, Andrew.”

He looks over you, eyes narrowing as he stares into your eyes, checking for any dishonesty. Slowly, he nods and resumes his task. You try to do the same, but your focus is anywhere but on your notes. 

You’d had Andrew’s hand in a death grip your entire appointment. You couldn’t tell him why or even explain to the doctor this sudden panic that’s come over you. She’s worried about it, telling you it’s important you lessen the stress in your life as much as possible to avoid any complications. 

If only it were that easy. But you hardly understood your worries before you were pregnant. It only got that much harder after. 

Luckily, everything looked fine with the baby. She couldn’t get a good look at it through the ultrasound, and she forgot her “readers” at home. So, instead, you have to wait a while longer while she runs a blood test to determine the gender of the baby. 

You don’t really care either way. But you think Andrew would make a good dad to a little girl. 

“You don’t want to do the whole gender reveal thing, do you?” You ask on the drive home. 

Andrew glances over at you and shrugs, hand flexing around the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Might not be so bad.”

Your eyes narrow. “Really? You want one of those stupid confetti things staining our backyard pink or blue?”

He lets out a scoff, smiling slightly as he looks over at you. “How ‘bout a cake?” he offers, and you think he might just be messing with you. 

“Considering the strict diet you’ve got me on, I’ll take a cake.” He huffs a little at the dig but doesn’t seem to mind too much when you grin over at him. You stretch, hand resting on the center console. He reaches down, taking it in his own as he pulls onto your street. 

You frown, sitting up when you see another car in your driveway. “Who’s that?” you wonder aloud. 

Andrew’s hand tightens around your own as he slows down. He comes to a stop in front of the house, letting out a low breath of relief when you both see it’s just Deran. But he doesn’t look good. He’s pacing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets, and his face is strangely red. 

“Wait here,” Andrew mutters, getting out of the truck and stalking up the driveway. You let out an irritated huff, watching as he approaches his brother. Deran’s head whips up as he gets closer, and he stops his pacing completely. 

That unsettled feeling from before returns tenfold as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You can’t hear what's being said, but you can see the way Deran’s face shifts from that usually untouchable look to something scarily vulnerable. Andrew runs up the steps to the porch, and Deran stops him, grabbing his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. 

You tilt yourself closer to the window, as if you might be able to hear something. Deran finally says whatever news it is he had to be in person to deliver. Your brows furrow as you watch it all play out on Andrew’s face. 

He tilts his head before shaking it, saying something. You can’t make out what he says, but you can hear his voice rise, see him shove Deran back as he continues to shake his head. His hands come up to his head, cupping it. 

You can’t take watching this anymore. Getting out of the truck, you make your way up the driveway just as Andrew sinks onto the porch steps. His head falls between his knees, shoulders beginning to shake. You run up to him, falling beside him. Deran stands behind you both, gaze vacant as he watches his brother. 

“What’s going on?” you snap at Deran, hands cupping Andrew’s cheeks. You try to get him to look at you, but he collapses into you instead. You let out a sharp gasp as his head falls in your lap, hands gripping desperately at your dress. You can feel him shaking, the sharp breaths he’s struggling to get in. 

“Deran!” You snap, hands desperately running over Andrew, trying anything to get him to calm down. 

Deran finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. “Smurf is dead.”

The fridge is open again. 

It’s happened over the past week. You’ll walk through the house, and there will be these little things that are wrong. The fridge is open because he forgot he was going to make dinner. The light to the hallway has been on all day because he never remembered to turn it off. There are dirty plates put away in the cabinets because he’d zoned out, unloaded a dirty dishwasher without even blinking. 

You walk over and close the fridge, letting your head fall against the cool metal with a shaky exhale. This is getting bad. You knew he wouldn’t be well immediately following his mother’s death. Who would?

But this is different than being lost in grief. He’s losing chunks of the day, leaving the house and not knowing where he’s going. You caught him standing in front of the nursery with a drill in his hand. He stood there for about ten minutes before you asked what he was doing. 

He didn’t remember. 

Moving away from the kitchen, you check your watch. He’s been gone for two hours already. You hadn’t wanted to let him leave the house on his own. He was meant to take you grocery shopping with him. But you had to run to the bathroom, and he just left. 

You move into your bedroom, intent on putting away some clothes. You’re trying to tidy the place up a bit before he gets back, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Picking up a pile of clothes, you trudge into the closet. It’s stuffed full right now and barely organized. With an annoyed huff, you drop the clothes on the ground and reach for some shirts on an overstuffed bar. You tug at them a bit, grunting until the hangers finally come off. 

Something tumbles from the shelf above; it pops you perfectly in the toe before tumbling off into the shadows of the closet. “Ow,” you grumble, forgetting the clothes as you get on your knees. Your hands swipe across the closet floor, blindly groping until you feel your fingers brush against what fell. 

Pulling it out, you pause. This is…

This is one of the baby bottles he bought. “What the hell?” you mutter, looking up at the shelf it fell from. Getting to your feet, you rush off and drag the stepstool into the closet. Climbing up, you get a good look at the shelf. 

The parenting books, pacifiers, everything he bought too early has been shoved up here. Pulling it all out, you lay it out on the bed. Why the hell would he hide all this?

Sure, you noticed there was less baby stuff around the house. But you thought that was because he was putting it all away in the nursery. You haven’t been there in a while. The scattered parts of the crib he never built are too much of a tripping hazard. 

You never would have thought he was hiding it all away. 

Rubbing your head, you let out a low groan. You rack your brain, but you can’t find a reason he would do this. And with the state he’s in, you doubt Andrew even understands what he’s doing. 

The front door opens, and you run out of the bedroom. Andrew stands in the doorway, his head lifts, eyes still carrying that sad look they’ve had the past few days. “Andrew,” you whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, head lifting as he surveys you with narrowed eyes. But you’re not the problem here.

You purse your lips, struggling to maintain a kind smile. “Where are the groceries?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “What?”

You let out a rough sigh, pinching your nose as you shake your head. “Never mind,” you tell him. Instead, you walk over to him, taking his hand in yours. He lets you lead him to the couch and sit him down. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking slightly dazed as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Nothing, just, maybe rest for a little while, alright?” You want to help him; you do. But he’s mourning. And you can’t relate to that pain. Smurf made your life hell. The only good she ever did anyone was giving birth to Deran and Andrew. You wanted to fucking leap for joy when you heard she was dead. 

But Andrew’s steadily devolving into a state that you don’t know how to get him out of. You doubt he’ll be himself for a long time. But this is different. This is wrong. Pulling out your phone, you call the only person you can think of. 

Pope is sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. You’d deposited him there, the burden that’s only serving to make your life more difficult. He wonders if you’re watching him through the window to make sure he’s not going to wander off. He feels like he’s falling apart. 

And maybe he is. Pope’s not sure anyone would call hearing their dead mother’s voice stable. But he does hear her. And he sees her everywhere too. A phantom that he just can’t let go of. 

He hears a car pull up the driveway and frowns, lifting his head. They park and throw the door open. Deran stands there a minute, just watching Pope, before slowly making his way up the porch steps. 

Deran lets out a low groan as he sits in the chair beside Pope. His chest heaves as he exhales and rubs his hands down his face. Pope watches him warily, wondering why he bothered coming. 

Deran looks over at him and laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s bitter and filled with the same sort of reluctant grief plaguing Pope. “You look like shit, man,” he tells him. 

Pope scoffs, but he can’t disagree. He’s hardly keeping his head on straight right now. “What do you want?” he asks, wishing for some quiet for once. Away from all the noise in his head. 

“What do you think?” Deran huffs. He motions inside. “She called me,” he says your name, and Pope grimaces. You must really think he’s just a mess. 

Deran goes quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on his jeans. “How have you been doing?” He asks, his tone losing its abrasive quality this time around. 

“How do you think?” Pope scoffs, looking over at him. And something inside him breaks, seeing his little brother who is holding it together so much better than he is. “I keep seeing her man,” his voice cracks around the confession, and he looks away. “I’m— I’m fucking hearing her in the back of my head. Reminding me—”

Pope shakes his head, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to take in a steady breath. “Reminding me of how much I fucked up. I wasn’t there,” he admits. “I wasn’t there, and she’s dead.”

Deran stays quiet, just watching Pope. There’s nothing he could say that would absolve him of this guilt. He doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all he’s done his entire life. He was put on a leash for a reason. Because every time he ever tried to break out of that control, the only thing he’s ever done is hurt someone. 

Something about the quiet softens something in him. “I hid all the baby stuff,” he admits. 

Deran lets out a confused noise and looks up. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why?

Pope shrugs, looking down at the chair and digging his nail into a scratch. He picks at it, watching the wood splinter. “I can’t mess this up,” he admits, voice rough as he blinks away the burning in his eyes. “I hear Smurf. I hear Baz. And they’re both just telling me how much I fucked up. And I can hear Baz telling me that no one would ever want a kid with me. Because he was right,” he lets out a bitter sound, taking in a shaky breath. 

“She doesn’t want a kid with me. She just got stuck with me.”

Deran takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. He laughs, but it's hollow. “Baz was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. He reaches over and takes his shoulder. Pope grimaces, but he doesn’t move away, looking over at Deran. 

“But Baz was always wrong about you, man.” He squeezes Pope’s shoulder before letting go. “Smurf fucked us all up. But,” Deran whistles and shakes his head. “She really did a number on you. Still, if any of us could actually give a kid a chance of survivin’ all the shit we went through…”

Deran offers a strained smile, “It’d be you.”

Pope can’t honestly say he believes him. Believe this is anything other than an attempt to bring him back from the edge. But he wants to. He wants to so badly think that he’s capable of doing something good. 

Neither of them says anything else, sitting in the quiet with one another. 

A while later, Deran gets up. He doesn’t say much, just that he has to head home. Pope nods, watching as Deran walks down the porch. The door opens behind him, the swell of your stomach clear in his peripheral. You call out a goodbye to his brother, walking toward him. He reaches up, hands brushing against your stomach as his head falls against you. You reach up, nails dragging through his curls. 

You’re real. You’re here. Not a voice in his head reminding him that everything falls apart under his touch. 

You kneel, pressing your forehead to his. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth before you pull away. He holds onto your hand until you’re walking back into the house, and his hand falls back by his side. Deran pulls out of the driveway; he stops at the end for a moment before driving off. 

Pope gets to his feet; he follows the only noise in the house until he’s standing in front of the nursery. You’re kneeling in front of the disassembled crib. Without looking up, you silently hold out the instruction booklet. He walks forward, taking it from you and kneeling at your side. 

Your eyes dart to him for a moment. “It’s a girl,” you tell him. 

His stomach swoops as he looks over at you. You offer a small smile. “The doctor called this morning. I thought you would want to know.”

You reach over and take his hand in your own, lacing your fingers together. He leans over, pressing his forehead to the side of your head. You turn, lips brushing against his as you pull him into your embrace. He sinks easily, the world going quiet around him as you hold him. His hand falls from your side to the swell of your stomach. 

For now, there’s only one voice. 

Baz was always wrong about you. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the show Animal Kingdom- but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[not-neverland06]

𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨…

💿 Nobody's Son 💿

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴: 𝘚𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘺 𝘉𝘳𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘵

I think it's time we took a break / So I can grow emotionally / That's what he said to me

All my friends in love and I'm the one / They call for a third wheeling / Probably should have guessed / He's like the rest / So fine and so deceiving

Overview: You've been his partner for years, but one fight with his wife and he's willing to throw it all away just for a brief night of relief. Now, your life is ruined and you don't want to ever see him again. But the death of your friend brings you back together and suddenly, you're backed into a corner you don't know how to escape from. (Basic knowledge of the show Southland is helpful but not necessary as this follows some plot points).

a/n: my twist on the pregnancy trope which basically means the majority of this is angst and not so much focused on being pregnant. This is more about the psychological toll it takes on a on a woman unprepared. Idk I tried to avoid the pitfalls of this trope that piss me off, like a baby doesn't magically fix everything ever. Hope you enjoy!

wc: 20.7K

warning: dark thoughts toward self and unborn baby, allusions to abortion but not explicitly mentioned

Find more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza

“-and I promise,” you drone out the rest of Dewey’s BS. He claims it’s a retirement party, but you give it three months tops before he’s crawling back. You bet his wife will leave him, he’ll drink worse than he already does, and all of a sudden he’ll need a job again. 

You tilt your head to the left, lips parted and then stop yourself. Nate and Sammy aren’t beside you like they usually are. There’s no one to bitch to because they’re both with their wives. Letting out a tired sigh, you lean back in your chair and try not to pass out. 

Usually, you guys go to these functions together. You talk shit about the cops you don’t like and make bets on who’s going to have the biggest fuck up of the month. But Dewey’s party is being held in some crappy back alley bar with tiny tables. Meaning you’re shamefully outed as being single while they hold their wives hands. 

Although, glancing over your shoulder, you’re pretty sure Tammi would rather break Sammy’s hand before she held it. She’s not even saying anything and you can already tell that he’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight. 

With a low groan, you slip out of your chair and head outside. Leaning back against the wall, you light up a cigarette and try to pretend you're actually content with the direction your life is heading. 

Sure, being a detective means more pay and better hours. But it also means that you’re not out in the field as much. You don’t see action anymore. Not really. Plus, you have to sit in a station with a bunch of assholes and listen to them talk shop. 

They’ve gotten so used to you being around they seem to have forgotten that you’re a woman. Always talking shit about their wives or what rookie’s ass is getting fatter. It’s nasueating and, yet, here you are. Same old thing day in and out. 

Letting out a shaky breath, you watch the smoke billow in front of your face before drifting into the night. The door to the bar slams open and you jump, peering around your hidden alcove. 

Tammi and Sammy both walk out, you can’t hear what's being said, but Tammi looks hysterical. Then again, she always looks like that. At some point in her life she learned that tears get men to shut up or sit down and you’d respect the hustle if you didn’t despise her. 

That has nothing to do with your unresolved feelings for Bryant, either. She has made it clear quite loudly that she thinks you’re all a bunch of pigs. Sometimes you agree, but she’s given you too much shit about riding in the same car as her husband for you to ever admit that out loud.

Sammy walks to their car, waving Tammi off as he pops the trunk open. That retired k9, Richter, that Sammy got jumps out and an older guy walks over to take his leash. Tammi tries to hold on, but Sammy forces her to let go and then she’s running back into the bar crying. 

You put your cigarette out, tossing it into a trash can while you make your way over to him. “Sammy!”

He pauses, shooting you an easy grin as you move to lean against the trunk of his SUV. Sammy walks over, joining you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. “You’re really getting rid of him?” You ask, nodding toward the truck Richter’s now sitting in. 

Sammy looks down, shoes scuffing against the pavement. “Yeah.” He checks over his shoulder before turning back to you, voice lowered. “Tammi’s been smoking weed. Richter caught a whiff of it and went nuts. I just can’t risk anything happening.”

Your brows furrow as you let out an incredulous scoff. “Aren’t you guys trying for a baby?”

Sammy nods, rolling his eyes as his head thunks against his car. “We are.”

“So…, why the hell is she smoking?”

“Well, apparently, I stress her out and her prenatals are making her nauseous.” he throws his hands up and you can’t help but laugh at his expense. 

“Well, everyone knows marujana’s the best prenatal there is.”

He smirks, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut it.” You smile at him, heat flushing through you. With a sigh, you catch yourself and force your eyes to the pavement rather than him and his crooked smile. 

The silence lingers, neither of you ready to head back inside and listen to more of Dewey’s shit. After a while Sammy lets out one of those long sighs that just sound pathetic. 

“What’s up?” You ask, nudging him. 

Sammy rubs the back of his neck, eyes stubbornly pointed down. “I’m not,” he shakes his head, finally meeting your gaze. “I don’t even know if I want a baby with her. I mean, it’s not like we’re happy. And I can’t get through a damn sentence without her crying and shutting down.”

“Well, speaking from experience…” His brows lift with interest and you offer a sardonic smile. “Kid ain’t gonna fix it. Trust me. All that’s going to happen is it’ll get caught in the crossfire.”

“Yeah?” His voice is soft and you realize you’ve never really told him any of this before. 

Sucking your teeth, you wish you’d taken another shot before coming out here. “My parents thought a baby might fix their problems. But I was colicky and just made ‘em hate each other more. Then, when I got older, I was always in the middle, forced to pick a side.”

Your voice trails off, throat closing as you force yourself to stop sharing so much. Sure, you like Sammy, too much, but you’re still a cop. You don’t like giving away anything that someone might use against you. 

Sammy sucks in a sharp breath. “We’re practically separated, you know?”

Your head whips up and there should be guilt at how excited you feel, but you can’t find any. “What?”

“Yeah. She hasn’t let me in the house in a while.”

A shock of anger bursts through your chest on his behalf. He’s the one paying their damn mortgage, why should he have to leave? “Where the hell are you staying?”

“Oh,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This crappy little motel near castaic.”

“Nah, that’s bullshit. You shouldn't have to pay for a shitty mattress.” You smile at him, poking his side and he grins. “Why don’t you take my shitty couch. For free,” you add.

He shakes his head, waving you off. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Shut up,” you snap, already pulling out your car keys. “Let’s go,” and you don’t give him any choice but to obey. 

You park the car and let out a low whistle, taking in the, frankly, terrifying motel. “Shit, man. You weren’t lying.”

He chuckles, opening his door and shaking his head. “I might have undersold it.”

“I’m saying,” you mutter, slightly hesitant to even get out of the car. This looks like a place you’d get called down to check out a missing woman’s body. Not any place you should be within twenty feet of. But you want to help Sammy out, so you suck it up and follow him. 

The motel room is moderately less dismal. He’s trashed it a bit but you can’t imagine it was ever truly clean to begin with. “So,” you watch as he picks up his bag, tossing clothes inside. “Seperated, huh?”

You clench your eyes shut, you couldn’t have made your eagerness any more obvious. You sound practically giddy. Might as well skip around the room while you’re at it. 

Sammy straightens, laughing slightly as he takes a step toward you. “Yep.”

Gnawing your lip, your pulse tightens in your chest. Now or never. “Sammy, I’ve always-”

Sammy doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand is already cupping the back of your head, body being shoved against the motel wall as his lips press against yours. You let out a sharp gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as you slump against him. 

His knee nudges between your own, sliding your legs apart until you’re practically sitting on his thigh. “Oh my god,” you mutter, finally catching your breath as he drags his lips across your jaw. 

It takes a moment for you to realize his fingers are already working on the buttons of your blouse. Your head is swimming, heart racing as you attempt to process what exactly you’re doing right now. He’s married, separated sure, but married. 

He nips at your neck and your hands are already undoing his belt. Guilt, shame, dignity, it’s all tossed to the floor. They land right beside your shirt. 

“Need this,” he groans into your skin and your hips grind down against the firm muscle of his thigh. “Need you,” he admits and you think your brain is dripping out between your legs, because why the hell aren’t you stopping him?

“Yeah?” You ask, breathless as you shove him back toward the bed. 

He nods, hands greedy as he cups your ass and drags you into him. “I can’t keep working with you. Seeing you every day, not knowing what you feel like. You’re driving me crazy.”

You kiss him to shut him up, heart thudding against your ribs far too much for him to rile you up further. His knees hit the mattress and suddenly you’re landing in his lap, jerking his jeans down as he lifts his hips. 

“Protection?” You mutter, laughing as he struggles with the clasp of your bra. 

Sammy shakes his head and you reach back to help him out. “Finally,” he mutters, tugging your bra off and tossing it to the depths of the room. 

“I’m clean,” you tell him and then he’s flipping you over, hands pinning your wrists to the bed. 

“Tammi hasn’t let me near her in months,” he promises. 

You wrench a hand free, drag your fingers through his curls and jerk his head toward you. “Don’t talk about her when you’re about to be inside me,” you whisper, dragging him down for another kiss. He groans against your mouth, grabbing your hips and tugging you down the bed to meet him halfway. 

The shrill ringing of two phones wakes you both up. Sammy groans as he lifts his arm from your waist. You squint through the sunlight beaming through the blinds and force yourself up. It takes a minute for you to find your jeans in the mess of clothes from last night. 

You snatch them up, digging through the pockets until you’ve got your phone. Of course, it’s Sal with another case. “Damn,” you look over your shoulder and he’s wearing the same disappointed expression as you. “So much for a day off,” you tease. 

Sammy shakes his head, already tugging his clothes back on. “Need a ride?” You ask, redressing yourself. It’s not uncommon for you to repeat an outfit once or twice, hopefully no one pays too much attention. 

“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck. You frown, head titling as you note the stubborn way he won’t meet your eyes. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

You hum, slightly disconcerted as you go wait for him out in the car. When he joins you, he’s quiet. Slightly unusual for a man whose voice you can hear halfway across town. But you don’t mention it, figuring he’s probably just struggling to understand how he’s supposed to treat you now. 

Admittedly, you’re struggling with that a bit yourself. You wished you’d had any time at all to talk this morning. Last night he said some things that…

Well, the implications of always wanting to feel you makes you think that the feelings might be a little mutual. Something in your gut, though, is warning you away from that. Call it the instincts of a detective or a woman, doesn’t matter. He proves you right at the end of your shift. 

He’s avoided you all day and you just manage to catch him as he’s walking out of the station. “Sammy,” you race after him. He pauses at the edge of the steps, but he doesn’t turn to face you. “Hey,” you reach for his shoulder and he jerks back, finally meeting your eye. 

The flat look on his face has you straightening, your own expression turning painfully neutral. “Figured we might need to talk,” you tell him, doing everything you can to keep your voice emotionless. 

You know it’s coming, you have since this morning. But it still knocks the wind out of you. “Tammi called me at lunch,” you purse your lips, eyes dropping to the ground. “She asked me to come back home. She wants to try, for real this time.”

You let out a cold laugh, nodding as you finally meet his eyes. His expression has softened slightly, guilt bleeding through. “Thought you guys were sepreated.”

“Practically separated,” he snaps, so defensive it makes your head spin. “We hadn’t discussed anything concrete.”

You scoff, biting your tongue as tears burn in your eyes. He takes a step forward but you shake your head, jerking back. “No, no this is on me. I can’t believe that I fucking fell for that.”

He says your name, soft and placating but you just shoot him a glare. “Fuck off, Sammy. We’re friends, man. And, what, you just tossed that away because your wife wasn’t giving you any? You want an easy lay? You go to a street corner, you don’t, literally, fuck over one of your friends.”

Sammy doesn’t even try to defend himself. He shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes growing wet in a way that pisses you off. “Fuck off to your wife.” He looks up, lips pursed like he wants to stop you, but you’re already walking away. 

You turn, licking your lips as you glare at him. “I pray that any kid you have doesn’t have to suffer through you two being immature assholes. I mean, you can’t even talk to her, Sammy. How the hell are you gonna raise a baby with her?” 

When Sammy moves forward, mouth open like he could say anything to fix this, you get in your car. You keep your eyes on him in the rearview as you drive off. He looks pathetic, with those sad eyes and little frown that you want to slap off his face. 

You get it (not really) he needed a release. But he just risked years of friendship and having each other’s backs in the field for one night. Do you truly just mean nothing to him? 

A month later, you stare down at your period tracker with a frown. Two weeks late. “Huh,” you mutter, pocketing your phone and ignoring it. Sure, you’ve been steady since college, but this could just be some stress-induced one-off. Your best friend of over ten years suddenly going ghost mode will do that to you. 

Your eyes flit up to Sammy and you swear if looks could kill he would be dead fifty times over. He lifts his head, face paling at the glare you’re shooting him. Like the little coward he is, he goes back to the paperwork you know he finished ten minutes ago. 

He can’t even look at you, anymore. Pathetic, you think and some petty part of you thinks of calling up Tammi and telling her what happened. But that comes from an evil place deep down inside of you that you know you’re supposed to ignore. 

With a huff, you grab your bag and storm past his desk, clocking out for the night. And just like every night, you can feel his stare on the back of your head as you leave. Still, he’s too much of a coward to do anything but look.

You stop by a drive-through on your way home, ordering an egg sandwich so you can stuff your face quick and pass out. But as you pull the bag into your car, your stomach begins to turn. 

“Oh god,” you groan, pinching your nose and wondering if they’d given you spoiled eggs. You try and take a bite, just to see but the taste makes you gag. You’ve never been a huge fan of eggs but this is pretty extreme. 

“Huh,” you say again, frowning as you dump the sandwich. 

It’s when the period tracker hits week three of being late that you start to panic a bit. “That’s normal, right?” You mutter to yourself, gnawing on your nails as you try and relax on your day off. But with the way your chest is starting to tighten you don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon. 

Grabbing your keys, you force yourself off your couch and drive to the run-down convenience store nearby. You swallow roughly, sunglasses on as you head into the pharmacy aisle. 

You know no one from work is going to spot you. They all live in those clean, lame neighborhoods like castaic. They wouldn’t be caught dead in some run-down, crime-heavy neighborhood like yours. 

Still, though, you can’t help the way you glance over your shoulder every other minute, thinking Nate or Sammy’s gonna pop out. 

You wander down the long selection of pads until you’re staring at pregnancy tests. “I’m fine,” you tell yourself. “Definitely not pregnant.”

Still, you end up walking out with five tests in your bag. 

Then, you find yourself sitting on your bathroom floor as you read the last one. Taking a good long look at the two clear lines. “Fuck me,” you groan, head thumping back against the wall as you toss this one in the trash. 

Three of them read as negative and two of them are positive. 

Which is how you end up at your OBGYN, fingers twiddling anxiously as you wait for the results to come back. The door pops open and you perk up. 

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Your stare is intense and probably slightly terrifying as you watch her read her paper. She hums under her breath, taking a seat on her stupid little chair, spinning slightly. 

One more second of making you wait and you will be discharging your gun-

“Congratulations,” she beams. “You’re pregnant.”

Your jaw drops and you begin to feel a little lightheaded. But she’s still smiling like she didn’t just give you the worst news of your life. 

Okay, you have been shot before, right in the femur. And you were told as a child, in quite explicit detail, how your cat got squished under your mom’s rear tire. 

That has to count as worse news, right?

No, you think, slamming your purse down on your desk. Nate jumps, shooting you a wary look that you don’t concern yourself with. Fluffy’s passing was not worse news than learning you are carrying Sammy Bryant’s offspring inside you. 

That short, red-headed, freckled bastard knocked you up. First try! He’s been with Tammi since high school, that’s over a decade of trying to get her pregannt. All of a sudden he’s got strong swimmers?

You turn in your chair, hands steepled over your stomach as you stare at him. He goes stiff the second your eyes land on him, sensing the hatred you’re trying to burn into the side of his face. Asshole, you think, can’t even look at me.

Yes, life has been feeling stagnant lately. You were sick of all the “You on the rag?” jokes and the guy’s ridiculous complaints about their third wives. But you did not want change to come in the form of a fetus planted in you by a man who can’t even make eye contact with you. 

Nate looks up from his paperwork, doing a slight double-take when he catches the look on your face. He rolls over in his chair, frowning. “Everything good?”

“Fine,” you snap, catching some of the other’s attention. Nate’s eyes widen as he raises his hands, backing off. 

You have to tell him. Sammy needs to know what’s going on before you head to the clinic and take care of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into. 

You are planning on putting the majority of the blame on him, but you really should have told him to pull out. Or, at the very least, gotten a Plan B before work. 

“Sammy,” you call out. His eyes flick up before dropping right back down to his papers. “Samuel,” you snap, not caring that some of the other detectives are staring. 

He purses his lips, huffing slightly as he finally undertakes the horrendous task of meeting your eye. “Did you need something, detective?”

You let out a sharp noise that has Nate poorly trying to hide a laugh. “Oh, okay. That’s how you’re playing this?” Maybe, when you’re already pissed off and emotional, you shouldn’t drop this bomb in the middle of the office. But you need it over and done with so you can just take care of it. 

Still, before you can consider the HR ramifications, Sal’s walking in with a case. He drops the file on your desk and you purse your lips, angrily shaking your head at Sammy. He just lets out a little breath of relief. 

Which is immediately sucked out of him as Sal says, “Nate, Sammy, I want you to go with her. Check this out. One of your CI’s might know something.”

“Oh,” you purr, snatching up the file as you stand. “I can’t wait.” Sammy’s head drops and you give him an extra firm pat on the back as you pass him. 

However, as much as you would love to give him hell, you always keep your personal business away from work. Messy emotions and the urge to put a gun to your partner's testicles can lead to released suspects and the wrong people in cuffs. 

You force yourself to wait until lunch to ambush him. Watching him carefully as Sammy carries his tray of food to the table. He sets it beside Nate, dropping onto the bench next to him as if he hasn’t sat beside you almost everyday since you’ve known each other. 

You wipe your mouth off, eyes honed on him. He senses it, too, shifting around like a little weasel. 

“Sammy,” you try making your voice soft, kind. Lull him into a false sense of security. 

His brows shoot up and he briefly looks at you. “Yeah?”

“I need to talk to-”

“Oh,” he holds up a finger and checks his phone. “Sorry, it’s Tammi, gotta take this.” You scoff, chest caving as you watch him run off. 

You glance over at Nate who’s got a tired look on his face. “Was she actually calling him?”

He shakes his head, disappointed in his partner. “Nope.”

“‘Course not,” you snap, appetite gone as you toss your taco down. 

For the rest of the day, you ride along with them, pretending the case file is the most interesting thing in the world. They take you to their informant, let you talk to her for a little while, and then you all get back in the car. 

There’s no more meal breaks or stops where you might be able to finally just toss the information at Sammy. Soon enough, it’s dark and Nate’s dropping you all off at the station so you can get your cars. 

Nate waves as he drives off but your attention is fully focused on the man attempting to speedwalk away from you. “That’s it,” you mutter. You don’t call his name, don’t warn him, just chase him down like you would a suspect. 

When you plant yourslf in front of him he lets out a surprised noise that would make you laugh in any other context. “Enough,” you snap, shoving at him when he tries to get around you. 

“Sammy, I really need to talk to you. Please,” you feel like a damn beggar and it just makes you angrier. He’s the one that should be groveling. He’s the one that did this to you, to both of you. 

“Tammi’s pregnant,” Sammy rushes out before you can continue. Your jaw drops, eyes widening as you stare at him. 

“What?” You hiss and Sammy just nods. As if he didn’t just completely destroy your plans. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you that makes your chest ache and eyes water. 

Eyes clenched shut, you try and suck in a calming breath, but it only makes you feel more panicked. You can’t tell him. 

You can’t tell Sammy you’re pregnant when he just figured out his wife is. 

He crosses his arms, expression guarded. “What did you need to say?”

He is such a prick. The only reason he blurted that out is because he thought you were running over to beg him for another round in bed. Shame burns in your stomach as you swallow down the venomous words crawling up your throat. You’ll tell him another day when you’re not itching to have a gun in your hand. 

Through gritted teeth, you force out the words, “No hard feelings.”

Sammy’s face falls and you would laugh if you weren’t actively fighting back tears. “Wait-” he shakes his head, arms slowly falling back to his sides. “What?”

“Yeah, no hard feelings, right?” And then the words keep coming, the lies spinning themselves. Because, on your end, there are most definitely some bitter feelings. “Look, we’ve been friends for years, Sammy. I don’t want one stupid mistake to ruin that. I just… I want my friend back, alright?”

Sammy’s brows pinch together as he narrows his eyes. As if he doesn’t believe you. You expect him to go storming off, stonewall you some more. Instead, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you into a hug. 

You let out an affronted noise and your hands hover over his back, entirely unsure of what to do with yourself. Part of you wants to shove him off, to tell him you didn’t mean any of that and hope every time he pees from now until etertniy it burns. 

But there is that desperate part of you that has held a flame for him for so long. It’s begging you to just give in. Enjoy his kindness while you can. 

He’s pulling away before you can make your decision.  “No hard feelings,” he promises. Sammy lingers for a moment, offering a tentative smile before he pats your shoulder and walks past you, heading to his car. Going to drive home to his pregnant wife. 

When you manage to slump into your own car, you glare down at your stomach. You will tell him another time, you swear. And then you’ll get it taken care of. 

You can feel them staring and it is driving you nuts. Sure, five tacos might be a lot, but you’re getting these cravings that are kicking your damn ass. Nate watches as you scarf down your fourth with something like awe and disgust in his eyes. 

“Jesus,” he lets out a low whistle. “You hungry?” He snarks. 

You roll your eyes, shooting him a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up, Nate,” you snap around a mouthful of tacos and fries. 

Sammy lets out an astonished laugh. “Goddamn,” he grins but it’s Nate you’re watching. He’s got the look of someone who just solved a case and you do not appreciate it being pointed at you. 

Sammy’s phone rings and you finally look away from Nate. “Dammit,” he shakes his head. “I have to take this.”

“Take it somewhere else,” you immediately tell him. He frowns and you just shake your head. “Dude, if I have to listen to you bitch at Tammi or her european lover again-”

Sammy holds his hands up, “Alright, damn.” He takes his phone and ambles further into the park. You still somehow manage to hear it and it drives you nuts. For two months it’s just been Tammi this and Tammi that. First, she's pregnant, then she's leaving him for her photography instructor. Now, the kid might not even be his, who fucking knows? You’re going to shoot the next person that says her name within a two mile radius of you. 

“So,” Nate crosses his arms, observing you. Your skin crawls as you push your food away. “You been craving anything lately?”

“What?” Your eyes snap to his and he grins.

“Mariella always used to crave, uh… what was it,” he closes his eyes as he thinks. “Oh! Pickles and peanut butter. It was nasty. So, I’ll take the taco truck, but you been craving anything else?”

You glance down at your hands which have been busy rummaging in your purse, seeking out the chocolate bar you were sure you had stashed in there. “Um,” you pull your hands back and shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Nate rolls his eyes, lips falling flat as he scoffs. “Please, I’ve been through this three times. You’ve quit smoking, you’re scarfing down junk like it’s a sport. And, you have this look in your eye like you’re a second away from popping a cap in Sammy.”

You let out a small sigh, sinking onto the table as you scrub your hands over your cheeks. “God dammit, Nate. Couldn’t you just be a worse detective?”

He laughs and pats you on the back. “No luck on that.” Nate tilts his head, surveying your body carefully. You shift a little, tugging at your shirt even though the bump isn’t showing, yet. 

“Is he the dad?” Neither of you have to look to know he’s talking about the dumbass currently arguing with his ex-wife’s mistress. 

Eyes dropping to your lap, you shrug, feeling like a child caught in a lie. You’ve done well so far keeping this to yourself. But Nate’s always had a keener eye than Sammy. At least when it comes to women. You should have seen this coming. 

“Yeah,” your voice cracks slightly and you hate yourself for it. “He is.”

Nate reaches over, placing his hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “Have you told him?”

Your head whips up, anger shoving through the tears. “Are you kidding me? He lied to me, made it seem like he and Tammi were over and then got me in bed. He doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want this kid, either.”

Nate gets that expression you only ever seen when he’s scolding his kids. “That is not true-”

“Alright,” Sammy’s enbittered voice interrupts Nate and you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He storms back to the bench, cheeks ruddy from all his yelling. “I’m back.”

“Great,” you jump to your feet. “Let’s get out of here.” Nate shoots you a sharp look that has shame curling tight inside you. But you don’t acknowledge him, just brush past them both as you rush to the car. 

Nate remained the only one aware of your little problem. Right up until the day those bastards murdered him. 

You stand in your dress blues, Mariella sobbing into your shoulder as Nate’s casket is lowered into the ground. Beside you, Sammy stands holding Petey’s hand, tears streaming silently down his face. 

There’s a wicked part of you that wishes it was you dropping to the ground. Nate has a family, kids, people to cry at his grave. You don’t, not really. And you had been right next to Nate, it easily could have been you they targeted. But, no, Sammy got his ass whooped and you got dragged into the crowd, stabbed right in the gut. 

And somehow, the kid survived and Nate didn’t. 

It just doesn’t seem right. 

In a few months you’re going to be nothing more than burden to the people around you. You’re going to have a kid you don’t even know if you want and it probably won’t have it’s dad around. Those assholes could have done everyone a favor and turned the pipe on the second person beside Nate. 

Mariella releases you and moves away from the grave. Her shoulders shake, cries so loud it hurts your chest. Everyone begins to disperse or follow her to offer their condolences. You rip your cap off and take a seat at the base of the tree beside Nate’s grave. 

You haven’t cried yet. The shrink told you it was a normal response. But you’re not so sure about that. Even Sammy cried. You should have too. There’s just something about you now that is numb. 

You want to go back to three months ago and just take that night back. 

You want to go back to when Nate was driving you all home. You want to have stopped him and dragged his ass back in the car. Told him to let it go because it was just a beer bottle tossed at the car. But you hadn’t. Every mistake sits with you. They burrow themselves under your skin until you can’t even feel them anymore. 

Sammy walks over to you, dropping on the ground beside you. Quickly, you tug at your uniform, trying to hide the slight expansion of your stomach. You’ve gotten lucky so far, the baby barely showing. You know you’ll probably blow up soon, but you’re praying you’re one of those women who just never looks the part until month nine. 

“I can’t,” Sammy wipes his eyes. He rests his arms on his knees, heads falling between them. His body shakes as he cries and you take in a sharp breath. You can’t just sit here and watch him fall apart. 

Reaching over, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t waste a second, turning his face into your neck and crying as you hold him. You run your fingers over his hair. 

“I know,” you whisper, squeezing him closer as you stare at Nate’s grave. 

Sammy still doesn’t know. Nate had been giving you shit about it the day before he’d been killed. Something like guilt curdles in your stomach. Nate should have been around when you finally told Sammy. 

He should have been standing there with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look that would make you want to slap him. But he’s gone and Sammy’s living in his widow’s home and you still can’t tell him. 

You like to stop by Mariella’s house. You help her with the kids when you can, cooking, cleaning. Just whatever she needs. But Sammy’s doing a hell of a lot more than you are. Almost too much with the way Petey’s gotten attached to him. 

He follows Sammy around constantly. Slides him into that slot where his dad should be. And Sammy doesn’t fit, no one ever will, but you’re worried the kid will get too attached. Sammy’s going to have a baby soon.

Whether or not Tammi’s is legitimate, you’ve got a backup waiting for him. He’s not going to be around for these kids forever. 

You shake your head, taking your eyes away from the window. Away from the sight of Sammy roughhousing in the yard with the kids. 

Instead, you turn back to Mariella, watching as she works on dinner. “What do you need help with?” You ask. 

She turns to you, mouth opening and then snapping shut. Her eyes drop to the sweatshirt you're wearing. Entirely too large and heavy for an LA summer. You clear your throat, tugging at the collar. 

“Mariella?”

“What’s wrong?” She asks, rather than giving you a task. You so desperately need something to keep your hands busy right now. 

“Nothing-” She shoots you a sharp look before you can even finish the sentence. You offer a sheepish smile and shake your head. “You don’t need to hear about my issues, Mari.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like glass, please. I need something, anything, to distract me.”

You snort, “So, what, you’re exploiting my messy life?”

Mariella offers a smile, “Exactly.”

“Alright,” you move toward her and nudge her away from the stove. You make sure your back is to the window, and, in the process, fail to see Petey walking back in for a break and water. 

You lift up the sweatshirt, showing her the five month belly that’s finally starting to show. 

For the most part, the universe has decided to show you a little mercy. You haven’t experienced much changes on your body except the occasional ache or pain. You’ve only had to go up two pant sizes so far, and have managed to get away with wearing looser blouses to work. 

Now, though, it seems like the baby’s deciding it’s ready to make its grand entrance. 

Her eyes go comically wide, hands pressing against her mouth as she stifles a gasp. 

You laugh at your own expense, taking one for the team as you let her focus on your issues rather than her own. “You wanna hear the worst of it?”

“I don’t know,” she offers a shaky laugh, eyes still trained on your stomach as you drop the sweatshirt. 

You glance over your shoulder, making sure he’s still outside. “It’s Sammy’s,” you whisper. Her jaw actually drops and it’s enough to have you laughing at her. She shakes off the shock and lets out a disbelieving squeak. 

“How?”

“Well, when two people love each other very much-” You yelp as she swats you with her towel. “Hey, that’s assault agianst a pregnant woman,” you warn and she just rolls her eyes. 

“Come on,” she urges, leaning against the counter with an expectant look. 

“We hooked up once a few months ago. I thought he and Tammi were pretty much over, but he told me they were going to give it another try the next day.”

In rapid succession, she lets out a string of curses in both spanish and english that have your ears burning. “Bastard,” she finally settles on as you watch her with wide eyes. “And you haven’t told him?”

You snort and shake your head. “How could I? I mean, he just straight up lied to me to get me in bed. Then, makes it clear he wants nothing to do with me. And Tammi got pregnant and he thought the baby might not be his…” You trail off, realizing just how Degrassi your life has become.  

Hand resting on your stomach, you lean back against the counter. “I almost took it to the clinic,” it being the baby because you still really haven’t accepted this new reality. Mariella’s face quikly shifts into something carefully neutral and you try not to laugh. 

“By the time I got there, I guess I’d just hit the cutoff mark. I had wanted to tell him beforehand but he was pretending I didn’t exist for a while. I keep having this recurring dream of giving it up. But I can’t stand the idea of putting my own child into the foster system.”

Your face sinks into your hands as you let out a pitiful noise. “Is there ever a good time to tell a man you’re carrying his illegitimate child?”

She snorts, slapping your arm. “It’s not a telenovela. You’re not carrying his illegitimate baby. You’re just his second baby mama.”

“Screw you,” you laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. “Sammy’s been so volatile lately. He’s not processing anything and I just, I don’t want to tell him when he’s one bad day away from snapping.”

Mariella clicks her tongue, reaching out and dragging you into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and pulls back slightly, brushing your hair away. “But I know you’ve always wanted a family.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “A family. A mom, a dad, not just me. I mean, how am I supposed to do this on my own. Especially with my job?”

“You, of all people, are capable of figuring this out. Sweetheart, once you’re holding that baby in your arms, you’ll be glad you didn’t make it to the clinic.”

Your face screws up, not believing her. Plenty of the women you’ve known have led happier lives after going to the clinic. It’s not the same for everyone, you don’t think you’re going to be so lucky. 

“What clinic?” The both of you go stiff, Mariella’s hands tightening around your shoulder as nausea rises in your throat. Sammy remains oblivious, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water. 

“Uh,” Mariella lets out a nervous laugh. “I was talking about myself, you know. I asked her for some company to the OBGYN, but there are just certain things friends don’t need to see.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, the sound frantic and slightly broken. “That’s totally it,” your face screws up and Mariella shoots you a sharp look. 

Sammy’s brows pinch, lips pursing in displeasure as he glances between the both of you. “Okay,” he drawls, clearly not believing a word of it. You just shrug, subconsciously adjusting your sweatshirt. 

“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asks, eyeing it warily. 

“No,” you snap. “No, I’m cold, actually,” you lie your ass off, you’ve already sweat through your undershirt. You rush out of the kitchen, heading to the front door to call the kids in for dinner. Anything to get away from Sammy’s scrutinizing glare. 

The dining table is silent, even the little ones keep quiet. Your brain is pulsating with each scrape of cutlery against ceramic. The kids keep looking at the adults, eyes darting rapidly between you all. They sense it, somehow, the tension. 

Sammy’s not aware of the source, but he’s been wary since your spaz attack in the kitchen. Mariella’s not helping anything, either. She keeps sending you the same look Nate always used to. It seems to say ‘Grow a pair and just tell him, already.’ But you’ve put it off for so long, you can’t possibly imagine just dropping the bomb at dinner. 

“What does illegitimate mean?”

Your knife screeches against the plate as you freeze. The adult's heads snap toward Petey who just pushes around his vegetables.

Sammy laughs a little, but it trails off at the stricken look on your face. Mariella curses under her breath. “I told you to stop listening to our conversations, Petey.”

Petey just shrugs and Sammy’s eyes dart between you and Mariella. “Where’d you hear that, buddy?” His voice is deceptively calm. 

Petey points at you and you feel your dinner coming up. “She said she had an illegitimate baby. What’s that mean?”

Your fork clatters against the plate as your head drops into your hands. Sammy whispers your name but you can’t meet his eye. “God damn, kid,” you lift your head with a watery laugh. “You’d make a great PI, I’ll give you that.”

Sammy calls your name again and you shoot out of your chair. “I am so sorry,” Mariella whispers but you can’t meet her eye. You just rush out of the house, biting your tongue so you don’t throw up all over yourself. 

Sammy’s right on your heels, door slamming behind him as he easily catches up to you. You don’t like admitting it, but this damn kid has really been slowing you down. “Hey,” he grabs your arm, pulling you back toward him. 

Slightly out of breath, you give up, eyes stubbornly pointed to the ground. “Are you pregnant?” He snaps. You nod your head and he scoffs, releasing your arm like it’s burned him. “Dammit,” he mutters your name and you shrink back. “I’m your partner,” he snaps, “I need to know about this. Were you ever going to tell me?”

Your head shoots up with a frown, “Yes.” But he clearly doesn’t believe you and you barely believe yourself. 

“I mean,” he drags his hands through his hair, scoffing in astonishment. “Who’s the dad?”

Your jaw drops as you finally, really look at him. “Jesus, Sammy. How much do you think I sleep around?” His brows pinch together and you stare at him expectantly. 

“Wait,” he stutters, shaking his head. “Me?” He points to himself and you would laugh if you felt any less emotionally volatile. “But, I mean, that was months ago.”

“Uh huh,” you drawl, crossed arms resting on your lightly distended stomach. Sammy’s eyes are drawn to them, narrowed like he might be able to see through the sweatshirt. 

“Months?” He snaps. “And you didn’t tell me?” 

You throw your hands up and let out an astonished guffaw. Yes, guffaw, that’s how stunned you are by his absolutely wild audacity. “There was no good time to tell you that I’m carrying around your freaking kid,” you hiss.

Sammy jerks back and takes a large step away from you. A lot of thoughts seem to be hitting him at once and you worry his brain won’t be able to handle the sudden influx of use. 

“Is that what Mariella was talking about earlier? You were going to the clinic?” Okay, you really did not need him to connect that dot. 

You rub your temple, eyes clenching shut as you shut out how betrayed he sounds. He has no right acting like you hurt him when he’s the one that did this by lying to you. 

“Yeah, alright? I was going to tell you and then take care of it. But by the time I made it in, it was too late.”

“You were going to take my child from me?” He demands, and you glance around, making sure no neighbors can hear the soap-level drama your life has become. 

“Fuck you,” you grit out, shoving him back from you. “You didn’t even know about it until ten minutes ago. And you already have a kid, Sammy! With your wife. You know, the one you told me you were leaving when you got me knocked up.”

Sammy flinches back and something inside of you feels slightly vindicated. “What did you expect me to do? I mean, you made it abundantly clear you didn’t want me. You made it seem like that night meant nothing to you. And then I find out that Tammi is pregnant with your kid and I know that the last thing you want is another baby with some chick you don’t even like.”

“Hey,” Sammy snaps and you jut your chin out, just begging for a reason to slap him. “I do like you, alright?”

You groan and shake your head, “Yeah, alright. You like me, but you don’t have the decency to respect over a decade of friendship. You didn’t even give me the courtesy of being honest with me, Sammy. Just lied your way right into my pants.” 

Sammy’s head drops and you look away, eyes catching Mariella’s from where she’s watching you both through the kitchen window. Her hands are slowly drying a plate, body tilted so she can try and hear you. 

You scoff and look back at him. “Look, there was just never a good time.” You actively soften your voice, not needing a noise complaint called on you. “But everything happened with Tammi and then-”

You bite down on your tongue, forcing yourself to keep Nate’s name out of the conversation. It’s just more pain that neither of you needs right now. “You’re in a bad place, Sammy. You don’t need me adding to that.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, hands pushing against his eyes as he actively keeps his temper in check. Honestly, he’s doing a lot better than you had expected. You’ve been waiting for him to kick over Mariella’s trashcan or storm off. 

“How far along?”

Huffing, you lift your shirt for him to get a better look. “About five or so months. I think I’m getting close to the end of the second trimester.”

Sammy’s eyes bore into your stomach, hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to touch you. You drop your shirt quickly, stepping back from him. The hurt look in his eyes almost makes you feel bad. Almost. 

“I haven’t even noticed,” he whispers. 

You shrug, arms wrapping around your stomach as you rock back on your heels. “I honestly wasn’t even really showing until about a week or so ago.”

“I-” He steps forward, hands outstretched. You jerk back, shooting him a sharp glare and tilting your body away from him. He has lost any privileges he once had to affections or hugs. You don’t have the patience or willingness to offer him any more kindness than a honest conversation. 

He lets out a watery laugh, eyes shining under Mariella’s porch light. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Join the club.” For a second he smiles and you return it, but it falters and falls too quickly to be real. 

“What are you going to do?”

You suck your teeth and shrug. “I thought about giving it up.” His head snaps up and you hold your hands out. “Relax, I’m not gonna let my kid get tossed to foster care. I’m keeping her, I just don’t know-”

“Her?” He asks, eyes wide as you realize you accidentally let it slip. 

“Uh, yeah, I thought about doing that gender reveal thing. Like, just get myself a cupcake or something. But it seems stupid to do that alone so I asked my doctor. Found out last week.”

He makes a noise like it pains him to think of you eating a pink cupcake all alone in your dingy apartment. You can’t blame him, you paint a pretty pathetic picture right now. 

“Do you have an ultrasound, or-” He swallows roughly, cutting himself off. 

You nod your head, pulling out your phone and passing it to him. He stares down at the picture, eyes wide and gleaming at the blurry little form of your daughter. 

God, you haven’t actually referred to the baby as anything other than it or the kid. ‘Your daughter’ suddenly makes it feel too real. 

His knuckles go white around your phone as he shakes his head. “You can’t stay in that neighborhood anymore,” he tells you. 

Your head snaps up, you most definitely misheard him. “Excuse me?” 

He doesn’t even look at you, just stares down at the picture. “You can’t.”

“Alright,” you roll your eyes and wave him off. “Screw you, Sammy. Give me my phone back.”

You reach for it and he jerks it out of reach, holding it above your head. If it didn’t hurt to get on the tips of your toes, you would totally grab it. But your feet are freaking killing you right now. And he smirks like he knows it. 

“Think of how many GSW’s we’ve been called in for. Right by your apartment building, too. You should have moved years ago. Do you really think it’s safe to raise a kid there?”

“Of course not. But what am I supposed to do? It’s impossible finding a two-bedroom place that I can actually afford, now. Let alone after I take the pay cut for maternity leave and buy all the supplies for the baby.”

“What have you bought?” He asks, missing your point entirely. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I haven’t really processed this.”

“Not even a crib,” he demands. 

You bristle, finally giving up the fight for your phone.“No, asshole,” you snap. “Not even a crib. I’ve got four months before I have to worry about it.” 

He makes a pained noise and you fight back a laugh. “I mean, your other baby mama’s got two guys looking after her. I don’t have anyone but me, alright. It’s kind of hard figuring this out alone.”

Sammy’s arm finally drops, your phone hanging by his side as he watches you. “You didn’t have to be alone.”

You roll your eyes, give me a break. “You didn’t want me, Sammy. Why would I think you’d want my kid?”

“Our kid,” he corrects and you’re sure he isn’t aware just how close you are to slapping that indignant look off his face. 

“Look, you’re stretched thin enough as is. I don’t like making myself a burden.”

“You’re not,” Sammy’s head lolls back and he lets out an aggrieved groan. “You are not a burden,” he tells you firmly. “We’ve got a day off tomorrow, right?” 

You nod and he claps his hands together with a definitive sigh. “We’ll look at new places.”

“Okay,” you shrug. “That doesn’t magically make me able to afford them.”

“No, but we can,” he says motioning between you both. “We can live together, split the rent so we can afford it.”

Your face falls, eyes narrowing as you shake your head. “And then what? We have two nurseries? One for mine and one for Tammi’s?”

You absolutely do not mean any of that. No way in hell are you letting your life get entangled with that woman. But he’s just nodding his head like this is a good idea. 

“What?” You snap, slapping his shoulder. “No, Sammy!”

“You offered me your couch!” He argues. 

“Five months ago! Before you put a baby in me,” you remind him, shaking your head with a glare. 

Sammy finally hands you back your phone and returns the evil look tenfold. “This is not up for discussion.” 

“Yeah, alright,” you wave him off, not taking him seriously for a second. With an irritated groan, you storm off to your car and pointedly ignore him as you pull out. 

If only he could have done that five months ago. 

Three firm knocks on your door have you shooting out of bed. You let out a low groan, glaring at the door while you clutch your stomach. You haven’t had horrific morning sickness, yet, but sudden movements seem to be testing your guts limits. Another knock and it’s like the police are about to bust through your apartment. 

Grumbling to yourself, you throw the door open and glare. “What the hell?”

Sammy stands there, sunglasses on and two cups of coffee in his hand. “Why aren’t you ready?”

Your eyes turn into slits as you let out a strangled groan. “I didn’t think you were being serious about this,” you snap. 

“Yeah, well, I am.” He shoves the cup into your hand and you take a sip, letting him inside. 

“Ugh,” you stick your tongue out, glaring down at the coffee. “This tastes nasty.”

“Decaf,” Sammy tells you, glancing around your apartment with a disgusted glare. You can’t blame him. Objectively, it’s an absolutely horrible place for a baby to grow up in. You’re about 90% sure that there’s mold growing behind the walls of your shower and there is definitely asbestos. 

But, your landlord gives you a major discount on rent as long as you turn a blind eye to some of his more unethical business practices. 

“This is so not fair. Tammi gets to smoke weed and I’m stuck with this,” you slam the cup down and pick up some jeans to change into. Sammy shoots you a sharp glare and you wave him off, grabbing one of the few maternity shirts you own and tugging it on. 

His eyes are immediately drawn to your stomach. It’s the first time in a while that you’ve been around him in anything other than loose clothes. You can’t exactly blame him for the shock on his face. It’s like you just got pregnant overnight to him. 

Well, you guess that’s actually exactly how he feels. 

“Alright,” you pick the coffee up and motion him outside. 

Hesitating, you let out a tired sigh. “Are we really doing this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder as you lock the door. 

“Yes,” Sammy tells you firmly. He places a hand on your lower back, eyes darting around the neighborhood as he shakes his head in disappointment. 

“Should’ve gotten you out of here a long time ago,” he mutters, more to himself than you. 

You just roll your eyes at him, grunting a little as you lower yourself into his car. He hovers over you, offering you a hand that you swat away. You’re just a little slower than normal, not helpless. 

Sammy’s face screws up at how stubborn you are and he closes the door with far more force than necessary. You let out a sharp breath, wincing at a cramp in your side as he gets in. 

“You alright?” He asks, brows pinched as he takes in your grimace. 

“Yeah, just tweaked my back.”

“Doing what?” He asks, voice low in a way that sends goosebumps up your arm. 

You don’t meet his eye, picking at a thread on your jeans, instead. “Uh, just, taking down a suspect last week.”

“Jesus,” he hisses, pulling out of your apartment complex. “You should be on desk duty,” he tells you sharply.

You reach over and punch his arm, smiling when he winces. “You get me put on desk duty, Sammy, and I’m going to shoot you.” 

He dismisses you with a glare and you let out another irritated huff. 

For the entire day, he drags you through every decent neighborhood he can find. You vehemently veto any places in castaic, however, which kills him. But you cannot live in that boring ass suburbia desert, it will drive you insane.  

By the end of it all, your feet feel like lead weights. Every place you guys have been to, you’ve hated. Some were no-go’s because of a strict HOA. Others because modern architecture seems to mean sucking the soul out of every room in the home. 

At the last townhouse, in an older but relatively safe neighborhood, you are thoroughly pissed off. Pieces of you that you didn’t know existed are aching and you are starving. Despite the fact that he got you food an hour ago. 

“This is it,” you snap at him, finally taking his offered hand as he eases you out of the car.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes you off, leading you up the porch where a realtor’s waiting for you. Her overly enthusiastic smile makes you want to slap her and you would dismiss that as hormones if you weren’t a person prone to pettiness far before the baby. 

“Well, look at you two! What a gorgeous couple!” 

Sammy offers a weak smile and you slap his hand away from you. “Not a couple,” you grit out. “Can we get this over with, please?”

“Oh,” her face falls and she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Of course, come in, please.” 

You leave Sammy to listen to her spiel while you explore the house. It’s older than the ones he’s been looking at. The kitchen is a little less modern but you prefer that to all the beige you’ve suffered through on the tours today. You like the wooden cabinets and colorfully tiled floors. You imagine a baby would too.

Humming, you check out the rooms downstairs. There are two of them, across the hall from one another. Peering in, you can already see where the cribs might go. 

It’s not ideal having the kid’s rooms downstairs, but the master bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. Worst case scenario, you could get to them in under thirty seconds. Besides, you’ll have them in bassinets by your bed for the first few months. 

The longer you wander around, the more you find yourself liking the place. In each room you can already imagine how you and Sammy would decorate, how the babies play areas would look. And then you catch yourself, realizing that you’re imagining Tammi’s baby actually being a part of this. 

You’ve never been in such a messy situation before. You’re not sure what the rules are on taking care of another woman’s baby. You know that Sammy will have split custody with her. But you’ve yet to figure out how much she wants you involved with him. 

Sighing, you shake your head and walk down the stairs. An issue for another day. 

Sammy peers up at you, “Well?”

You glance down at the eager relator and scowl. “It’s perfect,” you reluctantly admit. She gives a smug grin and pulls out some paperwork for Sammy to look over. 

Not even two weeks later, he’s got you forcefully removed from your old neighborhood and living in the townhouse with him. While you work on furnishing the nurseries and figuring out the complexities of your sudden proximity, he sleeps on an air mattress in the baby’s room. 

You feel a little guilty each morning when he wakes up and there’s a clear limp to his walk because the blow-up is kiling him. You’ve yet to broach the topic, but when the baby gets here, it would probably just be better if he shared the bed with you. 

This morning, you’re drinking orange juice while he sips tiredly on a mug of coffee. You flip through the newspaper, eyes lingering on an ad for a second too long. “What is it?” He asks. 

You slide the paper toward him, finger tapping against the ad. “50% off at,” you sigh at the name and purse your lips. “Cuddle Couture.”

Sammy snorts into his coffee and you grin. “What the hell is that?”

“A baby store, dumbass. Probably a good place to finally pick out a crib.”

“Alright,” he checks his watch and nods. “We have a few hours before I have to head in. Want to go check it out?”

You shrug, “Might as well, right?” He taps the table once before he’s getting to his feet, a low groan escaping him as he rubs his lower back. You feel a little sympathy for him but also the slightest bit of vindication. Because if he wants to complain about back pain, he should try carrying his giant freaking baby for six months. 

You lean against the cart, watching as Sammy’s eyes rove over all of the frilly little onesies. “Hey, what about this?” He picks out one that’s soft pink with teddy bear print. Something in your chest twists as you imagine your baby in it. 

“Adorable,” you tell him. He tosses it in the cart as you kneel down in front of a onesie clearly aimed at boys. It’s darker blue with a police badge patched on the shoulder. “What the hell are they putting kids in these days?”

As much as you don’t like it, you’re sure Sammy would. “Hey,” he looks over and you toss it at him. His brow furrows as he looks down at it. “For the other one,” you tease, meaning Tammi’s soon-to-be son. 

His face softens as he gives you a disbelieving smile. “You’re thinking about him?”

You jerk back a little, reaching for the cart as you shrug. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s gonna be at our house, isn’t he? He should have some clothes, that’s all,” you dismiss, suddenly eager for the conversation to be done. 

Sammy grabs a few more sets of clothes, ones for each new stage of growth. You notice him putting in some for the girl, some for the boy, a few that would work well for both and find yourself smiling for some strange reason. Maybe it’s just because of how happy he looks going through all of the different supplies. 

“Did, uh,” you clear your throat and offer a stiff smile. “Did Tammi let you shop with her for anything?”

Sammy’s hands freeze on a book he’d picked up. He shrugs. “She let me pick out the paint for the nursery, but, she took her boyfriend to get the crib and stuff.” Your lips purse, a sting in your eyes as you take in his pathetically sad face. 

Dammit, you glare down at your stomach, this kid’s turning you soft. 

“Well, congrats, now you get to pick out two.” He huffs out a little laugh as your tilt your head toward some odd looking machine on a shelf. Vaguely, you think you know what it is, but it seems like something better for milking a cow than anything human. 

“What the hell is this?” You mutter, picking the box up. 

“That,” you jump, heart racing as a worker pops up beside you. “Is the best breast pump on the market.”

You narrow your eyes at her as she smiles eagerly at you. “It looks like it’s a torture device,” you say, pointing to the clamps that are, apparently, supposed to go on your nipple. Clamps.

“That’s not the best,” Sammy suddenly interjects, moving to stand next to you. He takes the box from your hands and places it back on the shelf. You let out an astonished laugh when the woman picks it back up with a forced smile. 

“Actually, sir, it is. It’s one of our most purchased products.”

“Doesn’t make it good,” he snips.  

“All due respect, but this is quite literally my job. I think I would know.”

You hold up a hand before he can continue arguing with her. “Job or not, I don’t want my boobs clamped. It’s gonna be pain enough if my kid figures out how to bite.” You turn with a sigh, heading toward the foldable play pens. 

You start talking, asking for his opinions. It takes a second to realize he hadn’t followed you. With a groan, you walk back toward him and find him still arguing with the over eager sales lady. 

Pushing the cart back to him, you catch the tail end of their argument. “Look, lady, I’m having two kids. I’ve put some research into this. I don’t care what your job is.”

The woman huffs and puts the box back on the shelf. “Congragulations on the twins, ma’am,” she tells you curtly. 

You raise your brows and shake your head. “Oh, I’m only having one. His other baby mama’s having the second one.” The poor lady’s face goes pale and Sammy glares at you. You snicker as she rushes to get away from you both. 

“What?” You sigh at the look on his face. 

“You’re enjoying this too much.” He frowns, nudging your side as you walk toward the cribs. 

“Yeah, well, cut me some slack. I’m bullying for two, now.” The grin on Sammy’s face forces one onto yours and you look away from him before he can spot it. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this with him. But you are. 

You’re enjoying it far too much. 

Your foot taps impatiently against the linoleum as you wait for Sammy to walk in. He beelines straight to Sal and you hope he can feel your glare boring into the back of his head. 

“I’m on rotation today. Why did Johnson and Walters get my case?”

“Oh,” you snap before Sal can answer. They both turn to you and you hold up your hand as you lift yourself from your chair. It takes longer than you’d like, but pregnancy is really starting to catch up to you. 

With a low breath you stomp toward him. “Because you got me benched and you’re my partner, now, you ass.”

Sammy’s eyes narrow on you before they drop to your stomach. Specifically the profesional looking maternity shirt you bought this past weekend. It seems to be odd for both of you, having your stomach on display like this at work. You’d gotten some confused looks from everyone considering none of them had a clue you were pregnant. 

You feel way too exposed and you hate it. 

“What is she talking about?” Sammy finally tears his eyes from yours and looks at Sal. 

Sal just holds up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Sammy. You told me about her… condition and it’s not like I can just have you both investigating some gangbangers shooting each other up. It’s too high risk.”

“Condition?” You scoff. “I’m pregnant, Sal, just say it. And don’t talk like I’m not standing right here,” you snap with complete disregard to the fact the he’s your boss.

Sal’s expression goes flat as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. You shove Sammy’s shoulder and he grimaces. “I told you that if you snitched I would shoot you, Sammy. Don’t think I won’t. You just earned us both two months of desk work. Do you think I’m incapable of doing my job now?”

Sammy crosses his arms and glowers. “You can’t even run anymore,” he hisses your name. 

You hate when he’s right. “Why the hell would I let you out into the field carrying-”

Your eyes widen minutely and you shake your head. Sammy bites his lip, glancing down at Sal who’s pretending he’s not listening to every word. Both of you agreed that it was better not to let people know Sammy’s the dad. It would be an HR nightmare and you know how these guys talk about women. You can’t have them all looking at you like you're something to be passed around the station like some badge bunny. 

“I won’t let my partner out in the field when she’s seven months pregnant,” he corrects. 

“Ugh,” you throw your hands up and storm back to your desk, lowering yourself slowly into your chair. “I hate when you’re right,” you sneer. Sammy rolls his eyes at you and tosses himself in his chair with an irritated groan. 

It only takes three hours for Sal to finally break. He’d been forced to listen to you and Sammy bitch at each other since you arrived and he couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright,” he snaps, interrupting you both bickering about what to get for lunch. 

Your brows dip as you turn toward him. He runs his hands down his face and shakes his head. “I cannot listen to you two for one more minute. We just got a call about a body, you guys can go check it out.”

Sammy goes to interject, but you toss your pen at him before he screws you both over. He jerks back, shooting you an offended look. “Thank you, so much,” you rush out, already getting to your feet. 

Sammy glares over at Sal who just holds up his hands. “It’s low-risk. I just need you both out of here for a few hours.” Sammy lets out a huffy sigh and follows you out of the station. 

You stretch your arms out, grimacing as your back throbs. Sammy rushes down the stairs to catch up with you. Doesn’t take him long considering you’re going a snail’s pace. “Happy with yourself?” He asks. 

You grin over your shoulder at him. “Incredibly.” Your smile slips slightly when you catch the harsh look on his face. It’s not necessarily directed at you, but he’s staring down at your stomach and you know how worried he is. 

“Hey,” you nudge his side as he walks you to the car. “Why don’t we just get some lunch, drive around for a bit. We can let Lydia deal with the body. I just want to get away from my desk.”

He frowns, head tilting because he really doesn’t believe you. “Really? You’re just going to give in?”

You roll your eyes with a fond smile. “I know how dangerous our job is, Sammy. I’m not so selfish as to risk something happening to the baby. Besides, my feet are throbbing right now and I immediately regretted the idea of having to walk through a scene.”

Sammy lets out a laugh and shakes his head, helping you into the car. “You’re a ridiculous person,” he admonishes. 

You just shrug. “Then you should pray our daughter doesn’t take after me.”

“You kidding me? I want her to be just like you.” He closes the door and you stare down at your lap, biting back tears as if he hadn’t just said something so sweet your chest hurts. 

Damn hormones, you curse, absolutely lying to yourself because, deep down, you know it’s just him that makes you feel like this. 

“I’m home!” Sammy calls out, door shutting behind him. His brows turn down as he glances around the living room. At this point, he usually just finds you laying on the couch, complaining about swollen feet. 

“In here,” you call back and he follows your voice to the nursery. His lips part in astonishment as he finds you surrounded by an assembled crib and changing table. You, however, are laying flat on the ground, face absolutely defeated as you wave weakly at him. 

“What is going on?” He asks, already settling beside you, helping you sit up. “I told you not to worry about any of this.”

You shrug, fiddling with the paintbrush in your hands. His heart stutters for a moment, terrified that you actually tried painting without him. But the walls are still bare and the can is unopened on top of a tarp. At the very least, you knew when to stop. 

“I just needed to stop thinking. I like building this kind of stuff, anyway, calms me down.” Tears begin to line your eyes and his hands hover over you as he panics. You’ve always been slightly volatile but he is completely unsure how to act around you now. Never sure what’s going to set you off or have you smiling at him. 

“But I couldn’t paint,” you swallow thickly and wipe at your cheeks. “Paint fumes are bad for the baby.”

He hums, nodding as he slowly takes the paintbrush from your hands. It feels disconcertingly like disarming a suspect. “Yeah, sweetheart. But you know I’m going to do it for you. Why are you so upset?” 

Your face crumples and he winces as your head falls into your hands. Your shoulders begin to shake as you cry into your palms and he just sits there, hands hovering but not touching. Sometimes you want a hug, a lot of the times you’re snapping at him to back off. 

Deciding to risk it, he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You slump into him immediately and something inside him warms. “You need to paint the nursery for Tammi’s baby. This is my baby, my daughter.”

Sammy stiffens, forehead falling against yours as he sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that this whole mess is his fault and he hates how much it’s bugging you. But, god damn, you make it hard not to lose it sometimes. 

“I’m her father,” he reassures, pulling back and cupping your cheeks. “Which means I take care of her and you,” he wipes your tears away and your eyes flutter shut. 

“But you don’t want us, Sammy. All we are is a mistake. An obligation,” you sob, sinking further into him. 

“Hey!” You jerk back, eyes reddened and wide. It’s the first time he’s really snapped at you in a while but he just can’t take it anymore. “Don’t put shit in my mouth that I haven’t said.”

Your eyes narrow and you pull back from him, swatting his hands away. His jaw clenches, cheeks flushing as he actively bites back his temper. “But you said it,” you’re snapping now, pissed off and struggling as you try to get to your feet. He almost helps you but he thinks it might better if you’re grounded so this doesn’t turn into a real fight. 

Giving up, you drop back to the ground. “When you slept with me,” you whisper. “You said that it was-” You clear your throat and wipe tiredly at your cheeks. “It wasn’t anything.”

Sammy rubs his eyes. He’s had a long shift and a worse day. He just wanted to come home, find you on the couch waiting for him, and have a quiet night with you. But you always have to be such a pain in his ass. So goddamn stubborn it hurts. 

“I made a mistake, alright?” You glare as he raises his voice and he settles down with a long exhale. “I meant everything I said to you that night. I wanted you- I want you. I’ve been so damn happy since you told me you were pregnant. But you just won’t let me be happy with you.”

Your lips tremble and he worries he’s just kickstarted another round of waterworks. You don’t use your tears against him like Tammi used to. No, you cry the whole time you’re shouting at him and then continue to as he tries to talk you down. You never use it to get him to leave you alone and he loves you for it, but right now he just needs you calm for once. 

Before you can lay into him or sob, your face is screwing up in pain. “Oh,” you flinch, hand going to your stomach. 

“What is it?” He rushes out. You’re only seven months along. Water doesn’t break that early. Right?

You laugh a little and finally smile at him. “Relax,” you mutter, reaching out and taking his palm in yours. He frowns as you settle it under the curve of your stomach. A second later he feels it, sees it even through your tight shirt. The baby kicking against his palm. 

“Damn,” you hiss. “Kidney shot.”

Sammy laughs and moves both hands to feel. It’s something Tammi won’t allow him. Sure, he’s the father, but as far as she concerned that doesn’t matter until the baby’s out. Getting to experience this with you of all people was more than he could have ever asked for. 

He glances up at the soft look on your face, the sweet way you run your hand along your stomach. A far cry from the woman who cussed the baby out everytime you felt her boxing with your bladder. 

Sammy slips his hand into yours, smiling when he sees the surprise on your face. “Even if you’re not in love with me,” it physically pains him to say that. “We’re still friends. We’ve always taken care of each other. That is not going to stop now.”

Your eyes water again and he shakes his head, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. That only makes you sniffle and he forces himself to stand before he really makes you cry again. 

And you, you just sit there, watching as he rolls up his sleeves and opens the paint can. He’s painting the nursery, tonight, because you wanted to so bad. Despite the fact that you know he had a bad day. 

What he said finally settles in you and your throat tightens. He only said that you weren’t in love with him. Sammy didn’t say anything about himself. 

You’re sitting on the couch one night, feet elevated because your ankles are killing you today, when Sammy comes out of the nursery. He’s got something that looks like a walkman in his hands and he’s beelining straight for you. 

You would sit up if it didn’t take so much effort. “What’s that?” You ask, reaching out for it. Sammy dodges your hands and you scowl. He lets out a little laugh, gently sitting you up so he can take the seat beside you. 

“Tammi gave me this book, forced me to read it so I would know how to properly coparent.” You hum, head tilting as you watch him press a button on something that is most definitely a walkman. But the headphones stretch far more than any you’ve ever seen. 

“It said that classical music is supposed to be good for the baby’s development.” 

“Seriously?” You mutter, watching him put the headphones over your stomach. You snort at how ridiclous it looks. “So I probably shouldn’t have been listening to freak on a leash on the way to work.”

He nudges your side and you smile. “Be serious,” he mutters, ignoring the grin on his own face. 

“I am,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you for a second. His hand lingers on your stomach, face soft when the baby kicks. You grumble, shifting uncomfortably as she settles her giant head comfortably against your liver. 

Sammy wraps his arm around your shoulder, helping you rest your head on his lap so you can try and get comfortable again. His hand smooths gently over your hair and you smile, mind drifting back to the ridiculous reality show you’d been watching. 

Vaguely, you can hear a little bit of the classical music seeping out from the headphones. Ridiculous, you think, trying not to laugh. Who would’ve thought he’d be the one freaking out over the parenting books?

You lay your palm on his thigh and he takes it in his immediately, sinking further into the cushions behind him. It’s quiet for a while. Peaceful in a way you haven’t experienced in years. It’s nice, especially after such a horrid shift. 

You’d done paperwork for nine hours, sitting on the same flattened chair, getting up to pee every other minute. You’ve been wondering if you could somehow go on maternity leave early, but the thought of just sitting around the house bugs you. Work seems to be the only thing you know how to fill your time with. 

“I’m going back on patrol.” Sammy’s voice cuts through the peace and immediately sends your heart into overdrive. You try and sit up, but his arm is heavy around your waist. He isn’t holding you because he wants to, he’s subduing you so you can’t tear him a new one. 

“What the fuck, Sammy?” You hiss, tilting your head so you can get a decent look on his face. He offers you a sorry smile that makes you want to dig your elbow into his groin. 

“I just,” he cuts himself off, eyes darting back to the TV even though he’s not watching it. “There was a boot that got shot today. He was barely six months in and he got shot by the same asshole that was there when they killed Nate.”

Your eyes flutter close as you rub at your brow. “Sammy,” you mutter, heart aching for him. 

“I just feel like I might be able to make a difference. I need to do something that feels like I’m making this a better place for my kids.”

You shake your head, biting your tongue so you don’t start a fight that you know will just end with you pissed and him unchanged in his decision. “You’re unbelievable, Bryant.”

He smiles down at you. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“I’ll decide when I’m not furious,” you bite out. You turn your face away from him, forcing yourself to look at the TV as you bite back tears. You don’t care about the pay cut he’s going to get. Or that his hours will probably be completely irregular now. You just hate the idea of him being back on the street, out in the open driving around in a black and white target. 

He lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles as you swallow past the lump in your throat. You can’t lose him like you both lost Nate. 

“What is that?” You call from the doorway of the house. Sammy’s pulled into the driveway with a truck you’ve never seen and a mangled mess of metal poles in the back. Stepping down the stairs, you rub at the ache in your lower back and tilt your head as you try and figure out what it is. 

“The people that bought Nate’s house didn’t want the slide. They told me I could take it.”

You raise your brows as you watch him struggle to drag it from the bed of the truck. “Yeah, uh huh, did they tell you how to put it back together?” Sammy pauses and offers you a weak smile. 

“It can’t be that hard,” he shrugs. 

You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk back into the house. You can still hear him grunting in the driveway, struggling to even unload the thing. Picking up your phone, you call Ben. 

You haven’t met him yet, but you’d demanded Sammy give you his partner’s number in case of an emergency. This wasn’t necessarily an emergency, but it is finally an excuse to meet him. Maybe interrogate him a bit to make sure Sammy’s in good hands. 

“Sherman,” he says in lieu of hello. 

“Hi this is Sammy’s…” you trail off. You’re certainly not introducing yourself as his damn baby mama. “Roommate,” you settle on slowly, even if that doesn’t feel right either. 

He lets out a small laugh and says your name. “Yeah, Sammy’s told me about his roommate. Is something wrong?”

“Uh,” you walk to the front door and watch as Sammy drags the poles to the backyard with bright red cheeks. “Not really. It’s just, Sammy’s trying to build this thing for the baby. It’s not really a one-man job. Would you mind coming over for a minute?”

He’s quiet for a while and you figure he’s probably going to just hang up. But then he’s letting out a long and weary sigh. “I need to drive to castaic?” 

“Oh,” you snort. “Hell no, you think I’m letting him move me over there?” You give him your new address and Ben lets out a relieved laugh. 

“Yeah, give me half an hour.”

You hang up just as Sammy walks in. His eyes narrow on your phone and you offer him a wide smile. “Who was that?”

“Who was what?” You ask innocently, tucking your phone into your pocket. 

“I don’t need any help,” he insists. You just nod and pat his back as he goes to drag more pieces out of the truck. And, then, almost half an hour on the dot, Ben is pulling up. Sammy rolls his eyes as he sees him. 

He glares over at where you’re sitting on the porch steps and you grin. “You haven’t even gotten it all out of the car, Sammy. You need help.”

Ben jogs up the driveway and waves at you. “Nice to meet you,” he offers. 

“I would stand up but once I’m down it takes a while to get back up.” 

He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Sammy who’s still looking pissy at you. “Can’t even build a slide, huh?”

Sammy rolls his eyes and motions Ben forward. “Just hurry up and don’t scratch the truck. This thing’s a loan.” You leave them to it while you slowly get to your feet. It’s coming up on the halfway mark for month eight. While you did relatively well through the first and second trimester you have started to seriously slow down. 

Your ribs are getting kicked at, organs squished as a concerningly large baby takes up space in your body. Every morning is a different ache and you have found that your usually small threshold for idiocy has become nonexistent. You’re snapping at anyone and anything. 

Sammy had walked in on you cussing the crib out one day because you’d stubbed your toe. And then you were snapping at him for laughing. 

You hobble back into the house as you roll your shoulders, trying to get rid of the everpresent strain in your neck. In the kitchen, you make them some lemonade and a small snack. A reward for a job well done if they actually manage to figure it out. 

But, an hour later, you head out to the back porch and find that the slide is still not built and now they’re bickering with each other on what part goes where. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk down the steps. 

The grass is cold against your bare feet and you frown. You swear to god you’d put on shoes. Then again, you seem to be forgetting everything nowadays. “Hey,” you call out, laughing at their flushed cheeks. 

“Go lay down, sweetheart,” Sammy tells you, clearly at the end of his rope. You ignore him and he lets out a long suffering groan. Tilting your head you kick at one of the poles. 

“That goes with the red piece,” you tell them. 

“No it doesn’t,” Ben tells you. 

“Sammy I can’t bend down which means that you’re both spared from me shoving that thing up your asses. But be a dear and slot it into the red piece, please.” Sammy shoots Ben a look like you aren’t actively staring at his face. The ‘bitches-be-crazy’ ‘tude really makes you wish you could bend over. 

Giving you a patronizing smirk, Sammy picks up the pole and the little red triangle. “I told you, honey-” He’s cut off as it slides into place with a distinct click. Both Ben and Sammy stare at you with wide eyes. 

“I like building things,” you tell them. “And I’m good at it. I don’t know why men can’t just shut up and listen sometimes.” You kick at another pole and motion for Ben to pick it up. 

In an hour, you’ve got the damn thing built and you’re sitting on the couch, eating the food you made for them, congratulating yourself on a job well done. 

Ben sits in the armchair across from you, nursing the beer Sammy had passed him. “You know, I thought Sammy was being dramatic when he told me about you.” Your eyes narrow and Sammy shakes his head subtly. But Ben keeps on going. “I get it now, man.”

“Get what?” You snap, glaring at them both. 

Ben just snickers, taking another swig from his beer. “Nothing, sweetheart, ignore him.” Sammy waves him off and you sink back into the couch with a cold glare. 

“You two are so lucky I can’t get up.”

“I know,” Ben snorts and then he’s dodging the slipper you kicked off at him. 

You know that Sammy’s out on patrol right now. He probably won’t answer his phone, at least not for another hour. But you’re currently sitting on the stairs with a puddle steadily growing around you. And you really don’t want to have to get an uber to the hospital. 

Taking the risk, you call him. “What?” He snaps and your eyes go wide as you scoff. 

“I know you did not just take that tone with me,” you hiss, grimacing as a sharp pain stabs through your stomach. It’s like period cramps on fucking steroids. 

Sammy says your name in a questioning tone and you let out a strained hum. “What’s going on?” 

“Everything alright?” You hear Ben in the background and let out a shaky sigh. There’s no way he’s going to be able to come get you. 

“Um, my water broke.” You glance down at the wooden stairs and frown. “Everywhere.”

“Wait, what?” You can hear his tires screeching as he slams on his brakes and then Ben cussing him out. “I’m on my way.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You grab the railing and try to stand up but another cramp hits and you’re plopping back down. “I can probably get an Uber, you’re at work and-”

“Sweetheart, I need you to shut up, please.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” you concede, resting your head on the step behind you. “I’m scared, Sammy,” you whisper and hear him let out a rough sigh. “I don’t want to push her out. She’s huge! She’s got your big ass head,” you snap. 

Ben laughs in the background and you’re sure you hear the sound of Sammy hitting him. “It is not that big, honey.”

“I’m sorry, did we see the same ultrasound? I’m gonna be pushing out a watermelon, here, Sammy.”

He goes quiet and you frown, really needing him to distract you again. Then you hear doors slamming outside and suddenly the front door’s getting busted open like its SWAT on the other side. You flinch back, almost laughing when you see the panicked look on Sammy’s face. 

He makes his way toward you, but his foot slips through the puddle and he nearly busts his ass. “Yeah, I told you it went everywhere.” Slowly, with your hand gripping the rail, you scoot down one step at a time. Sammy takes your hands, helping you to your feet. 

“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He asks, eyes roving over you. 

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It feels like I’ve got a bowling ball pushing out of me, Sammy.” He scowls and turns you around to find Ben waiting outside the door. He offers you a smile that looks more like a grimace. 

“Help her get in the car,” Sammy instructs. Ben nods, taking your hand and easing you down the stairs. You don’t make it to the car before another cramp is digging its claws into your uterus. 

“Ooh, I’m looking forward to that epidural,” you mutter. “Finally gonna get to try the good drugs,” you grunt as you lower yourself into the car. 

“Not going natural?” Ben asks, foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Sammy to come back outside. 

“I’m a cop, Ben. This is my one chance to get as close to high as I can be.” He snorts and then Sammy’s walking out of the house, carrying the bag you’d packed forever ago for the hospital. He slides it onto the floor beside you and offers you a tentative smile that you can only return with a grimace. 

Ben drops you both off at the hospital, returning to the station to explain where Sammy’s disappeared to. It takes you a few hours longer than you’d prefer to get you dilated enough to push. 

They had you doing all sorts of things to get this party going. Bouncing on a medicine ball, one of the nurses even tried to get you to do some squats and lunges with her. But you’d given up almost instantly, back nearly going out as you crawled back onto the hospital bed. 

Finally, your daughter decided to make an appearance and then you were pushing. You don’t remember some of it. You just know that it wasn’t as horrifying as the movies make it seem. You didn’t scream like you were getting murdered or bleed everywhere. 

You might have soiled yourself, the nurses lied to you if you did, which you deeply appreciate. And then, your baby is in your arms. 

People always tell you about how instantly they fall in love with the little bundle of joy in their arms. And as elated as you are, as peaceful as it is to finally hold her, you still find yourself frowning. 

“She’s beautiful,” the nurse tells you, offering you a kind smile. 

“She’s wrinkly,” you correct, nose scrunching at her pruned face. Sammy snorts, trying to hold back his laughter as the nurse scowls. “She’s gonna get cuter, right?” You ask, eyes darting between her and your daughter that’s glaring like an angry old man. 

“Give it a few hours,” another nurse tells you. “And be happy she didn’t come out with a cone head.”

Your eyes widen, arms tightening around her. “That was a possibility?” Sammy runs his hand over his hair as the majority of the nurses leave. “Did you know that?” You ask him, staring down at your daughter and smiling as she gets a death grip on your finger. 

“Yeah, I knew. I just didn’t think you needed that in your head.” 

“Good call,” you lower your voice as her eyes slip shut and scoot marginally over in the bed. “Come here,” you tell him, patting the spot beside you. He takes a seat, smile so wide it makes your chest ache to look at. “Here, take our wrinkly baby,” you tease, grinning at the way he laughs. 

You sink further into the bed, expression soft and tired as you watch him smile down at your daughter. She looks so small in his arms it’s terrifying. How are you supposed to take care of this tiny little thing? 

Your eyes flutter shut and you rub your brow. With everything settling, what little energy you had has seeped out of you. Sammy glances up at you, taking your hand as you try to fight off sleep. 

One of the nurses walks over to you both, smile kind as she gestures to your baby. “If you’d like, we can take her to the nursery. Let the both of you get some rest.”

Immediately, you’re trying to lift yourself up. Sammy presses his hand gently to your shoulder. “We’ll be keeping her in here, thank you.” You slump back in relief and smile at him, squeezing his hand. 

“Alright, be honest. Did you watch?”

He lifts his brows and you nod toward your legs. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I watched.”

“And, were the guys all right? Have you been put off sex forever?” You tease, sitting up slightly to get a better look at your daughter. 

Sammy shakes his head. “They’re all idiots. I haven’t been put off sex forever.” For some reason, you feel a little bit of relief at that. Not that it matters considering you’ve only had sex with him once and he’s holding the product in his arms right now. You doubt he wants any more with you. 

“Just a few months,” he adds, smile teasing. 

“Jerk,” you roll your eyes and swat his arm. He chuckles and moves closer to you, lowering his arms so you can rub her chunky leg with your thumb. She did come out with a big head, like you’d told him she would. 

“We’ve gotta name her,” you mutter. 

Sammy grins and the malicious glint in his eyes have your alarms going off. “You know, me and Tammi said it would be Rachel if it was a girl-”

The remaining nurses all look up, eyes narrowing as they stare over at you two. He just smirks, far too proud of himself. “Fuck off,” you hiss. 

Sammy lets out a scandalized noise, covering the baby’s ears. “Language,” he admonishes. 

You laugh, mind still a little foggy. “If you sign Rachel on the birth certificate, the next time I’m in the station, it’ll be in cuffs.”

She starts to fuss and you hold out your arms. Sammy passes her to you carefully, reaching over to help you sit up as you undo the top of your gown. He glances away as you press her to your chest.

“I’ve always wanted to name my girl Alexandria.”

Sammy goes quiet, brows furrowing before he looks at you with a scowl. “Like that library?”

Heat flushes through you and you shrug. “I mean, kind of, yeah.”

“You know you’re a nerd, right?”

You roll your eyes and he smiles as you settle back on the bed. “Shut up.”

It’s barely even a month later that Sammy’s in the hospital again. You’re holding Alex when you get the text, a picture of a wrinkly baby who’s pissed off face looks just like Sammy’s. 

You put your phone down, glancing down at your sleeping daughter and feel panic settle slowly in your gut. You don’t know what this means for the both of you. Sammy’s known Tammi since high school, been with her longer than you’ve even known him. And they’d been trying for their baby for years. Now, he’s got it, how much will he still want you and Alex?

You stand slowly, placing Alex down in her crib as you slump back into the rocking chair. Your nails drum restlessly against the arm as you stare at her, now, adorable face. Once she de-pruned she was pretty freaking cute. You have about a thousand pictures of her on your phone but you know Sammy’s got even more. 

You rub tiredly at your eyes and let out a weary sigh. You should get up, take a shower, try and clean up a bit. But your body is dead weight and you can’t find the energy to care about anything except your baby. 

Sammy almost calls out to you once he gets home. But the last time he’d done that, he’d woken Alex up and you'd barely talked to him the rest of the night. Quietly, he drops his bag by the door and makes his way toward the nursery. 

You’re slumped in the rocking chair, mouth open as you snore. Sammy bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh and walks toward the crib. He peers over, smiling at Alex’s sleeping face. But then she lets out a low whine and his eyes are wide as he jumps back. He does not need to be the reason she wakes up early, again. He thinks you might actually kill him this time. 

Sammy kneels in front of you and gently nudges you. You shoot up, eyes wide as you scan the room. “Alex,” you mumble, one eye still closed as you check out the crib. 

It’s a practice in self control to not laugh. “She’s fine,” he tells you, taking your hands in his. You blink slowly as you take him in. He almost feels bad for waking you up, but he knows your neck will hurt if you stay here. 

You rub your cheeks and nod. He stands up, gently guiding you out of the chair. “I should clean,” you mutter and Sammy rolls his eyes, nudging you toward the stairs. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he promises. You nod, eyes shut as you blindly make your way into the bedroom. Alex is a great sleeper, usually goes right through the night without waking you both up too many times. 

But you are absolutely wired, as if someone’s going to break in and steal her at any given moment. He gets it, knows that instinct is typical for people in your line of work. At this point, though, the baby’s sleeping better than you. 

Sammy just needs you to get at least one full nights sleep so your brain is functioning again. Gentle but firm, he guides you onto the bed, ignoring your mumbled protests as he lifts your legs and drags the blanket over you. 

“Where’s Nate?” You mutter, eyes completely closed at this point. 

Sammy sits beside you, brushing some hair off your cheek as he smiles. “He’s with Tammi.”

You let out a low hum, pushing yourself closer to him. “Are you still going to want us, now?”

Sammy’s hand freezes as his gaze drops to you. His chest tightens with panic, but you’re already sleeping. Face content like you didn’t just drop a bomb on him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

You wake up to Sammy’s arm slung around your waist, keeping you pinned to his chest. Glaring at the sun, you sigh and try to wiggle closer to him. It’s become normal, waking up like this. You hated him sleeping on that air mattress downstairs and just getting stiffer every day. 

Just a little while before Alex was born, you’d told him to start sleeping in the master bedroom with you. 

Basically, you’re married without any of the benefits. 

You look up, tracing the slopes of his face with your eyes. You have to enjoy him like this while you can. Peaceful, content, quiet. 

Sammy turns over, burying his head deeper into the pillow as he wraps both arms around you. Something inside your chest squeezes until it’s hard to breathe. This is horrible, it hurts so bad and you hate it. 

You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him. 

There had always been something between you two. A tension you thought was sexual, a long-term friendship fueled from times at the academy and adrenaline-rush moments where you saved each other’s asses. But it had never felt quite like this. 

You weren’t constantly aching back then. This feels all wrong. 

You hate that you love the father of your daughter because you are so sure he doesn’t love you. At least, not in the way you need. 

Sammy groans, head slipping from the pillow and dropping to your shoulder. You force a light laugh, reaching up to run your hands through his hair. Slowly, he lifts his head, smiling at you in a way that makes you want to mush his face away because he cannot keep making you hurt like this. 

“How’d you sleep?” He mutters, voice still thick with exhaustion.  You smile a little, it only widens when he reaches up and brushes some hair out of your eye. 

“Like a rock,” you glance over his shoulder to see he moved Alex’s bassinet over to his side. Sighing, you slump back onto the bed. “I didn’t hear her wake up last night.”

Sammy just nods, hand idly moving up and down your side as he settles so he can get a better look at you. “Yeah, I took care of her. You needed a decent night’s sleep.”

Foolishly, you’d convinced yourself that once you had your baby, the hormones just went away. But, no, you’re still as sensitive as ever. Something as simple as him saying you needed sleep has your eyes welling up as you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak out.

His eyes grow comically large and you would laugh if you weren’t so afraid of the tears spilling. “What’s wrong?" He sits up, pulling you with him and you bury your face in his neck.

“God,” you groan, fisting his shirt in your hands as you shake your head. “I think I love you.”

Sammy’s body goes deathly still and its enough to finally push the tears over the edge. You try to pull back, but he just tightens his arms around you. “Why are you sorry?” He asks, allowing you to move back just enough to meet his eyes. 

There’s something about his expression that has your crying abating, just a little. “You love Alex and you care about me. But you don’t love me.”

Sammy rolls his eyes and you would take offense if you weren’t so busy being sad. He cups your face, smushing your cheeks together slightly as he glowers. “Stop assuming, it makes an ass out of both of us.”

“What-”

He pulls you closer and you stiffen as he presses his lips to yours. It’s nothing like it was the first time. He’s not pushing you against a wall, kissing you like the only thing he’s thinking about is ripping your clothes off. No, this is sweet, gentle. The kind of kiss that people who’ve been married for years and never fell out of love share. 

You sink into him, your tears sliding between your lips and tainting the kiss with salt. He doesn’t seem to care, arms dropping to your waist as he tugs you onto his lap. Sammy pulls back and you have to stop yourself from whining, missing the feel of him immediately. 

“I do love you,” he promises, pressing his forehead to yours. “I loved you a long time before Alex was in the picture.” You start to shake your head and he lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to believe me now, but it’s true.”

You can’t find the words to smooth over this. To just pretend you never said anything at all. You want so desperately to believe him, but he’s lied to get what he wants from you before. Still, as you let yourself sink completely into him, you allow yourself that little bit of hope. 

“All right,” you let out a groan as you lift Nate into your arms. You don’t know what the hell Tammi is feeding him at her house, but god damn the kid’s heavy. “Come on, little man,” the name isn’t fitting at all but you can’t help yourself. 

You head into Alex’s nursery and glance between the two. “I got this,” you mutter, balancing precariously as you reach into the crib. You slip your arm under her back and slot her on your hip. 

Alex’s head falls to your shoulder and Nate mimics her, smiling as he reaches for her hand. You jerk your head back, not willing to let your hair get caught in another tug-of-war match. 

Their hands tangle together as you walk outside. And suddenly you’ve got two babies laughing on either side of you and it’s enough to make you want to cry. How the hell can one noise be so precious?

You let out a sharp breath. Freaking kids, they just make you soft. 

“All set?” You call out to Sammy. He’s still bent over in the backseat, grunting as he secures the extra carseat. 

Nate reaches up and pats your cheek. You turn your face to smile at him and then you’re getting punched in the nose with all the insane baby strength he’s got. 

“Oh, christ,” you mutter, jerking your face back. You really should have seen that coming. Both of them seem to be realizing that they have hands, which means all they want to do is wave them around and see how much damage they can do. It would have been great if they figured that out one at a time, but nope, they’re beating the crap out of you as a team. 

At least they get along. 

“Sammy,” you groan. Alex’s got a hold of your hair and she’s tugging with all she’s got. You’d correct her if your arms weren’t stuffed full of babies. “Can you hurry up, please? I’m gonna look like a DV case before we make it to the barbecue.”

He finally pulls out of the car, a proud smile on his face. You raise your brows and he gestures toward the backseat. “Come on, check it out,” he urges. 

With a fond smile, you walk over and then immediately feel your heart drop to your ass. “Jesus, Sammy, tell me you have not been driving around with them like that?”

He shrugs and glances at the carseats. “What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the-” You cut yourself off, lowering your voice before you scare the kids. “The big deal,” you hiss, kicking at his shin. He jumps back with a grimace. “Is that you have the seats facing forward!”

“So?”

Your mouth drops and you let out a strangled noise. “So! If you slam on your breaks, who goes flying through the windshield? I swear to god, I’m going to call Ben. He did that carseat seminar at the center, maybe he can tell you how to do it.”

Sammy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Don’t call, Ben.”

“I am not putting my babies into the car like that!” You only realize your slip up because of how his entire expression shifts. Your tongue knots in your throat and you clench your eyes shut. 

“Crap, I meant-”

“Did you just say Nate is yours?” He asks, taking a step forward. You click your tongue, hating that you can’t read the look on his face. It’s soft, certainly, but you can’t tell if that’s because he’s about to kindly tell you never do that again. 

“I didn’t, I mean, okay, I did.” You let out a loud huff. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

He shakes his head, hands wrapping around your waist while he tugs you into him. You’re both careful of the babies, his arms securing all three of you. “Don’t apologize,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. 

You don’t have words, throat suddenly choked as your eyes burn. Instead you nod, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. And you hate to ruin the sweet moment, but you meant what you said. 

“If you don’t fix those seats,” you whisper, “I’m going to neuter you in your sleep tonight.” Sammy barks out a laugh, startling Alex. She flinches back, face screwing up as she decides whether or not she wants to make this a thing. 

Sammy’s slipping her out of your arms before she can decide, bouncing her lightly to get a smile back on her face. A grin splits your lips and you are helpless, incapable of stopping it. Glancing down at Nate, you find him watching his sister enviously. 

With a happy chuckle, you take him in your arms, bouncing him a little and just smiling wider when he lets out a delighted laugh. You miss the way Sammy watches you. The look in his eyes that would tell you everything you want to know. 

“So, how’s it going with baby mama number two?” Ben’s got a smug smirk on his face that Sammy wouldn’t mind punching off. 

“Shut the hell up,” he tells him, shaking his head. They’re both leaning against the patrol car, watching detectives circle the dead body they’d found. “Good,” Sammy admits after a minute.

Ben turns to him with a raised brow. “Yeah?” Sammy nods, resiting the urge to smile just because he’s talking about you. Fuck, Ben’s right, he’s whipped. “How’s Tammi handling you having another woman watch her baby?”

Sammy crosses his arms and shrugs. “We talked about it, she doesn’t mind considering she’s got that european bastard with her. Besides, she’s met Alex a few times, everyone gets along.”

Ben hums and glances back at the scene. “One big, dysfunctional family.”

Sammy chuckles and nudges Ben away with his elbow. “Hey, whatever man, it’s working.”

Ben clicks his tongue, glancing down at his shoes and Sammy narrows his eyes. He’s building up to something, he can feel it. “Have you thought about asking her, yet?”

Sammy pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He knows exactly what Ben’s talking about. The little box that’s been sitting in Sammy’s bag for a few months now. Before Alex was even born. 

“Yeah, man, it’s all I think about. But she’s just going to think I’m asking her because it’s convenient or something.” Ben frowns and Sammy shrugs. “She refuses to believe that I actually have feelings for her.”

“Women,” Ben mutters and Sammy can’t help but agree with the exhaustion in his voice. If only you guys didn’t have to make things so complicated. He loves you. You love him. You’ve got a kid together. He doesn’t understand what key component you’re missing but it’s starting to make him crazy. 

“How about you?” Sammy asks. “You find a badge bunny you wanna settle down with, yet?”

Ben laughs and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’ll live the domestic life vicariously through you.” Sammy scoffs, grinning at the fear in Ben’s eyes at the thought of finally going monogamous. 

“Protect and serve, indeed.” Sammy’s brows turn in as he whips around. You’re stepping out of your car, shamelessly ogling the pair of them. “How you doin’ boys?” 

Ben lets out a little laugh, grinning at you while he watches Sammy slowly process the situation. You walk up to them, hand brushing against Sammy’s arm in greeting. 

“What’re you doing here?” Ben groans under his breath, backing off as Sammy completely bypasses a hello. He’s tried to help him for months, but he seems stubbornly resistant to learning how to speak to women. 

You frown, slightly taken aback. “I’ve got an informant that could help these guys out. Sal told me to come down, check it out, see if anything looks familiar.” Slowly, you cross your arms, sucking your teeth while you glare at Sammy. “Problem?”

Ben’s eyes drop to his shoes as he says a silent prayer that Sammy not be an ass. “Where the hell is Alex? And Nate? You were supposed to be watching both of them,” he snaps. Ben lets out a low groan, you’re going to kill his partner and he’ll be stuck with some ass like Dewey. 

You let out a sharp scoff, stepping back from them. “Tammi took them both for the day. And it’s nice to see you, too by the way.” Ben knows he should walk away, but it’s just too damn entertaining. 

“Tammi?” Sammy demands, like that’s not the woman he was married to since high school. 

“Yes,” you drawl, lifting your sunglasses and looking at him like you’re trying to see if he sustained brain damage on shift. “I take care of Nate all the time. And she said she doesn’t mind doing the same for Alex. Besides, we found a daycare we both like so the kids can go there soon.”

“A daycare?” 

Ben rubs his brows, slipping on his sunglasses so you guys can’t see him watching Sammy dig himself a deeper hole. 

“Just for the off-chance that everyone’s working and no one can watch the kids.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be leaving them alone?”

Your jaw drops, eyes flitting to Ben. He pointedly looks away, whistling as he stares up at the bottom of the overpass you’re all parked by. You huff and he knows that’ll bite him in the ass sometime soon. 

“What’re you trying to say, Sammy? Because I had the department stop paying me just so I could go on maternity leave longer. I mean, do you know how many strings Sal pulled so they wouldn’t just fire me? You know how badly I’ve wanted to start working again.”

Sammy shrugs, tone far too abrasive. “I don’t know, I feel like you’ve already got a full-time job.” Ben’s head whips up, wearing the same astonished expression as you. Sammy purses his lips, catching his mistake and being too stubborn to backtrack. 

“Oh,” you draw the word out, voice dropping an octave. Apparently, you’ve already got the mom voice figured out. “Uh uh, you do not try and pull that domineering, women belong at home bullshit with me. I hear you saying something like that, again, and you can just go ahead and take your shit to Ben’s house.”

“Hey-”

Sammy speaks over Ben’s objections. “I didn’t mean-”

You hold up your hand, turning around and walking toward the detectives. Ben finally lets out the laughter he’s been holding in. “Jesus,” he shakes his head. “You’re hopeless, man.” 

Sammy groans, raking his hands through his hair as he swats Ben’s arm. “What the hell am I supposed to do? She just freaked me out, I thought she was starting work tomorrow.” 

Ben shrugs, leaning against the patrol car. “Next time, start with hello before you berate her parenting.”

“Shut up, man, you know that’s not how I meant it.”

“Yeah, I know. She doesn’t,” Ben points out. Christ, did Sammy hit his head? He’s being an even bigger idiot than usual. Sammy lets out a sharp breath before he’s pushing off the patrol car and heading toward you. 

You spot him coming and turn in the other direction. Ben laughs as Sammy jogs to catch up to you, snagging your arm and turning you around. He reaches for his coffee and takes a long sip. You two don’t seem to realize just how entertaining you are to the people at the station. 

By now, everyone knows that Sammy is Alex’s dad. They know that Tammi is Nate’s mom. Ben had expected the majority of them to point the blame at you. But Sammy seems completely unaware of how much slut-shaming is going around the station about him. 

He’s turned into the office joke and Ben, horrible as it is, laps it up. Sammy was an ass when they first partnered up. Calling him too soft and claiming going by the book made him look bad to the older guys. He’s grateful you’re in his life to give Sammy the hell that he can’t. 

“Oh, no, come on.” Ben clicks his tongue in disappointment as you smile at Sammy, letting him squeeze your hips and press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He was hoping you would hold out longer, make Sammy squirm the rest of his shift. Sammy deserves to get shoved in the doghouse a little longer. 

But, he’s walking back up to Ben with a smug grin and he knows it’s not happening. Ben raises his brows expectantly as Sammy stands beside him once more. “Back in the bed,” he holds his hand out. 

Ben shakes his head with a scoff and gives him a high-five and pats him on the shouler. “Just listen to me, man. You’re never going to get anywhere with her if you’re…”

“Myself?” Sammy asks. 

Ben nods, “Yeah, exactly.” He ducks away from the punch Sammy throws at him. 

“Let’s go to bed, yeah,” you whisper to Alex, rocking her softly as you head toward the nursery. You pause when you hear the low murmur of Sammy’s voice. Turning to the left instead of the right, you find him sitting in the rocking chair, reading softly to Nate. 

You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you watch him. Nate’s head is smushed against his shoulder, chubby cheeks looking even cuter than usual. You’re going to turn around when Alex lets out a soft little noise. 

Sammy’s head perks up and he smiles as he spots you. “Watching me now?” He whispers, careful of the two sleeping babies. You huff out a laugh and walk toward him. You stop in front of the rocking chair, hand idly rubbing up and down Alex’s back. 

“Can you blame me? You two are adorable.” 

Sammy rolls his eyes and uses his free arm to wrap around your hips. “I am not adorable.” You hum, giving in as he tugs you down onto his lap. He shifts Nate higher up his body and you chuckle as the little boy’s face screws up in irritaiton. 

“What’re you reading?” You ask, titling your head to get a better look at the book. He holds it up, revealing an old comic with a sheepish smile. “Of course,” you laugh. 

“Let me see,” you reach out and find yourself beaming. “Hey, this was my favorite in middle school.”

Nate chuckles, hand slipping up your waist. “I know, that’s why I got it.” Glancing back at him, you find it growing more difficult to breathe. God, that gleam in his eye, the unabashed affection, you almost believe he really does love you. 

“You know,” you readjust Nate’s onesie and grin. “This is going to be a lot harder when they get bigger. Can’t just have us in your arms all the time,” you chide softly. 

Sammy rolls his eyes, pulling you closer so he can get a better look at Alex’s smushed face. “Why do you think I work out, huh?” You shake your head as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

His head tilts, resting against yours as you close your eyes. “I meant what I told you,” he says. Your heart stutters as you nod your head. “Really,” he insists. 

Your eyes drift down to your daughter and you’re still surprised by how much of him you see in her. “I know,” you whisper. “I, uh,” you let out a little laugh as you pull back from him. “I was cleaning the kitchen, your bag got in my way…”

You don’t have to finish the sentence for Sammy to go stiff and his eyes get big and terrified. “I found it,” you tell him and he already knows you’re talking about that little box he’s kept hidden from you for months. 

His eyes fall shut as he slumps against the rocking chair. Nate fusses and his hand comes up to pat his back, the move subconscious and so endearing. “Now, unless you have some secret third baby mama out there,” Sammy pinches your side and you try not to laugh too loud. “I think that’s meant for me.” 

Sammy lets out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, it’s meant for you.” He looks up at you expectantly but you just pull Alex away from your shoulder, resting her on your thighs. 

“I’ve been thinking lately, maybe we should move their cribs in here together. Turn the second room into a playroom or something.” Sammy’s brows turn in, struggling to understand your point. “I, uh, I’ve held on to things from the past for too long, you know. I don’t want the kids separated just because I thought you didn’t want me when I was pregnant.”

Sammy frowns, sitting up. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying… I want to be a family,” you raise your brows, glancing at him knowingly. But he still looks shellshocked, lips parted as he straes at you. “I’m saying yes numb nuts,” you lean down, kissing him softly. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

“Yeah, I know,” you grin at the little frustrated noise that escapes him. 

Everything to get you here was messy, not at all like you’d always hoped your relationship would turn out. But you could make this work. This odd, twisted and messy family dynamic. It can be perfect for all of you. 

What does the journey matter when you’ve got what you always wanted right here?

A sudden thought occurs as he grins smugly up at you. 

Did this man babytrap you? 

𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺'𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘯

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 So fine and so deceiving 💿

end. — I do not own the characters or the show Southland, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[otternil]

more leftist eddie. thank you.

[sapiensecrets]

blurred lines - dennis whitaker x f!reader x melissa 'mel' king

summary: an interesting detail about yours and dennis' relationship comes to light during a game of never have i ever, almost exactly a year after you finally asked mel king out on a date.

pairings: dennis whitaker x healthcare worker!reader x melissa 'mel' king, implied garsantos, jemma, and mavadi cw/tags: established relationship (reader and dennis have been dating for years, mel is their (mostly readers) third but lowkey it's more serious than that), mentions of having threesomes, drinking, swearing. SMUT MDNI!! afab!reader, oral (f!receiving), fingering, biting, nipple play, super super super light praise (barely), extreeeeemely brief unprotected piv. fluff, the PTMC staff being nosy as per usual. this was not explicitly written as dennis x hot shot but could be read as them if you want! reader has hair long enough to tied back in a nondescript way. word count: 6.5k masterlist

Mel had never spent a lot of time dating—between her schooling, and Becca, and their parents it was never a priority, and any relationships she had were over quite quickly anyway. 

She saw glimpses of you on her first day at PTMC—running from room to room, never spending too much time in one place, always answering another page or the call of your last name. She hadn’t even had the chance to introduce herself, but she was infatuated. 

You’re absolutely stunning, probably the prettiest person she’s ever laid eyes on. Not only that, but you’re also ridiculously smart, which she learned as she spent more time with you. It shows in the way you do your job, the jokes you make, and your indescribable ability to always say the right thing at the right time. 

Her crush was practically unbearable, and the fact that you seemed to constantly end up near her whenever you were in the department made it much worse. She even started to wonder if you were flirting with her, but then the entire hospital learned that you and Dennis had been dating for years. 

It reinforced what she had already assumed—you were not into her, you never had been, and you never would be. 

You proved her wrong during a cold, dreary shift in the middle of November.

“Dr. King,” You greet, sliding down onto the chair at the workstation beside hers, tapping your badge to the sensor. “You crushed that chest tube back there, perfect technique.”

Mel looks away from her computer, fingers going still over the keyboard, her heart pounding in her ears. 

“Oh, thank you,” She says. “You—you were great, too.”

“I didn’t even do anything, but that’s sweet,” You say, a mesmerizing smile crossing your features as you lean against the back of your chair, spinning to face her. “How do you keep your hair so neat during these shifts? Mine ends up looking like a rat’s nest by hour six.”

Mel blinks, pressing the ‘a’ key a few times to keep her hands busy. “I just put it in a braid.”

“Yeah, right, I see that,” You say, still smiling. “You don’t use any product or anything?”

She shakes her head. “No, most cosmetic products give me hives.”

She grimaces after the admission, realizing how unsexy the statement is. She’s trying to figure out a way to take it back when you laugh, making her look at you again, the sight otherworldly. 

“That sucks,” You say. “Some of them bother me too, I usually use unscented stuff.”

“Really?” Mel asks. You nod, glancing towards your computer for a second, pulling up the chart you need to finish before you can go home. You return your attention to her once it’s open. 

“Do you wear it in the braid outside of work?” You ask, wheeling a little closer to her, eyeing the blonde braid that cascades down her back. 

“Sometimes,” She says. “My hair being in my face usually, uhm, annoys me? But it’s not always in a braid. I can do a ponytail, too.”

She’s not sure if that’s supposed to impress you or what, but she regrets the words as soon as she’s said them. She closes her eyes, shaking her head as she brings both hands up to the back of her neck, feeling how hot her skin is. She expects you to make fun of her, like most people would, but you don’t. 

“I bet you can,” You say, no hint of sarcasm or teasing in your tone. “I’d love to see it.”

“What?” Mel asks, her eyes widening. 

“You in a ponytail,” You elaborate. “Probably looks really good.”

“It’s just a ponytail,” She counters, looking back at her keyboard, pressing a random button a few more times, adding a string of r’s to the line of a’s that’s already there, the whole thing reading ‘eFAST positive for left-sided pneumoaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr.’

You squint, the conversation going exactly how your others with Mel have gone—you flirting in a workplace-appropriate manner, and her completely missing the fact that you’re down fucking bad for her. 

“Hey, do you have plans after work?” You ask, not caring who around you hears the question. 

She backspaces, deleting the letters and finishing the word ‘pneumothorax.’ “No, not really. Do you?”

“There’s nothing in my fridge that I want for dinner,” You say. “I was gonna’ stop and grab food at this little place I like, would you wanna’ come?”

Mel hesitates, her brain freezing momentarily at the invite. “Get dinner…with you?”

“Yeah,” You say, casually. “Do you drive?”

“Uhm, yes?” She says. 

“You can meet me there, then, if you want,” You add. “It’s a really chill place, basically a diner.”

Mel finds herself nodding before she can fully process the plan, the idea of getting dinner with you both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying, even if it’s platonic. She can’t say no, that would be the dumbest thing she’s ever done.

“Okay, sure,” She says, perking up a bit, smiling at you. “I…would…like to do that.”

“Cool,” You say, smiling back. Her hands go numb. “It’s a date.”

You pass Dennis on your way to pack up your stuff, sticking your arm out and grabbing his bicep. He stops walking, lips curving into a smile, eyes soft at the sight of you. 

“Hey, heading home?” He asks. 

You shake your head. “No, I won’t be home until later—I’m getting dinner. With Dr. King.”

Dennis hums, his smile growing. “Finally.”

“What?” You ask, almost laughing. 

“You’ve been flirting with her for months,” He says. “You finally made a real move.”

You glare at him, folding your arms over your chest. “Hard to cross the Rubicon when she doesn’t even realize there’s a river.”

Dennis raises an eyebrow. “...what?”

You huff. “You know, the Rubicon River? Julius Caesar?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, she’s gonna’ love you.”

“You suck,” You say, reaching over and pushing his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Bring me leftovers,” He says, starting to walk backwards away from you, wanting to get ready to head home for the day. He mouths ‘love you’ before he turns around, disappearing into the department and leaving you alone in the hallway. 

The first time you bring Mel back to your apartment is a few weeks later, after your fourth date. Dennis is at work, since it’s only late afternoon, giving you at least a couple hours until he’s back. 

She watches you kick your shoes off at the door, tossing them aside without much thought and hanging your bag up on one of the hooks before heading towards the kitchen. She copies your actions, slightly more careful, taking a second to line her shoes up beside a pair of Dennis’ sneakers before following you. You’re standing in front of the fridge, scanning the shelves for something to drink, still trying to warm up from the crisp air outside. You pull a bottle out, setting it on the counter before looking at Mel. 

“You want something?” You ask, nodding your head towards the fridge. She shuffles over so she can see better, reaching for a bottle herself, catching your eyes as though she’s asking for permission. You nod, closing the fridge and leaning back against the counter. 

Mel looks around, taking in your apartment. “I like your place.”

“Thanks,” You say, already making your way towards the living room, collapsing onto the couch. She sits beside you, asking a few questions about your decor and plants, all of them making you smile.

You’re talking about a patient you had a few days prior when her eyes clamp shut, one hand taking her glasses off as the other touches her right eye, holding it open. 

“Something in your eye?” You ask. She nods, humming in affirmation. You shift towards her on the couch, leaning over. “Let me see.”

She drops her hand, turning to face you instead, letting you examine her eye. You have her look in various directions for a few seconds, but you don’t see anything, and the sensation dissipates. 

“I think it’s gone,” She says, blinking a few more times for good measure. You don’t move to sit back on the opposite side of the couch—if anything you move closer. 

“Can I kiss you?” You ask, hovering a few inch away from her lips, one hand supporting you as you bend, positioning yourself almost on top of her. She stumbles with her answer for a second, swallowing thickly before nodding.

“Uhm, yes, yeah, absolutely,” She says, stuttering over the words. You smile as you close the gap, bringing your free hand up to the back of her neck, your thumb tracing over her jaw. You don’t properly kiss her right away, your bottom lips simply touching for a second. Your grip tightens, and Mel feels her thighs clench beneath her jeans. She can smell the subtle scent of your chapstick—sweet and intoxicating. Her breath hitches, hands ghosting over your exposed hips, your shirt riding up. 

Your lips connect a moment later, both of you moving slowly, stretching out the moment. Mel’s heart slams against her ribcage, her hands starting to go numb from the sensation. She takes hold of your hips gently, fingers curling into your skin and pulling you closer. You don’t protest, instead slipping your hand into her hair, getting tangled in the blonde locks. 

The feeling of your lips on hers makes her woozy, goosebumps prickling up her arms despite the wave of heat that thrums against her skin. You drag your knee up, slotting it between her thighs, nudging them apart. You slow down, pulling back, eyes flicking over her face. 

“Is this okay?” You whisper, but she barely processes the question, desperate to feel more of you. She just nods, sliding her hands under your shirt and bringing you back in, reconnecting your lips with more fervour than the first time. You press your knee against her, eliciting a small gasp, one that only breaks the contact for half a second. 

You drop your hand from her hair to the bottom of her t-shirt, your fingers grazing her stomach before you push farther, finding her chest. You press your thumb into her nipple, sending a fresh wave of desire through her stomach and thighs. She tightens her legs on either side of you, making your knee shift, putting more pressure on her crotch. She winces, humming at the sensation. You go still, relieving the pressure off her chest and breaking the kiss. She whines before she can even think, the only thing on her mind the lack of contact. Embarrassment floods her cheeks, dusting them the shade of pink that you love bringing out so much.

“I—uh, sorry,” She stammers, dropping her hands from your sides. “I didn’t…uhm…mean to make that noise.”

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“Oh,” She says, averting her eyes to her lap, trying to get her face too cool down. “I-okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” You promise. “Do you wanna’ stop?”

“No!” She exclaims. “No, definitely not.”

You actually smile this time, nodding. You lean back, brushing your fingers across the waistband of her jeans, stopping over the button. You look up, making eye contact, waiting for the small nod that she gives before undoing it, tugging the zipper open too. You grab either side of them as she lifts herself up a little, letting you pull them down her thighs. You don’t stop until they’re completely off, tossing them onto the floor, then you let yourself focus on the black panties she’s wearing. You clench your jaw at the sight of the lace, trailing your fingers up her thighs until you reach them, looping around the fabric and tugging gently. 

“Can I-”

“Yes,” Mel interrupts, watching your movements closely. You take a second to admire her legs, the way her veins criss-cross under the skin, only visible where the sun hits. She shudders under your gaze, lifting herself up again when you start to pull her panties down, discarding them on the floor beside her jeans. You pull a hair tie off your wrist, holding it between your teeth as you gather your hair behind your head. Mel’s brain goes completely silent other than one thought—

Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

Your arms flex as you loop the hair tie around a few times, already leaning down before you’ve finished securing it. Your hands land on her shins, pushing her legs up so her knees are bent. She lets them fall open, making you smirk. 

“Good,” You murmur, switching your grip to hold the back of her thighs, lowering yourself even more. Her thighs already feel weak, a tremor rushing through them the second your tongue makes contact with her clit with a single swipe, the sensation gone as quickly as it came. She whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut, grabbing the couch beneath her hands. 

You duck down again, putting your lips around her, sucking gently and flicking the tip of your tongue up and down. She shivers, her head dropping back as she moans, the sound hitting you directly in the stomach, amplifying the desire that’s already coiling. 

You go slowly at first, not wanting to overwhelm her or do anything she doesn’t like. You alternate between flicking and pressing your tongue flat against her, the action pulling moans and whine from her each time you do it. You bring your hand up once it’s obvious how wet she is, carefully sliding two fingers inside, moaning into her when she cries out with pleasure. 

Your fingers curl inside of her, pressing into her walls while your tongue continues swirling around her clit, her legs starting to shake against your head. You slide your free hand up, finding one of hers and lacing your fingers together, setting them on her stomach. She tightens her grip on you, raising her hips when you pull your fingers out and pump them back inside. You can feel your own muscles growing weaker with each sound she makes, a harmony of whines and moans accompanying your movements, making you whimper. The vibration puts Mel right on the edge, desperately rocking her hips in time with your fingers. 

You feel her tighten around your hand, thighs pressing into your skull, muffling your hearing. She’s loud enough that you can still hear her, and you glance up towards her face, your eyes rolling at the sight of her leaning back, chest heaving. Her nipples poke at the thin fabric of her shirt, the sun painting her neck and face, giving you a fantastic view of her expression. Her mouth is half-open, eyes scrunched with focus as she gets closer. 

She still holding your hand tightly, practically cutting off the bloodflow to your fingers, but you don’t care. All you can think about is getting her off. 

Her mind is simultaneously empty and going a million miles an hour, wondering if she should let you know that no one has ever made her come before, or if she should just fake it to avoid hurting your feelings. The thoughts are interrupted anytime she gets close to making a decision, another pulse shooting through her, coiling tighter in her stomach. You start to slow down about ten minutes after she first clenched around you, snapping her out of the loop, her eyes falling on you, still between her legs. 

She’s about to say something when you pull your fingers out, the evidence of her arousal all over them, expecting you to be frustrated with how long this is taking. Your eyes flick towards her, a tiny smile on your face, the words dying on her tongue. You touch her swollen clit with the two fingers that were just inside of her, pressing hard. She jumps, far more sensitive than usual after getting eaten out for god knows how long. It feels like a jolt of electricity shreds through her, pushing her into a place that she’s never been—not even on her own. You shift your hand as you slowly come towards her face, keeping the pressure on her and attaching your mouth to her nipple. 

“Oh,” She breathes. “Oh my god.”

You leave marks across her chest, then you rest your forearm beside her head, tucking your face by hers, nipping the side of her neck. She moans again, her thighs shaking uncontrollably, abs tensed and hands dug into your sides. Your breath is hot on her neck and ear as you pant, still pressing circles into her clit, each loop more dizzying than the last. 

“I’ve got you, Mel,” You murmur, kissing her earlobe and taking it between your teeth. She gasps, the orgasm finally cresting and spilling over, her hips rolling erratically and chest flailing with frantic breaths. You don’t stop touching her until she sighs, movements slowing once the orgasm has passed. You lift your fingers off her clit carefully, kissing her neck a few times, propping yourself up more so you’re directly above her. 

She’s still catching her breath, eyes dazed and heavy. “I—that’s never—I’ve never…”

She trails off, but you know where she’s going, your eyebrows lifting in slight surprise. 

“Ever?” You ask. She shakes her head, breathing hard. 

“Not with…another person,” She explains. You can’t help the way that goes straight to your head, your lips curving into a cocky smirk. 

“Want me to do it again?” 

For weeks after that all Mel can think about is you. Your presence becomes even more distracting in the ER, at times making her have to leave a room if you’re in it, taking a breather in the bathroom to get herself together. It’s worse when Dennis is there too, his face unchanging, but his eyes follow her through the doors, knowing exactly what she’s thinking about. 

As time goes by things get…blurry between the three of you. 

Dennis isn’t really involved at first—the two of you spending time at Mel’s apartment or taking advantage of him being at work whenever possible. A few times he comes home while she’s still there, but he makes himself scarce, and Mel usually leaves shortly after he gets back. 

The first time she spends the night is unexpected, and Dennis is the one who initiates it.

You’re standing in front of the board with her three months after your first date, watching the name of your most recent patient disappear as he’s wheeled towards the ICU. Mel rubs sanitizer into her hands, squinting a little, deciding which patient to see next while building up the courage to say something to you. 

“Do…are you busy tonight?” She asks, rocking back on her heels. 

“I have plans, yeah,” You say. “Dennis is going out with Santos and Javadi, so I was gonna’ have a few friends over.”

“Oh,” She says. “Right, yeah, that sounds fun.”

You turn to her, already smiling, the reflection of the fluorescent hospital lights somehow dazzling in your eyes. “Do you wanna’ come?”

She falters for a second, having already accepted the fact that she wouldn’t be seeing you tonight, her brain rewiring to make sense of the invite. 

“Re—really?” She stutters.

You nod. “Yeah, I’d love it if you were there.”

“Who, uhm, who’s going?”

“Emma, Joy, Vivi,” You list. “Maybe Garcia if she gets off at a normal time.”

Mel can’t help the confusion that crosses her face, brows furrowing. 

“That’s—you’re all…friends?” She asks, and you laugh, touching your hand to her bicep. She looks at it, hearing her heart start to pound in her ears. 

“Yeah, seems like a weird group, I know,” You say. “But it’s really fun, I swear.”

“Okay,” She says, nodding. “They wouldn’t mind?”

“You being there?” You ask. “No, not at all. Just come to mine whenever you’re done here, yeah?”

She spends most of the night wondering how much your friends know about your relationship, unable to determine if they’re just super cool or have no idea that you’ve fucked her time and time again on the couch that they’re sitting on. People start to slowly file out after a few hours, leaving you and Mel alone. 

She doesn’t know exactly what she expects—for you to make a move, maybe—so she subconsciously braces herself to let you down, too exhausted from her shift to even think about sex right now. You come back to the couch after bidding your friends goodnight, sighing as you sit, grabbing the remote off the coffee table on your way down. 

You turn the TV on, opening one of the streaming applications. “I’m kinda’ in the mood for a romcom, do you have a favourite?”

She hums, thinking. “No, not really. I haven’t seen very many.”

“A lot of great options, then,” You say, scrolling through the genre, landing on one of your favourites. You toss the remote away from you, pulling a throw blanket off the back of the couch, curling into her side without a second thought. Mel goes rigid, carefully adjusting her body so you’re more comfortable, holding her hands up, unsure what to do with them.

“Is this…would Dennis be okay with this?” She asks. You lift your head up, nodding.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t he be?”

She shrugs. “I just…I know this is casual, and-“

“Cuddling can be casual,” You say, smiling a bit. “Are you okay with it?”

“Of course,” She says.

“Great,” You say. “You don’t have to keep your hands up, you know.”

“Oh, right,” She says, setting on hand on your thigh and the other in her lap.

Dennis comes home towards the end of the movie, quietly, not wanting to disturb you or whatever friends are still in your living room. Mel slowly comes to at the sound of the door clicking shut, blinking a few times, feeling the weight of you on top of her. Her arm is wrapped around your waist, your head on her chest, legs and blankets a tangled mess. She adjusts her glasses, looking up when she hears soft footsteps, finally getting her bearings when Dennis comes into view, pausing when he sees the two of you. 

“Oh, hey,” He says, quietly. “She passed out?”

Mel’s shocked by how truly casual it is. “Yeah, yes, I think so.”

“You want me to take her?” He asks. “You’re a little…trapped.”

She doesn’t, and Dennis picks up on the hesitation, smiling when her eyes fall on you again. 

“I don’t have to,” He adds. “If—if you’re comfortable.”

“I am,” She says. “But she should probably sleep in a real bed.”

“She crashes on the couch all the time,” He says, laughing softly, waving her off. “Can never make it to the end of a movie.”

“I can,” You grumble, grabbing hold of Mel’s shirt, not bothering to open your eyes. “I just don’t want to.”

She flinches, frowning. “Did we wake you up?”

“Mhm,” You hum, eyes still closed, tucking your head into her neck. “But it’s okay, you probably wanna’ get home, right?”

Dennis sees the same hesitation on her face as you sit up. 

“You’re welcome to stay, if you want,” He says. You smile to yourself, looking down at her. 

“Yeah, sorry, I don’t mean to kick you out,” You say. “Do you wanna’ stay?”

She thinks for a moment, then nods. “If that’s…allowed.”

You laugh under your breath. “Yeah, it’s—it’s allowed.”

She starts spending even more time at your place after that, whether Dennis is home or not. It becomes routine for her to come over after all of you work the same shift, cooking dinner together or ordering in if it was a particularly rough day. A third toothbrush joins yours and Dennis’ in the cup on your bathroom counter, a few pairs of scrubs and changes of clothes fill a drawer you emptied out, her favourite mug finds it’s way into your cabinet. You eventually just give her a key, claiming it’s for ‘emergencies,’ which she takes very literally. 

You and Dennis are off for the day, and she promised Becca that she’d pick her up after her shift so they could get dinner, meaning she won’t see either of you for the entire day. She stops by her place for the first time in a few days once she’s off, reaching for a lightswitch as she steps inside, flicking it up. She frowns when nothing happens, turning it off and on again, but the darkness persists. 

She realizes how cold it is once she closes the door behind her, a shiver running down her spine despite the massive coat she’s wearing. She walks into the living room, reaching for one of her lamps, turning the knob until she hears the ‘click,’ but it doesn’t turn on. 

“Oh,” She mutters, digging her phone out of her pocket and turning the flashlight on. She opens the breaker panel on the wall, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but toying with a few of them anyway. Neither of the lights blink to life, but she can see her breath curling in the beams of the flashlight. Her eyes widen with the realization that her heating system is electric, meaning it’s been off for however long her power has been out—in the middle of December.

She’s outside your apartment an hour later, after her landlord lets her know that it’ll take at least twenty-four hours to fix the problem and get her apartment back up to a livable temperature. She called both you and Dennis on her way over, neither of you picking up. She toys with the key in her hand, debating whether or not this is actually emergent or not, still unaware that you definitely hadn’t meant what you said and that she was welcome to come over anytime. She eventually gathers the courage to unlock the door after knocking a few times, wondering if you’re even home.

“Hello!” She calls, not wanting to catch either of you offguard. “Sorry for barging in, I tried calling, but, uhm-”

She stops when she doesn’t hear any kind of response, slipping her shoes off and walking farther inside. Your keys and jackets are hung up by the door and there’s a few lights on, suggesting you’re both home, but you’re not in the living room or kitchen. The sound of the shower running becomes apparent once she’s closer to the bedroom, the door slightly open. She knocks before pushing it open, moments away from saying your name when she’s interrupted. 

“Oh my god, fuck, please.”

It’s you, your voice unmistakeably desperate and pleading, the same way it sounds when she buries her face between your thighs until you can’t think straight. Desire slams into her stomach, heat crawling up her neck and blooming across her face. She closes her eyes, trying to overcome the arousal so she can figure out what exactly she should do in this situation. 

She could wait until you’re done, but it feels like an invasion of your privacy to simply…listen to Dennis fuck you without your knowledge. She should interrupt, but the idea of that is almost painful, the awkwardness of the rest of the night playing out in her mind. A moan echoes off the walls followed by a series of whimpers, making her breath hitch. Her hand lands against the door softly, her actions uncharacteristic and amative as she slowly pushes it open. 

Steam sticks to her glasses immediately, and she quickly slides them up to the top of her head. The glass door of the shower is fogged, but she can still catch glimpses of the two of you. You’re pressed against the back wall, face blissful over Dennis’ shoulder, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. His back muscles ripple as he holds you upright, thrusting up rhythmically, each motion eliciting a moan from you. 

He yanks you closer to him with the next thrust, making you gasp, your eyes opening in surprise. Horror crosses your expression for a split second, but it’s quickly replaced with an amused look, your head tilting slightly. Dennis notices the change, looking over his shoulder, seeing Mel standing there. 

She startles, grabbing hold of the door knob, already starting to pull it shut when she speaks. 

“I, uh, I’m so sorry,” She says. “I didn’t want to scare you, sorry, I’ll just—I’ll be in the living room.”

You talk before the door can click shut. “Mel, wait.”

She grimaces, poking her head back in. “Yeah?”

“You just got off work, you don’t want to shower?”

Her apartment basically becomes a formality after that.

Trinity’s birthday party is technically an open invite, but Mel is still a little surprised when she explicitly asks the blonde if she’s coming, extending a personal invitation on top of the text message that was sent to practically every group chat imaginable. She was already planning on going, since you and Dennis would be there, but the small action makes her feel like she’s welcome regardless of her close relationship with the two of you. Not that anyone knows you’re anything more than friends. 

She’s already there by the time you arrive, since she had the day off and you didn’t. You spot her in the living room easily, dropping onto the couch beside her, smiling wide. She automatically bends towards you, moving so she can see your face better, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of you—like always. 

“Hey,” You greet, tucking your legs up beneath you. 

“Hi,” She says, smiling back, clasping her hands together and resting them on her lap. “How was your shift?”

“You know, the usual,” You say. “It was actually pretty quiet, which was nice.”

She nods. “Yeah, that is nice.”

“You look nice,” You say, admiring the way her hair falls around her shoulders. “You know I love when you have your hair down.”

“Oh,” She says, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears, her cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. “Thanks, uhm, thank you.”

“What’d you do with your day off?” You ask, shifting your knee over, knocking hers with it a few times. “Anything exciting?”

She hums. “No, not really. I did laundry and went grocery shopping.”

“Oh, you’re an angel, we haven’t had groceries in weeks,” You say, touching her knee again, but this time you don’t pull it away. She glances down, her mind buzzing at the contact. You’re not looking at her anymore, instead taking in everyone else. “Santos didn’t skimp on the guest list, hey?”

“I guess not,” Mel says, turning to look over her shoulder at the sound of someone coming down the stairs. You look too, grinning when you see Dennis, hopping to your feet and meeting him at the bottom. Mel follows, not sure what else to do in the sea of people in Trinity’s living room. 

“Hey,” He says, smiling softly as he steps onto the landing. “When’d you get here?”

“Ten minutes ago,” You say, sliding two fingers into the waistband of his jeans and pulling him close, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Santos up there?”

“Yeah, she’s freaking out over the idea of Garcia not showing up,” He explains, glancing towards Mel. “Sorry for leaving you alone down here.”

“It’s fine,” She says, quickly dismissing the apology. 

“Garcia’s coming,” You say. “I talked to her earlier, said she’d be here whenever she got off. Even said she was ‘looking forward to it.’”

“You wanna’ go tell Trinity that?” He asks, slightly exasperated. “She’s losing it.”

“I think she told me in confidence,” You counter, moving to wrap your arms around his neck. “So keep your lips sealed.”

“Make me,” He murmurs, leaning forward to kiss you again. Mel looks away, a blush spreading up her chest and neck. You smile against his lips, only pulling back when you hear someone clap him on the shoulder, making you separate. 

“Get a fucking room,” Trinity says, coming down the stairs with Victoria behind her. She says your name in greeting, offering an uncharacteristic smile along with it. 

“Hey, happy birthday!” You exclaim, releasing Dennis to pull her in for a hug. Dennis looks towards Mel again, giving her a reassuring look. 

“You want a drink?” He asks, and she nods quickly. 

“Yes, please,” She says. He walks off to the kitchen, leaving her with you, Trinity and Victoria. She naturally takes a step back, assuming you don’t want her involved in your conversation, but you reach back without even looking at her. You casually—so casually—bring her back over, letting her take the spot beside you in the small circle. 

The four of you move to the living room, taking any free seats around the room. You sit on the floor, and Mel sits too, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. You touch her thigh for a second, squeezing it quickly before returning your hand to your own lap. Dennis stops infront of the two of you, passing both of you drinks, the tops already off. 

“Thank you,” Mel says, whereas you just smile. He sits on your other side, leaning back on his hands. She takes a sip, trying to keep herself from staring at you as much as she can. 

There’s various conversations overlapping in the room, and the music playing in the background is making her head spin ever so slightly. You lean away from Dennis, putting your lips close enough to her ear that you won’t have to shout. 

“Most people are just dropping by for a drink or two, it’ll just be a few of us in a bit,” You say. She nods, glancing at you for a second, then returning her gaze to the spot on the carpet she was looking at. Dennis leans forward, poking his head around your frame. 

“You okay?” He asks, and she nods again. “We can go out back if you want to, just say the word.”

“I’m okay,” She insists. 

You slide your bracelet—a stretchy, beaded one that your niece made you—off your wrist, holding it out to her. She takes it without hesitation, twisting it around her fingers, the same way she has so many times before. You watch her toy with it for a few moments, fondness swirling in your chest. 

Trinity suggests a game of ‘Never Have I Ever’ once some people have cleared out, leaving a smaller group of you behind. A few people protest at the ‘childish’ game, but everyone agrees to participate. The questions start off relatively tame, but they slowly get more and more chaotic as time goes on. You only have one finger left by the seventh round, almost convinced people are trying to get you out on purpose at this point. 

“Uhm,” Victoria hums, looking around the circle, squinting to see how many fingers everyone is still holding up. 

“Hey, no targeting,” Trinity says.

“No, I know,” She insists. “Uh, never have I ever…had a threesome?”

Trinity lowers a finger, taking a sip of her drink as she does. 

“I’m out, then,” You say, copying her actions with your pinky, tipping your drink towards your mouth. Various exclamations of shock come from the group, making you laugh, setting the now-empty bottle on the coffee table. 

“You’ve had a threesome?” Garcia asks. “You’ve been in a serious relationship since you were like, twenty.”

“Twenty-one,” You correct. “But yeah, I’ve had a few.”

“Like…more than one?” Victoria asks. “In college, or whatever?”

“Hang on,” Trinity says. “You’ve had a threesome and I never heard about it? I told you I had a threesome after like, three months of knowing you!”

“That was your personal choice,” You tease, leaning back into the couch, shrugging. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Did you put a finger down too?” Victoria asks, looking towards Dennis, who shrinks into himself a little. 

“I, uh, yeah,” He says. 

“Do you guys have threesomes together?” Trinity questions, smirking as she leans closer, this newfound information blowing her mind. 

Dennis’ face goes red, but you just shrug, glancing towards him with a slight smile on your face. You’re past tipsy now, but you’d probably share the same amount of information sober. 

“Yep,” You say. 

“Oh my god,” Victoria says, blinking rapidly, sitting back on her feet. Trinity chuckles, raising her drink a little. 

“Never would’ve fucking seen that coming,” She says. “Huckleberry’s freakier than I thought.”

“It’s not that freaky,” Dennis counters, his face still burning. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Trinity says, glancing around the room as she tries to think of what to ask next. Her gaze lands on Mel’s hand, which has barely moved all game, slightly lower now than it was before. “Wait, Mel, didn’t you have four fingers up?”

Mel flinches, pulling her top lip between her teeth. “Uh-huh.”

“Melissa fucking King,” Trinity says. “You’ve had a threesome?”

She nods in response. The shock that ripples through the group is ten times what it was for you, disbelief evident in their voices. 

“When?” Trinity pushes. 

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” You say, giving her an escape. She looks at you with wide eyes. “I think some mystery would do us all some good, actually. This group has a disturbing affinity for gossip.”

“I wouldn’t call it disturbing,” Trinity argues. “It's…enthusiastic.”

Victoria is still gobsmacked, her mouth opening and closing. Mateo puts a hand on her shoulder, his face bright with amusement, trying to bring her back. Emma and Joy watch everything from the chair in the corner of the room, staying absolutely silent. Emma’s expression matches Mel’s, slightly confused and a little anxious. Joy looks absolutely delighted.

“I thought you didn’t like dating,” Victoria finally says. 

Mel shrugs, nerves still evident. 

“She never said she was dating them,” Trinity counters. “Are you dating them?”

She shrugs again. “I—I don’t-”

“Okay, come on,” You say, interrupting. You’re well aware that Mel is more than capable of standing up for herself, but you can see the gears turning in her head as she tries to figure out what to say in response. “Why don’t you tell us about your threesome, Trinity?”

She sighs dramatically, putting her elbows on her knees, leaning forward. She feigns a fond reminiscence, drawing another laugh out of the group. 

“Gladly,” She says. “It was my freshman year of college-”

You and Mel are in the kitchen a couple hours later, rinsing out cans and bottles in the sink, tossing them into the recycling bin in Trinity’s pantry. You come up behind her at one point, setting a hand on her hip, kissing her shoulder. 

“You alright?” You murmur. She nods, rinsing the last can and drying her hands off on a towel. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” She says. “I didn’t think anyone would notice I put a finger down.”

You hum, letting go of her and closing the pantry door. “They’re vultures, it’s not your fault.”

The tone is teasing, making Mel smile. She steps back from the counter, turning around to face you, hands clasped together. You, like always, read her like a book. 

“I think I’m ready to head out,” You say. She perks up, nodding.

“Yeah, yeah, me too,” She says. “I could uh—I could give you a ride?”

“Are you sure?” You ask, face completely neutral. It was a little hard for Mel to tell when you were kidding around at first, but now she’s basically an expert in your sense of humour. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

She ducks her head down, looking towards the floor, her smile growing. “I think I can make it work.”

“As long as it’s not too far out of your way,” You add, unable to keep yourself from smiling, too. “Let’s go get Dennis.”

She parks where she always does in front of your building. Dennis makes three mugs of tea without asking. The three of you brush your teeth side by side in the bathroom, easily moving around each other. You sandwich yourself between Mel and Dennis on the bed, looking like a pack of sardines, wishing both of them goodnight before Dennis turns the light off.

And it's all completely casual.

...

Right?

A/N - i honestly...don't love this and was tempted to do a complete rewrite but i haven't posted in so long i decided to post it anyway! love u guys mwah happy saturday <3

tags:

@thenormreedus @sinoxima @serrendiipty @celiaisacaterpillar @xoxoloverb  @momdancingtomcr @arianna-r13 @starsbymars @outpostsworld @he6rtshaker  @ilocuras24 @hucklesbaby @laurenyas @true1411 @navs-bhat  @amelia-styles @barnes70stark @huang-the-geek @run-for-the-hills @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @noahcantread @princess76179 @the-perfect-gemini @arienic @llovekats @fishfishcaterpillar @macbaetwo @izzyyy-1 @waywardhunter95

[sapiensecrets]

blurred lines - dennis whitaker x f!reader x melissa 'mel' king

summary: an interesting detail about yours and dennis' relationship comes to light during a game of never have i ever, almost exactly a year after you finally asked mel king out on a date.

pairings: dennis whitaker x healthcare worker!reader x melissa 'mel' king, implied garsantos, jemma, and mavadi cw/tags: established relationship (reader and dennis have been dating for years, mel is their (mostly readers) third but lowkey it's more serious than that), mentions of having threesomes, drinking, swearing. SMUT MDNI!! afab!reader, oral (f!receiving), fingering, biting, nipple play, super super super light praise (barely), extreeeeemely brief unprotected piv. fluff, the PTMC staff being nosy as per usual. this was not explicitly written as dennis x hot shot but could be read as them if you want! reader has hair long enough to tied back in a nondescript way. word count: 6.5k masterlist

Mel had never spent a lot of time dating—between her schooling, and Becca, and their parents it was never a priority, and any relationships she had were over quite quickly anyway. 

She saw glimpses of you on her first day at PTMC—running from room to room, never spending too much time in one place, always answering another page or the call of your last name. She hadn’t even had the chance to introduce herself, but she was infatuated. 

You’re absolutely stunning, probably the prettiest person she’s ever laid eyes on. Not only that, but you’re also ridiculously smart, which she learned as she spent more time with you. It shows in the way you do your job, the jokes you make, and your indescribable ability to always say the right thing at the right time. 

Her crush was practically unbearable, and the fact that you seemed to constantly end up near her whenever you were in the department made it much worse. She even started to wonder if you were flirting with her, but then the entire hospital learned that you and Dennis had been dating for years. 

It reinforced what she had already assumed—you were not into her, you never had been, and you never would be. 

You proved her wrong during a cold, dreary shift in the middle of November.

“Dr. King,” You greet, sliding down onto the chair at the workstation beside hers, tapping your badge to the sensor. “You crushed that chest tube back there, perfect technique.”

Mel looks away from her computer, fingers going still over the keyboard, her heart pounding in her ears. 

“Oh, thank you,” She says. “You—you were great, too.”

“I didn’t even do anything, but that’s sweet,” You say, a mesmerizing smile crossing your features as you lean against the back of your chair, spinning to face her. “How do you keep your hair so neat during these shifts? Mine ends up looking like a rat’s nest by hour six.”

Mel blinks, pressing the ‘a’ key a few times to keep her hands busy. “I just put it in a braid.”

“Yeah, right, I see that,” You say, still smiling. “You don’t use any product or anything?”

She shakes her head. “No, most cosmetic products give me hives.”

She grimaces after the admission, realizing how unsexy the statement is. She’s trying to figure out a way to take it back when you laugh, making her look at you again, the sight otherworldly. 

“That sucks,” You say. “Some of them bother me too, I usually use unscented stuff.”

“Really?” Mel asks. You nod, glancing towards your computer for a second, pulling up the chart you need to finish before you can go home. You return your attention to her once it’s open. 

“Do you wear it in the braid outside of work?” You ask, wheeling a little closer to her, eyeing the blonde braid that cascades down her back. 

“Sometimes,” She says. “My hair being in my face usually, uhm, annoys me? But it’s not always in a braid. I can do a ponytail, too.”

She’s not sure if that’s supposed to impress you or what, but she regrets the words as soon as she’s said them. She closes her eyes, shaking her head as she brings both hands up to the back of her neck, feeling how hot her skin is. She expects you to make fun of her, like most people would, but you don’t. 

“I bet you can,” You say, no hint of sarcasm or teasing in your tone. “I’d love to see it.”

“What?” Mel asks, her eyes widening. 

“You in a ponytail,” You elaborate. “Probably looks really good.”

“It’s just a ponytail,” She counters, looking back at her keyboard, pressing a random button a few more times, adding a string of r’s to the line of a’s that’s already there, the whole thing reading ‘eFAST positive for left-sided pneumoaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr.’

You squint, the conversation going exactly how your others with Mel have gone—you flirting in a workplace-appropriate manner, and her completely missing the fact that you’re down fucking bad for her. 

“Hey, do you have plans after work?” You ask, not caring who around you hears the question. 

She backspaces, deleting the letters and finishing the word ‘pneumothorax.’ “No, not really. Do you?”

“There’s nothing in my fridge that I want for dinner,” You say. “I was gonna’ stop and grab food at this little place I like, would you wanna’ come?”

Mel hesitates, her brain freezing momentarily at the invite. “Get dinner…with you?”

“Yeah,” You say, casually. “Do you drive?”

“Uhm, yes?” She says. 

“You can meet me there, then, if you want,” You add. “It’s a really chill place, basically a diner.”

Mel finds herself nodding before she can fully process the plan, the idea of getting dinner with you both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying, even if it’s platonic. She can’t say no, that would be the dumbest thing she’s ever done.

“Okay, sure,” She says, perking up a bit, smiling at you. “I…would…like to do that.”

“Cool,” You say, smiling back. Her hands go numb. “It’s a date.”

You pass Dennis on your way to pack up your stuff, sticking your arm out and grabbing his bicep. He stops walking, lips curving into a smile, eyes soft at the sight of you. 

“Hey, heading home?” He asks. 

You shake your head. “No, I won’t be home until later—I’m getting dinner. With Dr. King.”

Dennis hums, his smile growing. “Finally.”

“What?” You ask, almost laughing. 

“You’ve been flirting with her for months,” He says. “You finally made a real move.”

You glare at him, folding your arms over your chest. “Hard to cross the Rubicon when she doesn’t even realize there’s a river.”

Dennis raises an eyebrow. “...what?”

You huff. “You know, the Rubicon River? Julius Caesar?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, she’s gonna’ love you.”

“You suck,” You say, reaching over and pushing his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Bring me leftovers,” He says, starting to walk backwards away from you, wanting to get ready to head home for the day. He mouths ‘love you’ before he turns around, disappearing into the department and leaving you alone in the hallway. 

The first time you bring Mel back to your apartment is a few weeks later, after your fourth date. Dennis is at work, since it’s only late afternoon, giving you at least a couple hours until he’s back. 

She watches you kick your shoes off at the door, tossing them aside without much thought and hanging your bag up on one of the hooks before heading towards the kitchen. She copies your actions, slightly more careful, taking a second to line her shoes up beside a pair of Dennis’ sneakers before following you. You’re standing in front of the fridge, scanning the shelves for something to drink, still trying to warm up from the crisp air outside. You pull a bottle out, setting it on the counter before looking at Mel. 

“You want something?” You ask, nodding your head towards the fridge. She shuffles over so she can see better, reaching for a bottle herself, catching your eyes as though she’s asking for permission. You nod, closing the fridge and leaning back against the counter. 

Mel looks around, taking in your apartment. “I like your place.”

“Thanks,” You say, already making your way towards the living room, collapsing onto the couch. She sits beside you, asking a few questions about your decor and plants, all of them making you smile.

You’re talking about a patient you had a few days prior when her eyes clamp shut, one hand taking her glasses off as the other touches her right eye, holding it open. 

“Something in your eye?” You ask. She nods, humming in affirmation. You shift towards her on the couch, leaning over. “Let me see.”

She drops her hand, turning to face you instead, letting you examine her eye. You have her look in various directions for a few seconds, but you don’t see anything, and the sensation dissipates. 

“I think it’s gone,” She says, blinking a few more times for good measure. You don’t move to sit back on the opposite side of the couch—if anything you move closer. 

“Can I kiss you?” You ask, hovering a few inch away from her lips, one hand supporting you as you bend, positioning yourself almost on top of her. She stumbles with her answer for a second, swallowing thickly before nodding.

“Uhm, yes, yeah, absolutely,” She says, stuttering over the words. You smile as you close the gap, bringing your free hand up to the back of her neck, your thumb tracing over her jaw. You don’t properly kiss her right away, your bottom lips simply touching for a second. Your grip tightens, and Mel feels her thighs clench beneath her jeans. She can smell the subtle scent of your chapstick—sweet and intoxicating. Her breath hitches, hands ghosting over your exposed hips, your shirt riding up. 

Your lips connect a moment later, both of you moving slowly, stretching out the moment. Mel’s heart slams against her ribcage, her hands starting to go numb from the sensation. She takes hold of your hips gently, fingers curling into your skin and pulling you closer. You don’t protest, instead slipping your hand into her hair, getting tangled in the blonde locks. 

The feeling of your lips on hers makes her woozy, goosebumps prickling up her arms despite the wave of heat that thrums against her skin. You drag your knee up, slotting it between her thighs, nudging them apart. You slow down, pulling back, eyes flicking over her face. 

“Is this okay?” You whisper, but she barely processes the question, desperate to feel more of you. She just nods, sliding her hands under your shirt and bringing you back in, reconnecting your lips with more fervour than the first time. You press your knee against her, eliciting a small gasp, one that only breaks the contact for half a second. 

You drop your hand from her hair to the bottom of her t-shirt, your fingers grazing her stomach before you push farther, finding her chest. You press your thumb into her nipple, sending a fresh wave of desire through her stomach and thighs. She tightens her legs on either side of you, making your knee shift, putting more pressure on her crotch. She winces, humming at the sensation. You go still, relieving the pressure off her chest and breaking the kiss. She whines before she can even think, the only thing on her mind the lack of contact. Embarrassment floods her cheeks, dusting them the shade of pink that you love bringing out so much.

“I—uh, sorry,” She stammers, dropping her hands from your sides. “I didn’t…uhm…mean to make that noise.”

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“Oh,” She says, averting her eyes to her lap, trying to get her face too cool down. “I-okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” You promise. “Do you wanna’ stop?”

“No!” She exclaims. “No, definitely not.”

You actually smile this time, nodding. You lean back, brushing your fingers across the waistband of her jeans, stopping over the button. You look up, making eye contact, waiting for the small nod that she gives before undoing it, tugging the zipper open too. You grab either side of them as she lifts herself up a little, letting you pull them down her thighs. You don’t stop until they’re completely off, tossing them onto the floor, then you let yourself focus on the black panties she’s wearing. You clench your jaw at the sight of the lace, trailing your fingers up her thighs until you reach them, looping around the fabric and tugging gently. 

“Can I-”

“Yes,” Mel interrupts, watching your movements closely. You take a second to admire her legs, the way her veins criss-cross under the skin, only visible where the sun hits. She shudders under your gaze, lifting herself up again when you start to pull her panties down, discarding them on the floor beside her jeans. You pull a hair tie off your wrist, holding it between your teeth as you gather your hair behind your head. Mel’s brain goes completely silent other than one thought—

Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

Your arms flex as you loop the hair tie around a few times, already leaning down before you’ve finished securing it. Your hands land on her shins, pushing her legs up so her knees are bent. She lets them fall open, making you smirk. 

“Good,” You murmur, switching your grip to hold the back of her thighs, lowering yourself even more. Her thighs already feel weak, a tremor rushing through them the second your tongue makes contact with her clit with a single swipe, the sensation gone as quickly as it came. She whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut, grabbing the couch beneath her hands. 

You duck down again, putting your lips around her, sucking gently and flicking the tip of your tongue up and down. She shivers, her head dropping back as she moans, the sound hitting you directly in the stomach, amplifying the desire that’s already coiling. 

You go slowly at first, not wanting to overwhelm her or do anything she doesn’t like. You alternate between flicking and pressing your tongue flat against her, the action pulling moans and whine from her each time you do it. You bring your hand up once it’s obvious how wet she is, carefully sliding two fingers inside, moaning into her when she cries out with pleasure. 

Your fingers curl inside of her, pressing into her walls while your tongue continues swirling around her clit, her legs starting to shake against your head. You slide your free hand up, finding one of hers and lacing your fingers together, setting them on her stomach. She tightens her grip on you, raising her hips when you pull your fingers out and pump them back inside. You can feel your own muscles growing weaker with each sound she makes, a harmony of whines and moans accompanying your movements, making you whimper. The vibration puts Mel right on the edge, desperately rocking her hips in time with your fingers. 

You feel her tighten around your hand, thighs pressing into your skull, muffling your hearing. She’s loud enough that you can still hear her, and you glance up towards her face, your eyes rolling at the sight of her leaning back, chest heaving. Her nipples poke at the thin fabric of her shirt, the sun painting her neck and face, giving you a fantastic view of her expression. Her mouth is half-open, eyes scrunched with focus as she gets closer. 

She still holding your hand tightly, practically cutting off the bloodflow to your fingers, but you don’t care. All you can think about is getting her off. 

Her mind is simultaneously empty and going a million miles an hour, wondering if she should let you know that no one has ever made her come before, or if she should just fake it to avoid hurting your feelings. The thoughts are interrupted anytime she gets close to making a decision, another pulse shooting through her, coiling tighter in her stomach. You start to slow down about ten minutes after she first clenched around you, snapping her out of the loop, her eyes falling on you, still between her legs. 

She’s about to say something when you pull your fingers out, the evidence of her arousal all over them, expecting you to be frustrated with how long this is taking. Your eyes flick towards her, a tiny smile on your face, the words dying on her tongue. You touch her swollen clit with the two fingers that were just inside of her, pressing hard. She jumps, far more sensitive than usual after getting eaten out for god knows how long. It feels like a jolt of electricity shreds through her, pushing her into a place that she’s never been—not even on her own. You shift your hand as you slowly come towards her face, keeping the pressure on her and attaching your mouth to her nipple. 

“Oh,” She breathes. “Oh my god.”

You leave marks across her chest, then you rest your forearm beside her head, tucking your face by hers, nipping the side of her neck. She moans again, her thighs shaking uncontrollably, abs tensed and hands dug into your sides. Your breath is hot on her neck and ear as you pant, still pressing circles into her clit, each loop more dizzying than the last. 

“I’ve got you, Mel,” You murmur, kissing her earlobe and taking it between your teeth. She gasps, the orgasm finally cresting and spilling over, her hips rolling erratically and chest flailing with frantic breaths. You don’t stop touching her until she sighs, movements slowing once the orgasm has passed. You lift your fingers off her clit carefully, kissing her neck a few times, propping yourself up more so you’re directly above her. 

She’s still catching her breath, eyes dazed and heavy. “I—that’s never—I’ve never…”

She trails off, but you know where she’s going, your eyebrows lifting in slight surprise. 

“Ever?” You ask. She shakes her head, breathing hard. 

“Not with…another person,” She explains. You can’t help the way that goes straight to your head, your lips curving into a cocky smirk. 

“Want me to do it again?” 

For weeks after that all Mel can think about is you. Your presence becomes even more distracting in the ER, at times making her have to leave a room if you’re in it, taking a breather in the bathroom to get herself together. It’s worse when Dennis is there too, his face unchanging, but his eyes follow her through the doors, knowing exactly what she’s thinking about. 

As time goes by things get…blurry between the three of you. 

Dennis isn’t really involved at first—the two of you spending time at Mel’s apartment or taking advantage of him being at work whenever possible. A few times he comes home while she’s still there, but he makes himself scarce, and Mel usually leaves shortly after he gets back. 

The first time she spends the night is unexpected, and Dennis is the one who initiates it.

You’re standing in front of the board with her three months after your first date, watching the name of your most recent patient disappear as he’s wheeled towards the ICU. Mel rubs sanitizer into her hands, squinting a little, deciding which patient to see next while building up the courage to say something to you. 

“Do…are you busy tonight?” She asks, rocking back on her heels. 

“I have plans, yeah,” You say. “Dennis is going out with Santos and Javadi, so I was gonna’ have a few friends over.”

“Oh,” She says. “Right, yeah, that sounds fun.”

You turn to her, already smiling, the reflection of the fluorescent hospital lights somehow dazzling in your eyes. “Do you wanna’ come?”

She falters for a second, having already accepted the fact that she wouldn’t be seeing you tonight, her brain rewiring to make sense of the invite. 

“Re—really?” She stutters.

You nod. “Yeah, I’d love it if you were there.”

“Who, uhm, who’s going?”

“Emma, Joy, Vivi,” You list. “Maybe Garcia if she gets off at a normal time.”

Mel can’t help the confusion that crosses her face, brows furrowing. 

“That’s—you’re all…friends?” She asks, and you laugh, touching your hand to her bicep. She looks at it, hearing her heart start to pound in her ears. 

“Yeah, seems like a weird group, I know,” You say. “But it’s really fun, I swear.”

“Okay,” She says, nodding. “They wouldn’t mind?”

“You being there?” You ask. “No, not at all. Just come to mine whenever you’re done here, yeah?”

She spends most of the night wondering how much your friends know about your relationship, unable to determine if they’re just super cool or have no idea that you’ve fucked her time and time again on the couch that they’re sitting on. People start to slowly file out after a few hours, leaving you and Mel alone. 

She doesn’t know exactly what she expects—for you to make a move, maybe—so she subconsciously braces herself to let you down, too exhausted from her shift to even think about sex right now. You come back to the couch after bidding your friends goodnight, sighing as you sit, grabbing the remote off the coffee table on your way down. 

You turn the TV on, opening one of the streaming applications. “I’m kinda’ in the mood for a romcom, do you have a favourite?”

She hums, thinking. “No, not really. I haven’t seen very many.”

“A lot of great options, then,” You say, scrolling through the genre, landing on one of your favourites. You toss the remote away from you, pulling a throw blanket off the back of the couch, curling into her side without a second thought. Mel goes rigid, carefully adjusting her body so you’re more comfortable, holding her hands up, unsure what to do with them.

“Is this…would Dennis be okay with this?” She asks. You lift your head up, nodding.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t he be?”

She shrugs. “I just…I know this is casual, and-“

“Cuddling can be casual,” You say, smiling a bit. “Are you okay with it?”

“Of course,” She says.

“Great,” You say. “You don’t have to keep your hands up, you know.”

“Oh, right,” She says, setting on hand on your thigh and the other in her lap.

Dennis comes home towards the end of the movie, quietly, not wanting to disturb you or whatever friends are still in your living room. Mel slowly comes to at the sound of the door clicking shut, blinking a few times, feeling the weight of you on top of her. Her arm is wrapped around your waist, your head on her chest, legs and blankets a tangled mess. She adjusts her glasses, looking up when she hears soft footsteps, finally getting her bearings when Dennis comes into view, pausing when he sees the two of you. 

“Oh, hey,” He says, quietly. “She passed out?”

Mel’s shocked by how truly casual it is. “Yeah, yes, I think so.”

“You want me to take her?” He asks. “You’re a little…trapped.”

She doesn’t, and Dennis picks up on the hesitation, smiling when her eyes fall on you again. 

“I don’t have to,” He adds. “If—if you’re comfortable.”

“I am,” She says. “But she should probably sleep in a real bed.”

“She crashes on the couch all the time,” He says, laughing softly, waving her off. “Can never make it to the end of a movie.”

“I can,” You grumble, grabbing hold of Mel’s shirt, not bothering to open your eyes. “I just don’t want to.”

She flinches, frowning. “Did we wake you up?”

“Mhm,” You hum, eyes still closed, tucking your head into her neck. “But it’s okay, you probably wanna’ get home, right?”

Dennis sees the same hesitation on her face as you sit up. 

“You’re welcome to stay, if you want,” He says. You smile to yourself, looking down at her. 

“Yeah, sorry, I don’t mean to kick you out,” You say. “Do you wanna’ stay?”

She thinks for a moment, then nods. “If that’s…allowed.”

You laugh under your breath. “Yeah, it’s—it’s allowed.”

She starts spending even more time at your place after that, whether Dennis is home or not. It becomes routine for her to come over after all of you work the same shift, cooking dinner together or ordering in if it was a particularly rough day. A third toothbrush joins yours and Dennis’ in the cup on your bathroom counter, a few pairs of scrubs and changes of clothes fill a drawer you emptied out, her favourite mug finds it’s way into your cabinet. You eventually just give her a key, claiming it’s for ‘emergencies,’ which she takes very literally. 

You and Dennis are off for the day, and she promised Becca that she’d pick her up after her shift so they could get dinner, meaning she won’t see either of you for the entire day. She stops by her place for the first time in a few days once she’s off, reaching for a lightswitch as she steps inside, flicking it up. She frowns when nothing happens, turning it off and on again, but the darkness persists. 

She realizes how cold it is once she closes the door behind her, a shiver running down her spine despite the massive coat she’s wearing. She walks into the living room, reaching for one of her lamps, turning the knob until she hears the ‘click,’ but it doesn’t turn on. 

“Oh,” She mutters, digging her phone out of her pocket and turning the flashlight on. She opens the breaker panel on the wall, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but toying with a few of them anyway. Neither of the lights blink to life, but she can see her breath curling in the beams of the flashlight. Her eyes widen with the realization that her heating system is electric, meaning it’s been off for however long her power has been out—in the middle of December.

She’s outside your apartment an hour later, after her landlord lets her know that it’ll take at least twenty-four hours to fix the problem and get her apartment back up to a livable temperature. She called both you and Dennis on her way over, neither of you picking up. She toys with the key in her hand, debating whether or not this is actually emergent or not, still unaware that you definitely hadn’t meant what you said and that she was welcome to come over anytime. She eventually gathers the courage to unlock the door after knocking a few times, wondering if you’re even home.

“Hello!” She calls, not wanting to catch either of you offguard. “Sorry for barging in, I tried calling, but, uhm-”

She stops when she doesn’t hear any kind of response, slipping her shoes off and walking farther inside. Your keys and jackets are hung up by the door and there’s a few lights on, suggesting you’re both home, but you’re not in the living room or kitchen. The sound of the shower running becomes apparent once she’s closer to the bedroom, the door slightly open. She knocks before pushing it open, moments away from saying your name when she’s interrupted. 

“Oh my god, fuck, please.”

It’s you, your voice unmistakeably desperate and pleading, the same way it sounds when she buries her face between your thighs until you can’t think straight. Desire slams into her stomach, heat crawling up her neck and blooming across her face. She closes her eyes, trying to overcome the arousal so she can figure out what exactly she should do in this situation. 

She could wait until you’re done, but it feels like an invasion of your privacy to simply…listen to Dennis fuck you without your knowledge. She should interrupt, but the idea of that is almost painful, the awkwardness of the rest of the night playing out in her mind. A moan echoes off the walls followed by a series of whimpers, making her breath hitch. Her hand lands against the door softly, her actions uncharacteristic and amative as she slowly pushes it open. 

Steam sticks to her glasses immediately, and she quickly slides them up to the top of her head. The glass door of the shower is fogged, but she can still catch glimpses of the two of you. You’re pressed against the back wall, face blissful over Dennis’ shoulder, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. His back muscles ripple as he holds you upright, thrusting up rhythmically, each motion eliciting a moan from you. 

He yanks you closer to him with the next thrust, making you gasp, your eyes opening in surprise. Horror crosses your expression for a split second, but it’s quickly replaced with an amused look, your head tilting slightly. Dennis notices the change, looking over his shoulder, seeing Mel standing there. 

She startles, grabbing hold of the door knob, already starting to pull it shut when she speaks. 

“I, uh, I’m so sorry,” She says. “I didn’t want to scare you, sorry, I’ll just—I’ll be in the living room.”

You talk before the door can click shut. “Mel, wait.”

She grimaces, poking her head back in. “Yeah?”

“You just got off work, you don’t want to shower?”

Her apartment basically becomes a formality after that.

Trinity’s birthday party is technically an open invite, but Mel is still a little surprised when she explicitly asks the blonde if she’s coming, extending a personal invitation on top of the text message that was sent to practically every group chat imaginable. She was already planning on going, since you and Dennis would be there, but the small action makes her feel like she’s welcome regardless of her close relationship with the two of you. Not that anyone knows you’re anything more than friends. 

She’s already there by the time you arrive, since she had the day off and you didn’t. You spot her in the living room easily, dropping onto the couch beside her, smiling wide. She automatically bends towards you, moving so she can see your face better, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of you—like always. 

“Hey,” You greet, tucking your legs up beneath you. 

“Hi,” She says, smiling back, clasping her hands together and resting them on her lap. “How was your shift?”

“You know, the usual,” You say. “It was actually pretty quiet, which was nice.”

She nods. “Yeah, that is nice.”

“You look nice,” You say, admiring the way her hair falls around her shoulders. “You know I love when you have your hair down.”

“Oh,” She says, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears, her cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. “Thanks, uhm, thank you.”

“What’d you do with your day off?” You ask, shifting your knee over, knocking hers with it a few times. “Anything exciting?”

She hums. “No, not really. I did laundry and went grocery shopping.”

“Oh, you’re an angel, we haven’t had groceries in weeks,” You say, touching her knee again, but this time you don’t pull it away. She glances down, her mind buzzing at the contact. You’re not looking at her anymore, instead taking in everyone else. “Santos didn’t skimp on the guest list, hey?”

“I guess not,” Mel says, turning to look over her shoulder at the sound of someone coming down the stairs. You look too, grinning when you see Dennis, hopping to your feet and meeting him at the bottom. Mel follows, not sure what else to do in the sea of people in Trinity’s living room. 

“Hey,” He says, smiling softly as he steps onto the landing. “When’d you get here?”

“Ten minutes ago,” You say, sliding two fingers into the waistband of his jeans and pulling him close, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Santos up there?”

“Yeah, she’s freaking out over the idea of Garcia not showing up,” He explains, glancing towards Mel. “Sorry for leaving you alone down here.”

“It’s fine,” She says, quickly dismissing the apology. 

“Garcia’s coming,” You say. “I talked to her earlier, said she’d be here whenever she got off. Even said she was ‘looking forward to it.’”

“You wanna’ go tell Trinity that?” He asks, slightly exasperated. “She’s losing it.”

“I think she told me in confidence,” You counter, moving to wrap your arms around his neck. “So keep your lips sealed.”

“Make me,” He murmurs, leaning forward to kiss you again. Mel looks away, a blush spreading up her chest and neck. You smile against his lips, only pulling back when you hear someone clap him on the shoulder, making you separate. 

“Get a fucking room,” Trinity says, coming down the stairs with Victoria behind her. She says your name in greeting, offering an uncharacteristic smile along with it. 

“Hey, happy birthday!” You exclaim, releasing Dennis to pull her in for a hug. Dennis looks towards Mel again, giving her a reassuring look. 

“You want a drink?” He asks, and she nods quickly. 

“Yes, please,” She says. He walks off to the kitchen, leaving her with you, Trinity and Victoria. She naturally takes a step back, assuming you don’t want her involved in your conversation, but you reach back without even looking at her. You casually—so casually—bring her back over, letting her take the spot beside you in the small circle. 

The four of you move to the living room, taking any free seats around the room. You sit on the floor, and Mel sits too, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. You touch her thigh for a second, squeezing it quickly before returning your hand to your own lap. Dennis stops infront of the two of you, passing both of you drinks, the tops already off. 

“Thank you,” Mel says, whereas you just smile. He sits on your other side, leaning back on his hands. She takes a sip, trying to keep herself from staring at you as much as she can. 

There’s various conversations overlapping in the room, and the music playing in the background is making her head spin ever so slightly. You lean away from Dennis, putting your lips close enough to her ear that you won’t have to shout. 

“Most people are just dropping by for a drink or two, it’ll just be a few of us in a bit,” You say. She nods, glancing at you for a second, then returning her gaze to the spot on the carpet she was looking at. Dennis leans forward, poking his head around your frame. 

“You okay?” He asks, and she nods again. “We can go out back if you want to, just say the word.”

“I’m okay,” She insists. 

You slide your bracelet—a stretchy, beaded one that your niece made you—off your wrist, holding it out to her. She takes it without hesitation, twisting it around her fingers, the same way she has so many times before. You watch her toy with it for a few moments, fondness swirling in your chest. 

Trinity suggests a game of ‘Never Have I Ever’ once some people have cleared out, leaving a smaller group of you behind. A few people protest at the ‘childish’ game, but everyone agrees to participate. The questions start off relatively tame, but they slowly get more and more chaotic as time goes on. You only have one finger left by the seventh round, almost convinced people are trying to get you out on purpose at this point. 

“Uhm,” Victoria hums, looking around the circle, squinting to see how many fingers everyone is still holding up. 

“Hey, no targeting,” Trinity says.

“No, I know,” She insists. “Uh, never have I ever…had a threesome?”

Trinity lowers a finger, taking a sip of her drink as she does. 

“I’m out, then,” You say, copying her actions with your pinky, tipping your drink towards your mouth. Various exclamations of shock come from the group, making you laugh, setting the now-empty bottle on the coffee table. 

“You’ve had a threesome?” Garcia asks. “You’ve been in a serious relationship since you were like, twenty.”

“Twenty-one,” You correct. “But yeah, I’ve had a few.”

“Like…more than one?” Victoria asks. “In college, or whatever?”

“Hang on,” Trinity says. “You’ve had a threesome and I never heard about it? I told you I had a threesome after like, three months of knowing you!”

“That was your personal choice,” You tease, leaning back into the couch, shrugging. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Did you put a finger down too?” Victoria asks, looking towards Dennis, who shrinks into himself a little. 

“I, uh, yeah,” He says. 

“Do you guys have threesomes together?” Trinity questions, smirking as she leans closer, this newfound information blowing her mind. 

Dennis’ face goes red, but you just shrug, glancing towards him with a slight smile on your face. You’re past tipsy now, but you’d probably share the same amount of information sober. 

“Yep,” You say. 

“Oh my god,” Victoria says, blinking rapidly, sitting back on her feet. Trinity chuckles, raising her drink a little. 

“Never would’ve fucking seen that coming,” She says. “Huckleberry’s freakier than I thought.”

“It’s not that freaky,” Dennis counters, his face still burning. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Trinity says, glancing around the room as she tries to think of what to ask next. Her gaze lands on Mel’s hand, which has barely moved all game, slightly lower now than it was before. “Wait, Mel, didn’t you have four fingers up?”

Mel flinches, pulling her top lip between her teeth. “Uh-huh.”

“Melissa fucking King,” Trinity says. “You’ve had a threesome?”

She nods in response. The shock that ripples through the group is ten times what it was for you, disbelief evident in their voices. 

“When?” Trinity pushes. 

“You don’t have to tell us anything,” You say, giving her an escape. She looks at you with wide eyes. “I think some mystery would do us all some good, actually. This group has a disturbing affinity for gossip.”

“I wouldn’t call it disturbing,” Trinity argues. “It's…enthusiastic.”

Victoria is still gobsmacked, her mouth opening and closing. Mateo puts a hand on her shoulder, his face bright with amusement, trying to bring her back. Emma and Joy watch everything from the chair in the corner of the room, staying absolutely silent. Emma’s expression matches Mel’s, slightly confused and a little anxious. Joy looks absolutely delighted.

“I thought you didn’t like dating,” Victoria finally says. 

Mel shrugs, nerves still evident. 

“She never said she was dating them,” Trinity counters. “Are you dating them?”

She shrugs again. “I—I don’t-”

“Okay, come on,” You say, interrupting. You’re well aware that Mel is more than capable of standing up for herself, but you can see the gears turning in her head as she tries to figure out what to say in response. “Why don’t you tell us about your threesome, Trinity?”

She sighs dramatically, putting her elbows on her knees, leaning forward. She feigns a fond reminiscence, drawing another laugh out of the group. 

“Gladly,” She says. “It was my freshman year of college-”

You and Mel are in the kitchen a couple hours later, rinsing out cans and bottles in the sink, tossing them into the recycling bin in Trinity’s pantry. You come up behind her at one point, setting a hand on her hip, kissing her shoulder. 

“You alright?” You murmur. She nods, rinsing the last can and drying her hands off on a towel. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” She says. “I didn’t think anyone would notice I put a finger down.”

You hum, letting go of her and closing the pantry door. “They’re vultures, it’s not your fault.”

The tone is teasing, making Mel smile. She steps back from the counter, turning around to face you, hands clasped together. You, like always, read her like a book. 

“I think I’m ready to head out,” You say. She perks up, nodding.

“Yeah, yeah, me too,” She says. “I could uh—I could give you a ride?”

“Are you sure?” You ask, face completely neutral. It was a little hard for Mel to tell when you were kidding around at first, but now she’s basically an expert in your sense of humour. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

She ducks her head down, looking towards the floor, her smile growing. “I think I can make it work.”

“As long as it’s not too far out of your way,” You add, unable to keep yourself from smiling, too. “Let’s go get Dennis.”

She parks where she always does in front of your building. Dennis makes three mugs of tea without asking. The three of you brush your teeth side by side in the bathroom, easily moving around each other. You sandwich yourself between Mel and Dennis on the bed, looking like a pack of sardines, wishing both of them goodnight before Dennis turns the light off.

And it's all completely casual.

...

Right?

A/N - i honestly...don't love this and was tempted to do a complete rewrite but i haven't posted in so long i decided to post it anyway! love u guys mwah happy saturday <3

tags:

@thenormreedus @sinoxima @serrendiipty @celiaisacaterpillar @xoxoloverb  @momdancingtomcr @arianna-r13 @starsbymars @outpostsworld @he6rtshaker  @ilocuras24 @hucklesbaby @laurenyas @true1411 @navs-bhat  @amelia-styles @barnes70stark @huang-the-geek @run-for-the-hills @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @noahcantread @princess76179 @the-perfect-gemini @arienic @llovekats @fishfishcaterpillar @macbaetwo @izzyyy-1 @waywardhunter95

[munsonzgf]

OMGGG this is my dream

[geminiwritten]

you have no idea ; jack abbot

summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.

notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 18889

Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.

Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.

He had never really had anything to be jealous of.

Until now.

Now there are far too many things.

Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.

Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.

Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.

So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[docrobinavitch]

that was me blue

dr abbot x f!senior resident!reader | read on ao3

content: 18+ mdni, widow!jack abbot, fake dating, sexually explicit content, age gap, discussions of miscarriage, discussions of surgical miscarriage, discussions of infidelity, dysfunctional family, discussions of divorce, wedding, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, mild violence, some named family members and ex significant other words: 26.7k synopsis: when the wedding invitation arrives for your ex husband's marriage to your little sister, you're tempted to set fire to your entire life. your attending, jack abbot, has other ideas. a/n: i had a blast writing this all the drama all the love all the hurt all the pining!! it's been a while since i wrote something for jack and i'm really happy to be putting this out just in time for dr abbot to be back on our tv screens!! title is based on the song me before you by bleachers. i hope you love it <3 syd (also i know i did not edit this well so i apologize in advance for the typos)

The night had already started off badly enough before you checked the mail. You'd slept through three alarms, stubbed your toe on the dresser in your rush to get dressed, and burnt your coffee all before leaving your apartment. In hindsight, you should have left the overflowing mailbox alone on your way out. You wished you could have foreseen how yanking all the pieces of mail out of the small black box that hung by the door would ruin your whole shift. Would ruin your whole week, really.

Getting into your car, you had tossed the mail into the passenger seat. It wasn't until you were stopped at a light about five minutes away from the hospital that you caught sight of the envelope. Pastel pink bows and your name etched in cursive.

Your heart dropped, eyes glued to the envelope, the rest of your body locking up, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"

Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.

After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?

Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.

Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.

Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.

She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."

"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"

Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"

"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"

"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."

"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"

"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."

You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."

Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.

"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."

You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."

You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."

"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."

As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.

You sighed, "shit."

As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.

But that wouldn't stop you from trying.

"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"

"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"

She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.

You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.

"Yes."

You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.

"That's it?"

You shrugged, "Yes."

He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."

"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."

"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"

You sighed, "Yes."

He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."

"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."

"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"

You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."

"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.

"I won't," you called back.

Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"

Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."

He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"

"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."

He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."

Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."

Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.

"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.

"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."

Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.

"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"

"You got it."

***

You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.

Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.

"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"

"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."

"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"

Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."

It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.

"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.

You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"

"You're too good for triage?"

"I know you're doing it to punish me—"

"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"

"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"

He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."

You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.

But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.

Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.

"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."

"Not now, later."

You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."

"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."

His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"

"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."

You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."

He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.

"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."

You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."

You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."

"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."

You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.

You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.

How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.

He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.

In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.

And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.

"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."

You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."

You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."

"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."

You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."

At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."

You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"

You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."

He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"

He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.

"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."

His grin widened, "Atta girl."

And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.

***

The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.

After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."

Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."

He frowned, "What was that?"

"What?"

"Did you just apologize to me?"

The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."

"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."

The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"

You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"

"Your sister's wedding."

You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."

His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"

You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."

Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.

"If you don't go, they win."

You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."

He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."

"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"

You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"

He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."

Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"

Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."

You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"

He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."

You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"

He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."

You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."

"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"

You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."

After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.

"I left my car at the hospital."

He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."

As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"

Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."

His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"

You snorted, "Seriously?"

He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."

Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."

"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.

You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.

But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.

Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.

You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"

"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."

"Mom—"

"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"

"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."

"He seemed nice. Handsome."

You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."

Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."

Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.

Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.

You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.

***

You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.

When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"

You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"

"You think I didn't already think of all this?"

He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.

You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"

He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."

You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.

He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.

You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"

"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.

"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."

He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"

You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."

The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."

You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."

He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."

You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.

***

As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.

You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.

"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."

It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.

"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.

"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."

Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.

But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.

Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.

You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.

When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"

You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."

"Yes you can and yes you are."

"Abbot—"

"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."

You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.

He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"

You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."

He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"

Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."

You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"

You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.

"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."

***

As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—

"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.

He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"

You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."

After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"

You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."

He frowned, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."

His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"

You nodded, "Yep."

"And they're… Fine with that?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."

Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"

"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."

He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."

You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."

After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."

You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?

So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.

***

A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.

You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.

What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.

He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.

And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.

He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."

You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"

"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."

He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."

Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."

"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.

He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."

"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."

"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.

He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.

"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.

"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?

"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.

"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."

He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.

But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."

Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.

"Mom, you remember Jack."

He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.

"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."

"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."

You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.

"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."

You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"

"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."

You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"

Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."

"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."

Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.

"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"

"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."

The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."

You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.

Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—

"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"

You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"

"Your cane or crutches or something—"

He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."

"But—"

"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"

You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.

Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.

He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."

"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."

Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."

"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.

"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."

"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"

Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"

You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"

"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."

You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"

Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."

You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."

Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."

You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."

He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.

"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.

***

Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.

A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.

No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.

Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.

There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.

So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.

Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.

So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.

That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.

You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.

You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?

You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.

***

"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.

"Do you need to sit down?"

You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.

Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.

"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."

You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."

"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"

"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."

Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"

Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.

Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"

Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."

"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"

You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.

"Could you kiss me, you think?"

Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"

Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.

Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.

It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.

"What do you think? Did it work?"

You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."

Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"

You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"

Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."

You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."

Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.

Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.

But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.

Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.

And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.

"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."

You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.

Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."

You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."

Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"

"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"

He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.

But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.

It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.

***

"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"

Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.

You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.

The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.

You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.

Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.

And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.

"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."

She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.

"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."

Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."

You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."

She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."

Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"

"You're lying!"

"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."

Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"

"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"

"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."

There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.

You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"

"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"

You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."

You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.

Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."

The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.

"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."

Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.

But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.

"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"

Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.

So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.

"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.

You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."

Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."

You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.

"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.

"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."

When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"

"That's not true—"

"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."

The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.

"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.

In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.

"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."

You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"

"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."

His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"

He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."

Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."

His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"

You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."

With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.

***

"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."

Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.

"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.

You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."

Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."

You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.

"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."

For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.

"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.

"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"

You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.

But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.

You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.

***

Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.

But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.

"So, when're you gonna tell her?"

Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.

"Sorry?"

"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"

Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."

Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."

Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."

"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."

He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."

Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."

Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.

He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.

He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.

You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.

***

After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.

You bit your lip, "Can I help?"

He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"

"I want to. Please."

He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.

You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.

He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"

"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"

He nodded, "Much."

You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.

You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."

He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."

You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."

"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."

You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.

"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."

"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."

He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"

He nodded slowly, "'Course."

As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.

When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.

He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.

***

Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.

When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.

"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.

Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.

You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.

In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.

As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.

The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.

You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.

"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.

"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."

He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.

"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."

"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."

He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."

You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"

He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."

"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."

As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.

"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."

For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.

You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.

"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"

You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."

That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."

You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.

***

Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.

But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.

He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.

You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.

But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.

When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.

You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.

He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."

David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."

Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."

For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."

When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.

"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.

"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.

You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."

"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"

He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."

"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"

Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."

He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."

You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.

"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"

Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.

"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."

You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."

Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.

"I don't need you picking me apart as well."

He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."

You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"

Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."

There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.

Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.

"Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."

His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."

He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."

It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.

Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.

But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?

Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"

Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.

You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."

***

Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.

His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.

It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.

He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.

The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.

But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.

When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.

You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.

Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.

When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—

"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.

Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"

You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.

Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.

There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.

But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.

And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.

He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.

"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—

"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"

Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.

Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.

"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"

"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."

He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.

This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.

At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.

Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?

But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.

After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"

When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.

"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.

"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"

He sighed, "That was out of line—"

You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."

Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."

When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.

He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.

You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.

"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…Could you hold me?"

Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.

You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.

He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.

When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."

He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.

***

Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.

As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.

Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.

You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.

"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.

"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"

He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"

You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."

He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"

You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."

You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."

Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"

You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."

He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."

You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.

"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.

Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."

Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.

"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.

Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"

"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."

You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.

And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.

His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."

***

The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.

The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.

Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.

"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"

"Jack—"

"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"

Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"

You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"

He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"

You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."

He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."

You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."

"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"

You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.

After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.

Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."

You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"

His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.

As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.

"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."

Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?

***

You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.

"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.

You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."

And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.

You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.

"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.

You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."

Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."

You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."

You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.

"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."

You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.

Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."

"I'm just trying to help—"

"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.

She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."

You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"

"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"

"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"

"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"

You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"

"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"

"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"

"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"

It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.

"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.

Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.

"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.

"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.

"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.

"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.

Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"

"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.

David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"

You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.

"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"

"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."

David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"

Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"

"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"

"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."

"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."

You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."

"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"

Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."

"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.

You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.

And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.

You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.

You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.

"You can talk to me right here."

Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"

"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"

"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"

You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.

Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."

You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.

You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.

It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.

Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—

"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."

Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.

"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."

Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"

You frowned, "But I—"

"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."

You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."

***

Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.

When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."

David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"

Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."

Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."

With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.

There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.

"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"

She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."

Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"

God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."

Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."

She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."

Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."

***

You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.

You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.

It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.

It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.

And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.

So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.

For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"

"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."

You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.

It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.

"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.

"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"

He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"

You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."

His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"

"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"

"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."

Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"

"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."

You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.

"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"

"Yes."

He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"

You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"

He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"

"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."

His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"

He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.

"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.

Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.

"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."

Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.

You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.

The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.

Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.

So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.

***

Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.

On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.

"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."

Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"

"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."

Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."

She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."

Jack frowned, "I don't follow."

Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."

She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.

He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.

Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.

The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The third night, he snapped.

"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"

"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"

Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."

He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.

As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.

He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.

When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.

You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.

"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"

Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.

You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm sick."

Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."

You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."

He tilted his head, "You don't?"

Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"

"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"

"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"

"Scared of what, honey?"

Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."

Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.

"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."

You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"

He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."

You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."

He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.

With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"

You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."

He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."

You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."

Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.

He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.

"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.

He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."

"Where are we going?"

"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.

He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.

Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.

"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.

"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."

"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"

You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."

He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"

"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"

He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."

***

It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.

You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.

Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.

"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.

His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"

You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."

His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.

Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.

Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.

When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.

His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.

"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."

Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.

"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"

"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."

There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."

As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"

"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."

"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"

Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"

"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."

You nodded, "Me too."

He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."

Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."

He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."

Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.

"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.

When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.

He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.

Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"

Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.

After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.

He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."

Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.

With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.

You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."

You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."

You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.

"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.

You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."

His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.

With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."

Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.

He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"

"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."

He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.

As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.

The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"

You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"

"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."

For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.

Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."

***

With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.

"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"

You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."

He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."

"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."

He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."

As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.

With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.

Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.

Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."

Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."

For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot was looking forward to the sun rising and a new day beginning.

[sapiensecrets]

dennis whitaker x RT!reader - masterlist

wet t-shirt contest - there are two things that everyone in the ER knows about you—you're incredible at your job and extremely hot. the thing that they don't know is that you're dating one of their newest residents and have been for years. WORD COUNT: 3.7k

staring contest - dennis steps in when a drunken patient gets handsy with you. WORD COUNT: 3.5k

punching above his weight...or is he? - once your relationship is no longer a secret, the emergency department starts to see just how perfect you and dennis are for each other, and they realize that you may not be as far out of his league as they initially thought. WORD COUNT: 4.2k

cold compress - you and dennis get interrupted while you're...messing around in a call room. WORD COUNT: 4k

i've got you - you get a concussion while at work, courtesy of a med student panicking over a bit of blood. WORD COUNT: 4.7k

undermined - you and dennis struggle to get back to normal after your concussion. WORD COUNT: 6.1k

*NEW* destabilize - dennis puts his frustrations on you during a mass casualty, after seeing how people seem to drop everything to make your life easier. WORD COUNT: 4.9k

all things dennis and hot shot (ideas, blurbs, thoughts, moodboards, etc!)

SERIES TAGLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

[cinemamunson]

he’s got me giggling and kicking my feet and shit

[chelseeebe]

see him online (all the time)

mdni!! 18+. smut. smut with no plot at all actually. modern au.

title based on if you’re too shy (let me know) - the 1975

a/n: heyyy i’m back with some degenerate smut!! it’s my first time ever doing a fic like this so if it isn’t formatted well/is confusing pleaseeee let me know!! r has a faceless nsfw account on twitter, eddie is a content creator/camboy with a large following. they’re both absolute down bad losers for one another! if it’s not your thing pls feel free to scroll

this @gutsnhugs kurt fic literally blew my mind and kinda forced me into finally writing some camboy!eddie so everyone say thank you!!

˗ˏˋ 🍒 ˎˊ˗

you're horny.

horny and alone.

which wasn't a rarity, it was just that today was particularly awful and nothing on this wretched site is seeming to satiate the ache between your legs.

eddie always seemed to be able to, watching the one video of him being ridden like an absolute stallion over and over until you'd cum enough times to fall asleep.

but you need him, need him here.

the ache keeps coming back, each time worse than before. a deep, aching hunger for this strangers cock. it was debauchery, genuine filthy need to be used by this man that the autoscroll videos of puppies playing with ducklings couldn't even cleanse.

you click the small envelope on his profile on a whim, it's not like he'd ever see your message, god knows how many desperate women and men alike sent him utter vulgarity day in day out. this was more for your own appeasement. to know that you tried, even if you weren't successful.

you've posted a few videos here and there, garnering a couple hundred likes on a few. mostly just of your hand between your legs, shuddered gasps soundtracking the tapes. but you were nowhere near on eddie's level.

he had thousands of followers, all salivating at the mouth, clambering for the next video, the next stream of him mindlessly playing with his cock- hell, they'd cream themselves for just a tweet back saying hi.

🐇baby

i need to fuck u so bad lol.

he wouldn't even see it.

you'd be cursed to a life of anonymous thirsting forever. unless of course you accidentally stumbled upon him in the street, accidentally bumping his shoulder which forces you to apologise, therein which he falls deeply, madly in love, fucking your brains out each and every day until the end of your lives.

but as delusional as you may be, you know that the likelihood of that ever happening is zero to none. so, instead of pining over some dude you'll never meet, you lock your phone and attempt to fall asleep. dreaming sweet musings of curly-headed men who live to make you cum.

-

the shrill ringing of your alarm is abrupt, forcefully prying you from your dreamland and back into the dull dregs of corporate life.

you don't even look at your phone until the coffee is in your mug, leaning over the kitchen island to find what was perhaps the worst notification you could've ever received.

edward🖤 is that u on ur page? if it is....... i'm down very down

oh my god.

your heart thuds, feeling the mismatched beats in your throat.

firstly on account for him even seeing your disgraceful thirsting, but secondly for the fact that he's very down.

very down?

mortification rushes through your veins, heat creeping through your body in complete disgust. and arousal. definitely arousal.

🐇baby oh hey.... didn't think you'd actually see that i'm so sorry🫣 ya they're me but i don't post my face #corporategirl

jesus christ.

you were beyond redemption, so disgustingly down bad for this man that he had you quivering over your burnt black coffee at six thirty in the fucking morning.

that far-fetched, ludicrous fantasy of yours seemed so terrifyingly feasible now that you want to cull it from your mind. rid yourself of any and all fantasies about him, just in case you were to meet and he could somehow read your tainted mind.

work today would only be made a hundred times harder knowing that you'd be waiting for a message back. for some inkling of hope to keep this facade up. he'd probably do it too- play along with your sick games in a bid to get you to pay for his top-tier onlyfans or some shit.

-

it's almost lunch before you're completely calmed down, absentmindedly checking your phone when you see that stupid little black heart again.

edward_munz followed you back!

edward🖤 i see everything lol do you really need to or do you have post nut clarity and regret ever sending that message bc i don't if you were wondering

you hate the fact that he has your ears burning from four silly little messages, only despising yourself more for immediately replying.

🐇baby that's so scary no post nut clarity here

you spare a quick glance around the, mostly silent office, making sure nobody was creeping over your shoulder, checking in on their pervert coworker.

🐇baby you just nutted? without showing me?🥺

you're disgusting.

immediately regretful for your no-better-than-a-dude's words.

🐇baby omg i'm sorry ew

he doesn't reply, or even see the messages. forcing your heart into arrest, your pussy already throbbing at the most surface level flirting the twitter dm's had ever seen.

the knot in your stomach grows with every passing minute, was it over now? before it had even started? you should've kept your mouth shut, participated in the parasocial teasing and then gone home to up your sub amount like a good little follower instead.

ping

edward🖤 sent an image

you tentatively click the notification, it'd be a sub-list. one telling you to send him an extra ten dollars for the dm's package.

oh no.

your head snaps up, glancing at your unassuming colleagues again. double, triple insurance that none of them could see your phone screen.

it's a picture of his lower stomach, covered in a thick white tinted substance, the curly hairs on his groin all slicked with the stuff and the pretty pink tip of his glistening cock in the background.

edward🖤 is that anything? proof enough for u?

🐇baby wow fuck i'm at work rn NEED to fuck you for sure or need you to fuck me maybe

edward🖤 if ur serious, i'm always down ur fucking hot

you're fucking hot?

coming from the very man that had you pleading for mercy from your own bastard hand. you're honoured, completely, unabashedly honoured.

🐇baby i'm so serious are u?? don't make me get my hopes up for nothing edward🖤 ofc i am do u even live anywhere near indiana?

indiana? the love of your life has been in indiana this entire time?

🐇baby i live in indiana! lol i live just outside the city what about you? edward🖤 hawkins lol that's like a 40 minute drive from me u might be worth it tho 🐇baby might be? edward🖤 ok WILL be better?

🐇baby much better r u 100% serious i've never done this before i don't know if you're just trying to be nice edward🖤 100% serious. if ur scared we can always ft before?

you grin at your phone, a loser of the highest order. it was the bare minimum chivalry that one would expect but it had you biting your lip anyway.

edward🖤 but i wanna see you i mean it 🐇baby okay i want to see u too u don't even know what i look like lol edward🖤 true show me if we're gonna make sweet love or wtv i should know 🐇baby lolllll

you scroll through your camera roll, swiping past the numerous images of your food and the sunset in an attempt to find a half-decent picture of yourself. there's one taken from your laptop, lead on your stomach with your feet dangling helplessly in the back with your finger positioned right between your teeth.

edward🖤 reacted ❤️ to your message fuuuucckkkk and you want to fuck me? why?? 🐇baby oh my god don't do that you know ur hot edward🖤 i'm so fucking hard again lol wyd saturday?

it's taking everything within you not to scuttle off to the bathroom to ease the pulsing of your cunt. he was ridiculously smooth. charming his way right into your sodden panties, not that that wasn't an easy feat for someone who looked like him.

🐇baby nothing or... i can be doing something if u want edward🖤 now you are i'm coming over need to feel u so so bad

there’s a knock at your cubicle wall, startling you out of your skin. kristy swings round, none the wiser to your deplorable antics, "we're gonna grab some lunch, you coming?" so completely oblivious to how much her choice of words rang true.

you shield your phone with your entire body, protecting her from the filth that lay upon it, you're not entirely sure who would end up more traumatised. "oh.. uhm yeah, let me just finish up and i'll meet you downstairs," nodding sweetly, a complete facade to cover up who you really were.

🐇baby i’m so so sorry i have to go work thing i’ll make it up to you later

edward🖤 oh fuck you that’s so mean i’ll remember that i’m gonna stream later you better be there

his invitation makes you smile to yourself, haphazardly tossing your belongings into your bag, hoping your beaming grin and warm skin wouldn't arouse suspicion with your coworkers. you've no idea how you'll make it through lunch, let alone the rest of your workday all the while knowing eddie was barely an hour away, stroking his cock to the thought of you.

🐇baby wouldn’t miss it

-

you don’t waste a millisecond between getting through your front door and thinking about how you’ll make it up to eddie.

shuffling through your usual routine of stripping off your rigid work clothes, reheating whatever bland variation of leftovers left in the fridge and planting yourself on the couch to watch hours of trashy tv. only today, you move upstairs, to your bedroom— to privacy.

you had an array of previously filmed videos, mostly awfully-lit, barely legible thirty second clips of you cumming, made for the sole purpose of garnering likes from thirsty old men online. they wouldn't do, weren't up to the standard that he deserved for your cruel blue-balling.

it comes to you as you finish the borderline inedible spaghetti, sat cross-legged on your bed. you'd make it up to him a thousand times over, and no doubt rile him up a thousand more.

🐇baby when r u going live need to see u

edward🖤 look at you begging for me now you still owe me but give me ten and i'll be live

perfect.

enough time to set yourself up, laptop poised and ready to go, pussy purring for a glimpse of his ringed fingers pumping his shaft. knowing now, that he was just as eager to fuck you, as you were him- you wanted to make this something, worthwhile even. purposefully changing into an especially racy pair of black panties, not that he'd see much, that wasn't the point.

your phone buzzes, snapping you out of the enchanting visions of him fucking you into the mattress. a link, to his stream sits waiting, taunting. making the distracted fluttering of your cunt oh so much worse.

edward🖤 just for you

you tilt the laptop screen, just enough to be captured by your phone, joining the stream to a dimly-lit image of him sat resting on his elbow. one hand wrapped around his phone, the other moving slowly over his hip.

his eyes flit between whatever was on his screen to the chat, thousands of faceless people begging to see more. eddie could go live anytime and be certain that at least a thousand porn-brained sickos would be tuning in to watch.

"how's your day been?" he asks, voice seeping through your dark bedroom, "y'think about me at all?" chuckling low, still engrossed by whatever it was he was watching.

god, you hope it's you.

the chat lights up with a hundred messages. ‘all day everyday!' and 'i never stop thinking about you' fill the screen. he had them wrapped around his little finger, lapping up the petty scraps he threw them.

and don't get it wrong, you were absolutely one of them. look at the state he'd gotten you in without ever touching you.

your hand sinks down between your thighs, phone positioned carefully on your chest as you hit record. he hadn't even started touching himself yet and you were soaked. the commanding boom of his voice, the lazy eye contact with the camera and the sheer exhilaration of knowing you'd see exactly what you do to him on camera.

your fingers dip into the soft lace, circling your clit a few measly times before sliding between your wet folds and into your quivering hole, "oh fuuck," gasping right into the microphone, words intertwined with shaky moans.

eddie looks at the camera, as if he's looking through the plastic right at you, "a little excited today, aren't you?" fucker, it's like he knows. "'m gonna start in a sec.." gripping his dick through the material, ensuring the vulgar outline of his erection can be appropriately seen by all.

"shit.." murmuring without meaning to, so entirely wrecked by just a few words.

he tugs on his sweatpants, tongue peeking out of his shiny lips as his cock jumps up, hitting against his stomach, already glossy with pre-cum. "that what you wanted, hm?" wrapping his hand around the base as his phone falls onto the mattress, images of you already burned into his mind, you hope.

your fingers glide back to your clit, tracing around the thrumming nub, right in time with his fist moving up and down. you share the same tempo, despite the distance. that must mean something, maybe.

“oh eddie,” you whine, the video now a shaky haze, attributed to your imminent orgasm, “touch me.. fuck please touch me,” mewling into your phone, only exaggerating a little, mostly for his benefit.

it doesn’t take long for you to make yourself cum, fucking your fingers desperately, a pool of your spend coating the digits when your stomach flips. projecting a chorus line of expletives, littered with echoes of his name.

he grunts, just as you begin to tremble— connected by a higher being you’re sure. his thumb teasing his tip, drawing this out for as long as it took, milking the drooling sycophants for every last dollar they were willing to tip.

“please please please,” you pant, seeking his permission to let yourself topple over, “thank you.. thank- shit,” crashing into your climax, crying out with little care as to who could hear.

your phone slides from your heaving chest, almost immediately ready to go again when your eyes focus and connect with his.

it takes a minute, but you gain enough semblance of control eventually, tapping hurriedly to get the video sent and into his hands.

his phone brightens up the inked skin of his rib cage and for a moment you think he might just ignore it until he pauses, recognises your name and lets curiosity take over. the camera jolts, his laptop shoved slightly lower, so as to not expose whatever might be waiting behind the notification.

“oh shit,” eddie mutters, glancing at the chat only to instantly flick back to your little pornography attempt. “jesus christ,” swiftly lowering the volume of his phone when the video plays.

this is it.

everything you’d ever wanted, transpiring over a grainy livestream on a rainy thursday evening. it’s awe inspiring, just last night you had meant nothing to him and now you’re making him jitter like a stupid school boy.

the chat awakens when he puts the phone to his face, muffled sounds of your pleas ring out for thousands to hear.

what’s wrong?

pls don’t go!!!

need to see u cum👅

his hand reignites, watching diligently how your hips roll and you fuck yourself to his nonchalance, “fuck.. yeah, that’s it bunny,” he keens, the mindless nickname you’d given yourself tumbling out of his lips.

what’s he watching

who is that lol.

relentlessly fucking his fist now, no longer concerned with the stream, but instead you. every single sense of his is honed into you and his fucking cock.

he has a gf???

“y’gonna take my cock, huh?” voice full of rasp, dominance. you’re shivering all over again, grinding down onto nothing, “gonna cum all over my fuckin’ cock,” a demand, not a question.

your cunt drips, hand now back in your panties, teasing your clit with his words. with the image of him losing all composure to your video. his strangled moans travel through the speaker, masquerading the wet shlick of your pussy.

“doin’ so good f’me..” you can see his fingers scramble restart the recording, the others vigorously pumping around his cock, “ohh.. shit, bunny. fuck, i gotta feel you.. need’a..” trailing off into silence to allow your wails through clearly.

who even is that.

this is so fucking hot🥵

wish that was me

the tattoos littering his body gleam with sweat, flexing with every jerk of his hand, every time your syrupy iteration of his name calls out through the phone. it’s sickening how your own voice makes you shudder, getting off to yourself seemed narcissistic but it fills your stomach with electricity.

eddie must agree, sighing into the air with zero constraint, “gonna fill you up.. yeah? you want that? want me to cum inside y’perfect pussy?”

“fuck yes.. fuck.. please,” begging him, so feeble. at his mercy and so willingly too.

the camera wobbles, matching his ferocious pace though you see him perfectly. see his pretty cock twitch between his palm, “fuck yeah baby.. fuck yes, gonna cum.. gonna cum right here,” garbled nonsense mostly but it sends you hurtling into another orgasm.

seemingly just in front of his own, strained sobs fall out of his pouted lips, deliriously chanting your display name, “yes bunny, take it— take it all,” thick ropes of cum paint his hand and thighs, over and over.

jesus christ🔥🔥🔥🔥

just came everywhere lmao!

he’s ruined, a shell of the cocky, egotistical exterior he had on prior. and all because of you.

his arm falls to his side, then, abruptly the screen goes dark, his laptop snapped shut without so much as a goodbye nary thank you to his loyal following.

there’s maybe a single second of silence before your phone explodes, vibrations one after the other alerting you to his frenzied messages.

edward🖤

ur fucking crazy

genuinely fucked

did you see how much i fucking came

do u want me to lose my mind??

was that u making it up to me bc shit

your heart beats a million miles a minute, if this was what happened over some low quality livestream, how would you ever cope with him in actuality? there’s not a chance in hell you’ll make it out alive.

🐇baby

so you liked it??

edward🖤

i’m abt to drive to your house rn

i’ll show you how much i liked it

loved it

i loved it

🐇baby

please do

i came twice lol

i want u

edward🖤

im gonna cum again

show me u rn

just anything

pls

you diligently open the camera, cheek pressed into the pillow with your eyes wide, gazing directly at him through miles of separation. in the most ludicrous way, it feels like he’s peering right back— together even though you couldn’t be further from it.

edward🖤

fuvkkkk gof

i’m cumming

i’m in love with u

come here

let me come ther idc

come on my face

five unconscious words were going to ruin your life forever.

[thelhc]

men come and go but x reader fic is forever

[thelhc]

men come and go but x reader fic is forever

[rustedhearts]

♡ the shane & ilya collection ♡

hollanov x bunny

♡ if you want it (part one)

♡ if you still want it (part two)

♡ if you need it (part three)

♡ you can have it (part four—the finale)

bunny x ilya prequels

♡ angel kisses

(more coming soon!)

♡ all fandoms

[luveline]

𝗕𝗘𝗬𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔 𝗔𝗨 ⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆ 𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡 Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl. mermaid!reader

all in one place — newest first

the first fic you attempt to figure each other out Steve tells Robin about the mermaid you are nearly discovered you spend a few hours in bed Steve takes you back to the pool you meet Dustin and Eddie Eddie teaches you how to swear Steve gets hurt by the pool you ask for company you have a hand to heart Steve gets you some bikinis you, Steve, and unending eye contact you don’t understand and get upset you give Steve an important gift everyone tries to cheer you up an animal outside scares you you make a big change Steve takes you to the mall for clothes Steve explains ‘want’ Robin discovers your new features you take your first bath Steve feels you ‘purring’ you get the wrong idea about Nancy you go klepto, to Steve’s distress you take a bite out of Steve’s arm you need Steve to explain real kissing Steve gives you your kiss there’s an intruder in the house you hurt yourself making a bagel Steve realises what’s missing you wake up in an unfamiliar room Steve’s guilty conscience creates distance you and Hopper have a talk you get a kiss for your headache Steve takes you to lovers lake

[luveline]

𝗕𝗘𝗬𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔 𝗔𝗨 ⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆ 𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡 Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl. mermaid!reader

all in one place — newest first

the first fic you attempt to figure each other out Steve tells Robin about the mermaid you are nearly discovered you spend a few hours in bed Steve takes you back to the pool you meet Dustin and Eddie Eddie teaches you how to swear Steve gets hurt by the pool you ask for company you have a hand to heart Steve gets you some bikinis you, Steve, and unending eye contact you don’t understand and get upset you give Steve an important gift everyone tries to cheer you up an animal outside scares you you make a big change Steve takes you to the mall for clothes Steve explains ‘want’ Robin discovers your new features you take your first bath Steve feels you ‘purring’ you get the wrong idea about Nancy you go klepto, to Steve’s distress you take a bite out of Steve’s arm you need Steve to explain real kissing Steve gives you your kiss there’s an intruder in the house you hurt yourself making a bagel Steve realises what’s missing you wake up in an unfamiliar room Steve’s guilty conscience creates distance you and Hopper have a talk you get a kiss for your headache Steve takes you to lovers lake

[harringtonsdiary]

don't kiss and tell masterlist

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.

Teaser Chapter one Chapter two

[comicnerd557]

Alpha!Eddie Munson x Omega!Reader x Omega!Steve Harrington

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

A/N: Y'all this hit me in a dream and I had to write it. Not proof or beta read

WARNINGS: Mentions of smut, obviously ABO shit, Eddie and Steve are accidentally IDIOTS cause they're men and men do be dumb, angst, reader cries, mentions of depression, angry alpha Nancy, use of the word pup, tiny feral Max, no use of Y/N, reader is instead called by several pet names by the adults and "mom" by the kids despite not having birthed any of them

The last thing Nancy Wheeler expected to see on her front porch at 4:12 AM in the pouring rain was you. It had been exactly three weeks and four days since you had been back to your old pack house, having spent all your time with Eddie's, completing the last stages of courtship.

You hadn't left Nancy's pack on bad terms or anything. The alpha was still your sister in every way but blood. You had found the two men you thought were your soul mates, and in return, had started the process of leaving Nancy's pack to join their smaller one. Eddie's pack of one grew almost immediately. In his courting of Steve, he practically adopted the four boys the male Omega deemed his own pups. Their small pack of two became six in just a few days.

Both Steve and Eddie had been nervous the first time they met Nancy Wheeler. Of course, they had "met" her before, it was hard not to know everyone in a town as small as Hawkins, but this was a formal occasion, an important tradition, in where one alpha would request permission from another to court the packs Omega.

Eddie hadn't done that with Steve. Steve had no pack to ask. His parents had all but abandoned him. Instead, they changed things up. Steve asked Wayne, Eddie's beta uncle, permission to take his nephew and form their own pack. The older Munson had been stunned, but happy for the boys. Permission was granted without hesitation.

"Shit, you're gonna catch your death out here." Nancy could hardly hear your sobbed whimpers over the sound of pouring rain, but the near silent noise had her alpha instincts going on overdrive. The entire pack house had woken when the doorbell was rang. Robin, pack beta and Nancy's partner of nearly 4 years, had stood ready with a heavy flashlight in hand, ready to fight alongside her alpha if there was an intruder on their doorstep.

Nancy had tried to tell her that an intruder wouldn't ring the doorbell, but, as always, Robin's anxiety didn't listen to logic. The pups, El and Max, were forced to stay in the nesting room, despite loud protests that they could help, that they were hardly pups anymore, but they couldn't disobey a direct order from their alpha.

Nancy pulled her shivering Omega inside, the sight of you shocking Robin enough to drop the flashlight. "Oh my god, what are you doing honey?!" When your mouth opened to speak, sobs fell from your lips in lieu of words. The scent of distressed Omega began to permeate the home. "Omega, look at me." Nancy grabbed your face, locking her fierce eyes with your devastated ones.

"Are you physically hurt?" You shook your head. No. "Is anyone else physically hurt?" Another no. Nancy paused. "Did Munson and Harrington do something?" The mere mention of their names only caused your distress to grow, flinging yourself into your alpha's arms as your heart continued to shatter in your chest.

Nancy bit back her growl, knowing it would only freak you out more. "Robin, get her a change of clothes and some towels for her to dry off. Tell the pups to get the nest ready." The beta nodded, though clearly reluctant to leave your side. "Baby, I need you to breathe." Your alpha's whispers were as soothing as could be, and while her scent was pumping out in droves in an attempt to help, nothing could get rid of the stench of betrayal under your nose.

When your eyes opened next, the sun was out, and the smell of pups lingered heavy in the air. Pups. Your pups. Your girls. Though you hadn't birthed them, as the pack omega, it was your job to care for the two adopted girls. The scent eased a bit of the ache in your chest. "You're awake." Nancy sat up, having been watching from the edge of the nest like a good alpha, always ready to protect her pack.

Your mouth opened, confused as to how you got to the pack nest. Nancy answered before you could ask. "You passed out in my arms. Scared the hell out of Robin...I tried to tell her it was just stress, maybe shock, but you know how she is." The aforementioned beta was still asleep, her fingers intertwined with yours in a tight grip.

"Do you wanna tell me what happened, honey?" Nancy whispered, resting a comforting hand on your knee. "You know you're always welcome home, but you gave us all quite the scare last night...What did they do?" Tears welled up in your eyes as a lump formed in your throat. The pain was still fresh, and talking about it felt like pouring lemon juice into a fresh cut. But Nancy deserved to know. The whole pack did after how badly you had scared them.

As if sensing they were about to get an explanation, Robin, El and Max had stirred to life. The two pups whined at the scent of your distress. El pumped more scent into the air. As a beta, her scent provided the most comfort. Max, a newly presented alpha, looked ready to kill before you even told your story.

"...It started small." Your voice was hoarse and quiet as you started speak, throat aching from standing in the freezing rain and from sobbing till you collapsed. "Things were amazing. I-I thought everything was perfect. B-but they...they wouldn't take the final step. E-eddie wouldn't mark me." Even saying his name hurt.

The more you explained, the faster the tears began to fall. Neither Steve nor Eddie would come into your nest. They would admire it, give you compliments and praise, but they wouldn't come within three feet. Eddie never offered you clothes to make the nest out of. Steve didn't even try to build the nest with you. Every time you tried to do more than a peck, the boys would both stop you.

"I-I know it's tradition to-to..." You glanced at the pups with flushed cheeks before moving on. "With Eddie first. He's the alpha. So I waited for him t-to try and he...he never did." And it all came to a head, you explained, last night. The pups had been fast asleep in their own rooms. The pack nest had been occupied. When you woke up, thirsty and wanting a glass of water, the scent of spice and ash had filled the house. Eddie was in rut.

Being the good omega you were, you rushed to the pack nest to help, only to be stopped. Steve looked frantic, standing in front of the closed door. "You can't help him sweetheart. Not this time. Only I can." When a confused frown found it's way to your face, Steve has huffed. When you asked why, insisting you could help, the older omega had snapped.

"Because he doesn't need you right now! You're not his omega, you have no mating mark, and I do, and I know how to help him. Next time, you can join, but right now, just go back to bed, omega."

Nancy looked nothing short of enraged as you finished your story. Robin was horrified. "So...they denied mating you and then basically banned you from helping? What the fuck?" You had tried to return to your room, but the sounds of grunts and pants and moans had become too much for your breaking heart. You climbed out the window and left without any notice. Steve and Eddie had made it clear they weren't serious about having you in their pack.

"I never should have l-left, I'm so s-stupid." You sobbed, head falling forward onto Nancy's shoulder. In an instant, your packmates moved in, scenting the air with as much love and support as they could. Max in particular was determined to get the stench of men off of you.

An hour later, and the pups had to get ready for school. Robin was left in charge of the grieving pack omega, who she was already trying to coax into eating, while Nancy dropped the pups off. "Behave today." Her words were directed at Max more than El. El rarely did any wrong. The red head could only cross her arms and huff. "You know the boys had nothing to do with Munson and Harrington's stupidity. Don't take it out on them."

Max and El were in the same grade as Dustin, Mike, Will and Lucas. They were friends, even, which was about to make this whole thing much more complicated. Both girls were furious, though El was much more silent in her anger. As they hopped out of the station wagon, they only waited till Nancy was out of sight before turning to face each other.

"I say we give them the same treatment they gave her." Max knew El would agree. El usually went along with whatever the elder girl suggested. "We're done with them." El spoke firmly, shaking her sisters hand before lacing their fingers together and heading into class. The girls barely made it into the school before they were bombarded by a panicking Dustin. "Max! El! She's missing! Mom is missing!" 'Mom' was the nickname the boys had affectionately given you just one week into Eddie and Steve's courting of you.

Max couldn't stop the way her upper lip curled into a snarl as Dustin continued to rant. "We woke up this morning and she was gone. Her window was open but all her stuff was still there! Steve is freaking out and Eddie is so worked up he ripped her closet door off the hinges when he was looking for her." A pissed off, worried alpha was bad enough, but Eddie was in rut. Any sense of logic had left his brain the moment that started.

"We're well aware." El responded, her eyes narrowed into a glare. "She showed up at the foor at four am soaking wet and sobbing because your pack alpha and omega are assholes." Max hissed. Dustin's eyes went wide. You were safe. Relief hit him like a freight train, only for confusion to immediately take it's place. "Wait, what?! What did Eddie and Steve do?!"

Max opened her mouth, but one squeeze of her hand from El stopped her. That wasn't their story to tell. "...You and your whole pack are dead to us. Your pack hurt mom, and we will never forgive you." The words were harsh, but Max didn't wait around for a response. She stomped away, tugging El behind her.

Dustin's first move after recovering from shock was to grab the walkie from his bag and radio in. "Dustin to pack, I have information. Meet me back at the pack house. Over." School could wait. This was more important. In a flash, all four boys were on their bikes once more, racing as fast as they could back to the pack house.

The mood at the Munson Harrington house was grim. Eddie, still in the throes of rut, was miserable, knowing one of his pack, official or not, was missing. He had emptied your drawers into the pack nest in an attempt to ease the pain of your absence. It kept his alpha content enough, but everytime he gained a little bit of thought back, the alpha was miserable.

Steve was beside himself with worry. He couldn't leave the pack house to look for you, god knows Eddie would loose it if both omega's were gone. All he could do was pace and wonder. He had given the boys strict orders to check in with El and Max, to find out if you had gone back to Nancy's pack, and if so, why.

Dustin's radio in had filled him with some sort of hope. He ran his hand through Eddie's hair, sighing as the alpha nuzzled further into the omega's hip. "We'll find her Eds." He whispered. "I promise."

The boys had made it home in record time. Steve could already hear them bickering as they entered the house. "I don't know! I couldn't ask anything else they left!" Dustin defended himself. Lucas, Mike and Will were all shouting over each other to scold the beta. "HEY!" Steve stopped it all with one shout and a clap of his hands. Though Eddie was the alpha, it was no secret Steve ran the house.

"Dustin," The boy in question hadn't seen Steve this distraught since Will had gone missing. "What did you find out?" The pup looked down, fiddling with the dial on his walkie. "Max and El said she showed up at Nancy's place in the middle of the night. She walked there in the rain. Apparently she was really upset. I tried to ask more but all they said was that we're dead to them cause you two broke mom's heart."

It clicked then, in Steve's mind. He wasn't dumb by any means, but all those concussions had caught up to him. "Fuck." He groaned, running a hand down his face. "What? What happened?" Eddie's rut cleared just enough to sense the distress in Steve's voice. "Fuck, last night, s-she came to help but I-I sent her back to bed. I...I snapped at her cause I just...I wanted to get to you and she was stopping that."

Eddie stared at his mate, face grimly serious, eyes unblinking. He didn't speak. "Wait, why would you send her away? I thought you two wanted her to be your mate." Lucas questioned. "You asked my sister and everything!" Mike protested, his eyes narrowing into a glare. "We do! But we had a plan for marking her and Eddie's rut threw that off! I didn't know what to do!"

Argueing broke out again, this time with the pack omega joining in. Eddie stayed silent. The realization of what had happened was hitting him full force. You felt rejected. Him and Steve had both been taking things slow. They hadn't wanted to rush into things and scare you off. Both boys had been determined to show you they were in this for love, not sex.

In doing so, they had broken your heart and caused you to flee in the night. Eddie stood up, causing the room to go silent. "Eddie, where are you going?" Steve got up as well, eyes wide with confusion and anxiety. "To get her back." Was the alpha's simple reply. "You can't do that dingus, you're in rut and Nancy will kill you before you get within fifteen feet." Mike sassed, his hands on his hips.

Eddie paused. He knew Mike was right. Nancy Wheeler was one damn scary alpha, and between her anger and how he stunk, she wouldn't let him near her pack. Eddie turned to his mate. "Steve." His brown eyes were pleading. "Go. Please. W-we can't let her think we don't-" The words got caught in the alpha's throat. Steve knew what he meant. "We can't let her think we don't love her." He finished for the alpha in a whisper. "Eds, I can't just leave while you're in rut. You're already distressed enough. It's a miracle you're able to think at all right now."

Eddie shook his head. "No. Go. I'm serious, Steve, whatever I'm feeling, she's probably feeling ten times worse. She thinks we rejected her cause we were too fucking stupid to give her what she wanted. I can't-I can't just let her be hurting for a week while we wait for my fucking rut to be over with." The house was silent for a moment as the two held a mental conversation through eye contact only.

Steve left the house an hour later. He showered first, knowing it would only add insult to injury to show up reeking of the alpha you thought you had lost. It nearly killed Eddie to let his omega leave the house unscented, but he locked himself in his room and told Steve to go anyway. They needed to do this. The omega took Mike with him in hopes the young alpha could convince his sister to let them inside.

Nancy Wheeler had been in the middle of preparing dinner with Robin when the doorbell rang. She didn't need to guess who it was. Max had called home and let her know the boys now knew what happened. When the front door swung open, Steve flinched, expecting a swift kick to the nuts at the very least from the alpha. He had been on the receiving end of her first once before and he didn't feel like going through that again.

To his surprise, no hit came, but the displeasure was clear, both on Nancy's face and in her scent. "You brought my brother along? Really? How much of a coward are you, Harrington?" The way the alpha practically spit out his last name caused Steve to wince. "Go home Mike." The younger alpha shook his head at his sister's command. "No. We're here to see mom and to bring her back."

"And what makes you think she wants to go back?" Nancy laughed, though there was no humor in her voice. "She showed up on my doorstep at four in the fucking morning, drenched, shivering and sobbing. She hasn't left the nest all day, we can't get her to eat, she won't sleep, she just lays there and stares at the fucking ceiling, crying, because you assholes broke her heart."

Steve stepped forward, his face filled with silent begging. "Nance, please, you and I go way back, just let me talk to her, let me explain. I promise I can fix this." Nancy's glare turned sharp, sharper than before. "You're right Steve. We do go way back. I thought you had changed since high-school, but obviously, I was wrong. You're still an asshole, just like you were back then." Then, as she looked him in the eye, Nancy uttered the words Steve dreaded hearing the most.

"I revoke your right to court my omega." The words hit like a gut punch. He stepped forward again, now standing on her front porch. "No, no, Nancy, please. Listen to me, this has all been one big misunderstanding, okay? We love her, Eddie and I, she-" A warning snarl filled the air, one that, shockingly, didn't come from Nancy. Robin had made her way to the door. It was her snarling. Steve's heart broke.

Him and Robin had been best friends for a long time. He thought, out of anyone, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. "Your scent is upsetting her." Robin growled. "I just got her to stop crying. We were about to eat, and you ruined it. Leave. Now, before I call Hopper." The police chief wouldn't be able to do anything except escort Steve off the property, but the omega didn't want to cause any legal issues. He couldn't risk it.

"Tell her I'm sorry. Please." He begged, stepping off the porch. "Eddie is too. He'll be here the minute his rut is done." His words were a warning. Eddie wasn't scared of kicking up dust like Steve was, and he wouldn't be scared off by the threat of Hopper either. The alpha was stubborn when it came to those he loved.

As Steve made his way back to the car, Mike stood in place. "What are you still doing here Mike? I can't have you in here smelling like your pack, it'll only upset her more." Nancy was softer talking to her brother. It wasn't his fault he was caught in the middle of this. "You're making a mistake." Mike replied stubbornly. "They care about her. They had a plan to mark her-" Nancy cut her brother off with a firm look. "But they didn't. And they hurt her. You'll understand when you have your own pack to look after, Mike."

Eddie's rut took two weeks to end. His distress only prolonged it, which only furthered the stress the entire pack was feeling. The longer they had to wait, the more they worried this rift woud be unrepairable. Max and El had taken their vow seriously, ignoring the boys at school to the point where they would leave the room if one of them walked in. Max had gone as far as changing her class schedule to avoid Lucas.

When the day that Eddie's rut cleared finally arrived, the entire Munson Harrington house was abuzz. It was a Saturday, meaning all the pups were around the "help" Eddie and Steve get ready. The alpha was practically forced into the shower while the omega had his entire closet torn through in search of the best possible "I'm sorry" outfit. Neither of them had a choice in the matter.

It took a command from Eddie to keep the pups at home. The drive was silent. Neither boy could find it in themselves to make small talk. Not when something as important as getting you back was on their minds. Steve only spoke when Eddie turned down the wrong street. "Wait, where are going? The pack house is that way." Eddie shook his head. "No, the front door of the pack house is that way. We're not taking that route."

Eddie knew Nancy wouldn't let them in. He knew they had no shot of walking through that front door, and that hackles would be raised the moment she saw his van parked in the driveway. Eddie parked half a block away before getting out, opening Steve's door for him. "Well? You coming?" Steve stared at his alpha incredulously before stepping out slowly. "If Nancy shoots at us, I'm pushing you in front of me."

Eddie just grinned. "Deal." Locating which window was yours wasn't hard. Your scent was still fresh in Eddie's nose despite having not seen you in two weeks. Thankfully, you lived on the first floor, and, even better, Steve had spotted Robin and Nancy on the second floor. If they were quiet, they would have a chance to explain themselves before Nancy burst into the room. The scent blockers Eddie had insisted they wear would assure that.

It had taken a full week for the girls to move you from the pack nest to your old bedroom. Once they were certain you wouldn't experience any drops, Robin and Nancy got you settled back in, insisting they would go and get your stuff from Eddie and Steve's place as soon as Eddie's rut was up. Entering another Alpha's home during their rut was just asking for trouble.

While you weren't in a good mood by any means, the past two weeks had given you enough time to settle into your heartbreak. It wasn't fresh anymore. You didn't cry everytime you thought of them. The pain and sorrow had been replaced with a buzzing numbness. Robin made sure you showered and ate, but getting you to do other day to day tasks was near impossible. Your hair was a tangled nest, sleep had become all but impossible and the bags under your eyes hung dark and heavy.

None of that mattered to either Eddie or Steve. The minute the alpha laid eyes on you through the window, he had to fight to bite back a groan. "Omega." Eddie had known you were meant to be his the moment Mike introduced the two of you, but he had been in the middle of courting Steve. He couldn't just abandon the relationship he was working on building, especially when he cared for Steve just as much as he cared for you.

The window wasn't locked. Eddie was able to push it open. He ignored the startled gasp from you and the scolding huff of his name from Steve as he crawled inside. "It's dangerous to leave your window unlocked, bunny." The first time he had seen you in weeks, and Eddie was scolding you. A scowl found it's way to your lips. "What do you want?"

Steve tripped as he crawled through the window, barely catching a lamp before it was sent crashing to the ground. "Shit!" He hissed, eyeing the door wearily. When no angry alpha came bursting in, both men let out a sigh of relief. The omega stepped forward, toeing the line of your nest, causing a growl to rip from your throat.

A growl. Their sweet omega had growled at them. Eddie all but fell to his knees, coming as close as he could to you without invading your sacred space. "Bunny, please, listen to me." You didn't look at him, eyes glued to the ground, both out of anger and to hide the tears that were rapidly building. "We were so stupid to take so long."

It was rare to hear Eddie Munson genuinly upset. He let things roll off his back so often. "Sweet girl, I never meant to snap at you. I'm sorry. I swear, I was only worried we would scare you off. Eddie wanted you there, he wanted your help." Your heart panged in your chest, anger slowly leaving, replaced by pain. "...You both made me feel unwanted, like I was just...a toy."

The admission caused a whine of distress to fall from Steve's lips, and a growl to come from Eddie's. If it weren't for their scent blockers, the whole house would stink of regret. "Bunny we have never wanted anything as much as we want you." Eddie promised. "Look at me...Please bunny. Let me see you."

The pleading tone in his voice slowly drew your eyes from the ground to meet his. Your breath caught in your chest at how distraught he looked. Had they not been sleeping either? Both men looked just as much a mess as you did, if not worse. Steve's hair was styled, but clearly not by his own hands. You could imagine the pups trying to fix his bed head before sending him your way.

His lips were chapped and raw, as if he had been gnawing at them anxiously for a while. Eddie had gotten so pale, you could practically see through him. His hair was frizzy, sticking up in random place, barely pulled back into a bun to keep it out of his face. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, as if he were scared if he blinked, you would disappear.

"I love you. We love you. I was going to mark you, bunny, I promise. But my rut hit. And it ruined every fucking plan we had. I-" Eddie's cheeks turned pink, the tips of his ears burning hot. "I'm not....nice...during my rut. Stevie is used to that. I wanted you, baby, I promise, god I wanted you so bad. Steve had to wear your clothes just to keep me from hunting you down."

The thought caused heat to stir in your belly, face burning hot. "Why did you never kiss me? Or hold me at night? Or even let me sleep in the same room as you two?" You had to stay strong. The boys had fucked up. You couldn't just let them off the hook. They needed to earn forgiveness. "Because of me." Steve spoke up, looking a bit sheepish. "I was worried we would scare you off."

It was no secret both Eddie and Steve were...touchy to say the least. Eddie especially. "Before we started courting you, you were so nervous around us. I thought if we rushed into things, you would run. But by not showing you how much we care...we scared you off anyway."

Oh. You inhaled shakily. They weren't avoiding you. They were trying to keep you comfortable. "...You wanted me? Both of you?" Twin groans rumbled through their chests. The boys spoke over each other in their rush to tell you about it. You couldn't stop the small giggle from escaping. The sound caused Eddie to brighten up, silently celebrating with a wide, beaming grin.

"I will tell you every single down bad embarrassing thought I had about you if you give us a second chance, bunny." He promised, holding his hand out for you to take. Sure, he was here against Nancy's will, and he didn't have permission to court you any longer, but since when did Eddie Munson follow the rules?

Just as your hand lifted to settle into his, the door opened. The pups were home. "Mom you will not believe the shit Lucas tried to-" Max went silent. The moment her eyes landed on Eddie, an enraged snarl filled the room. She didn't hesitate, jumping onto the older alpha's back, clawing at his arms that were (thankfully) protected by his leather jacket.

Eddie let out a screech, jumping around the room in an attempt to get the feral alpha child off him. The commotion caused the rest of your pack to rush inside. Steve had glued himself to the wall, eyes wide. He couldn't do anything, after all, Max was just a pup, and a pup not from his pack above all. "Max! Max let him go!"

She had been in the middle of pulling a fist full of his hair out when your shouts of panic finally reached her ears. She hesitated, meeting your eyes. "Let. Him. Go." You repeated firmly, standing now, out of your nest for the first time in days. Your legs shook from exertion, weak from lack of use, but you held strong. Max slid off Eddie's back, not before hissing at him before rushing over to stand in front of you.

"What the fuck are you two doing here?!" Nancy could finally speak, the shock clearing enough to find her words. Eddie held his hands up, using his body to shield Steve's. "I'm sorry, Nancy, but it was important. I needed to talk to bunny and I knew you wouldn't let us in."

The other alpha scoffed. "You're damn right I wouldn't have let you in! You broke my omega's heart! Your response to that is to fucking break into my house?!" A soft hand on her shoulder stopped Nancy in her tracks. "Nance..." You whisper, smiling softly.

"No." Nancy shook her head, sighing. "No, baby, you can't forgive them that easy! That's how men walk all over you!" As much as Eddie should be upset, another alpha calling his girl baby, he knew Nancy only cared about keeping you safe. He respected her, truly. "I haven't forgiven them." Both men frowned. "Not yet. But I love them, Nancy."

Your alpha was far from pleased. If looks could kill, Eddie and Steve would both be six feet under. "Are you sure about this? What about Jonathon? He's a sweet guy, and you love his mom." That caused a growl to rumble through Eddie's chest, one he stopped with an awkward cough. "Sorry." He muttered.

"If they mess up like this again, I will let you set me up with Jonathon. Alpha," Eddie had to stiffle another growl, shifting uncomfortably. "Please. Let them try one more time." Eddie and Steve weren't the only ones who struggled to say no to you. Nancy folded in just a few seconds under your pleading gaze.

"One chance." She turned to Eddie and Steve, her lips scowled and her eyes firm. "You fuck up again, and I let red over there go for the face." Max seemed a little too excited at the thought. "Thank you, Nancy." You whispered, pulling her in for a hug. "Could I have a few minutes alone?"

Getting Max from the room took some coaxing, but once you promised to join her and El for movie night, she agreed to leave. The door shut, and you were once again alone with your boys. Your arms crossed over your chest. "...I want it done right this time." You mumbled. "No holding back. I-" There was a sigh then a pause before you spoke, as if you were convincing yourself of your own words.

"I deserve to be appreciated and loved." Eddie nodded immediately, while Steve verbally agreed. "Honey of course you do. And we were fucking idiots for not giving you that before." Slowly, your hand lifted, held out into the air. Eddie was across the room before you could blink, gripping your hand. Steve took your other, the one that wasn't even out stretched.

"You will never go another day without knowing how much we love you. And that's a promise." Eddie's lips found yours, a real kiss this time, not just the pecks he had given you before. Once he pulled away, you barely had a second to catch your breath before Steve was taking his place. "Fuck, that's a pretty sight. My omegas loving on each other. Can we take you home, pretty bunny? Stevie and I have a lot of making up to do."