[onlythehobi]

mari. latina, folklorevermore addict, namkookjin's wife, filmbro, moodboard and playlist slut, phD. in dilfs and master in pedrology. fanfic junkie during the day, writer at night!

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[pearlessance]

The Ache of Obsession

pairing: voyeur!stalker!Pope Cody x fem!Reader

summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.

warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie

note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever

wc: 10.4k

[masterlist] [AO3]

Andrew knows it's weird.

He knows that.

But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?

It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.

And…you don't have blinds.

No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.

Pope can see right into your apartment.

Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.

He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.

It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.

He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.

You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.

Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.

You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).

You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.

He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.

Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.

A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?

But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.

You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.

You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.

That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.

But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.

No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.

It makes him jealous.

He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.

But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.

Both for you and for him.

So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.

Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.

You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).

And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.

You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.

Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.

From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.

He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.

But he resists.

The first three times, anyway.

By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?

And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.

So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.

He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.

He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.

Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.

The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.

Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.

Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.

He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.

He knows he should stop.

The problem, however, lies in the wanting.

Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.

Things change late one Friday night.

Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.

There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).

You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.

It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.

Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.

He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.

Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.

And you're staring right back at him.

His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.

But he doesn't do any of that.

He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.

Pope just…stares.

It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.

He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.

But you don't do any of that.

You just stare right back.

Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.

In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.

It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.

And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.

He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.

And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.

You don't.

The following morning, your routine changes.

On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.

But not this time.

No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.

Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.

He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.

You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.

And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.

Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.

Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.

Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.

You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.

Andrew knows it's not.

You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.

He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.

It's…it's weird, right?

Everything about it is wrong.

He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.

He tries, though. For what little it's worth.

Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.

He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.

The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.

One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.

Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.

What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.

You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.

It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.

He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.

But it's not like he can go over and just ask.

So, he chooses a different path instead.

Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.

Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.

But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.

And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"

J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"

Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"

"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."

J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."

In the meantime, Andrew spirals.

The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.

But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.

Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?

Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.

You deserve someone who knows you.

Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.

It was your phone company.

Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.

All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.

And money is something Andrew can provide.

He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.

He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.

Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.

He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.

Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.

But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.

And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?

None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.

Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.

He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.

The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.

His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?

Pope is aching.

Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.

It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.

Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.

Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.

He does it anyway.

Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.

As close as he can get.

As close as he'll probably ever get.

He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.

This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.

Andrew does not leave.

He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.

His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.

And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.

But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.

This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.

His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.

The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.

His heart is beating fast.

It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.

Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.

There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.

He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.

He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.

The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.

Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.

His release is…embarrassingly fast.

A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.

Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).

He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.

There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.

He leaves.

Locks the door behind him with the spare key.

Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.

It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.

Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.

Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.

So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.

He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).

Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.

You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.

You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.

He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.

But Andrew isn't sorry.

And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.

You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.

Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.

You smile at him from fifteen feet away.

And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.

Pope watches you go, like always.

But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.

He needs to get closer.

During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.

When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.

A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.

Your phone number, Pope knows.

He knows he shouldn't text you.

It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.

His message just says,

Hello.

Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.

hey

are u the guy from apt 212 ???

Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.

Yes.

The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.

im gonna be home in like an hr

will u be watching ???

Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.

Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.

Do you want me to be?

No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.

uhmmm tbh yeah <3

He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?

But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.

And the text message is real.

And this…this is real.

Then yes. I will be.

You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.

True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…

Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.

You're teasing him, Pope realizes.

He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.

And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.

You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.

His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…

His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.

Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.

Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.

It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.

The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.

You dressed up for him.

You dressed up for him.

Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.

You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.

Andrew thinks he could die.

He could fucking die, just looking at you.

Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.

Your knees fall apart.

Pope swallows hard.

He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.

For him. It's for him.

His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.

That's what you wanted.

But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?

All you'd have to do is let him in.

Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.

He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.

Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.

Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.

If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.

Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.

Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?

Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.

You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.

He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.

I want to hear you.

You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.

Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.

You're calling him.

He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.

You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.

"Oh, god—"

His inhale is shaky.

"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"

He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."

Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."

His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.

He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.

Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.

Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.

He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"

For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).

But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.

"I…might have been. Once, yes."

"Did you steal my chapstick?"

"You have ten of them."

He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."

"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."

So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.

Smart, pretty girl.

He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.

You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."

He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."

Pope rides the high of it for days.

Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.

And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.

But is that what this is? Love?

You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.

Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?

All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.

Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.

Define love.

Define obsession.

How to know if you're in love?

How to ask a girl out?

How to get over a girl.

Define voyeur.

Define fetish.

How big of an age gap is too big?

Apartments for sale on the east coast.

Pink champagne candle.

Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.

You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.

do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot

He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.

Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"

And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."

He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.

It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.

We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.

Your response is a single, painful letter.

k

He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.

But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.

Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.

He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.

You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.

Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.

He tells himself he won't interfere.

You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.

And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.

He did it to himself, really.

He should look away.

But he watches instead.

Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.

Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.

Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.

And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?

He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.

But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.

Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.

But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.

His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"

When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.

The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.

Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."

"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"

Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."

"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"

Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"

"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."

Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.

He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.

And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.

He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.

He knows he should.

What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"

Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."

Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.

He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.

"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."

The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.

Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."

You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.

"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."

Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.

You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.

The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.

Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.

He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.

Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."

He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."

That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.

Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.

You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.

Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.

You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.

Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.

Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."

You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.

Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.

His sweet, filthy girl.

Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.

Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"

"Did more than that," he admits.

You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.

"Use it," Pope orders.

"What?"

He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."

There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.

You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.

When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.

He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"

Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.

He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.

But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.

Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."

You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.

And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.

It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.

Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"

A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.

He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.

Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"

It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?

He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.

It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."

Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.

"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"

You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"

"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"

He stops.

Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.

"You're what, Andrew?"

Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.

But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"

He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.

You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."

Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.

Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.

How silly of him to ever doubt you.

There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.

And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.

And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.

He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.

But you are, too.

Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.

Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.

A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.

But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.

You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.

The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.

It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.

You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.

He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.

Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."

You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.

Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.

"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."

You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.

There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—

"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."

The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.

Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.

He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."

He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.

You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.

He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.

But when you say that?

When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."

He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.

So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.

Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).

Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.

He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."

You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.

Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.

After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"

Yes, he wants to say.

But he feels it, too.

So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."

He feels that smile of yours against his chest.

Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.

He knows that.

But at least, now, he's not alone in it.

thank you for reading, i love you!

[onlythehobi]

this was so fucking good what do i do with my life now

[inthelow]

GO NUTS ! — kim namjoon.

pairing: fem! reader x kim namjoon.

summary: It’s not like you have any claim over Namjoon, you’re just friends who fuck time to time— so technically, watching him flirt shamelessly on stage shouldn’t make your blood boil. His teasing comments about other girls shouldn’t leave a bitter taste in your mouth. You shouldn’t feel a lot of things about him… but maybe you just need to fuck those ideas and comments right out of his mind.

warning!— purely smut, literally zero plot . this story contains: unprotected sex, oral sex (m!&f! receiving), cowgirl, creampie. she’s a pro rider. switch namjoon!. — reader lowkey toxic, namjoon is down bad.

author’s note: well happy early birthday to me! broke the little hiatus to post this. i wrote this thirty minutes ago, not edited at all. okay bye!! see u next year!!

Jealousy looked ridiculous on other people.

You had always thought that.

Possessive girlfriends checking phones, girls crying in club bathrooms because some mediocre man looked at another woman for too long, couples fighting over things that ultimately meant nothing. You used to watch things like that happen with mild embarrassment, wondering how anyone could let themselves become so consumed by another person that a simple interaction could ruin their entire mood.

And yet there you were.

Standing backstage with a makeup sponge in your hand, trying not to feel irrationally irritated over a joke Namjoon had made less than ten minutes ago. Not even a real joke, barely a conversation.

One of the members had mentioned the sign in the crowd— a clever one with double meaning —and the whole thing had immediately spiraled into teasing because Namjoon’s reaction had apparently already gone viral online before the concert was even over. Someone joked about bringing NDAs back. Namjoon laughed. The conversation moved on.

That should’ve been the end of it. Instead, the thought had been sitting beneath your skin ever since, hot and ugly and impossible to ignore.

Not sadness. God, no. You weren’t sad. If anything, you were annoyed… annoyed that random women thought they could get his attention so easily. Annoyed that he even entertained it for a second. Annoyed because some stupid, deeply narcissistic part of you genuinely believed no one should’ve been able to hold his attention the way you did.

Which was insane considering Namjoon wasn’t yours, never had been.

You two had never even discussed whatever this thing between you actually was. Months ago, one drunken night had turned into another, then another after that, until eventually sleeping together became as natural as breathing. Neither of you asked for more. Neither of you pulled away either. It settled into something dangerously comfortable.

You worked around him constantly, which meant there were too many late nights, too many lingering touches, too many moments where he’d look at you like he knew something about you nobody else did. Somewhere along the way, your body started reacting to him before your brain could catch up. The sound of his laugh from another room. His rings tapping against tables. The lazy way he spread his legs whenever he sat down like he owned whatever space he occupied.

You hated how aware you were of him at all times.

More embarrassing still, Namjoon seemed just as aware of you.

By the time the concert finally ended and the staff cleared out for the ending ment pictures, your irritation had settled into something more serious and meaner which felt almost pathetic. You weren’t some jealous girl in love with a guy she couldn’t have. If anything, Namjoon should be worried about you getting bored of him first.

That thought settled you instantly.

Yes, that sounded better .

You kept yourself busy reorganizing your makeup products while everyone rushed around backstage. The noise slowly died down as people moved elsewhere, voices fading into distant echoes beyond the hallway.

Then the dressing room door opened again.

Namjoon walked in still glowing faintly with post-concert adrenaline, slightly wet hair pushed away from his forehead, his black Arirang shirt making him look softer than he meant to. He shut the door behind him with his foot and exhaled heavily.

“There’s my favorite employee,” he said tiredly.

You snorted softly without looking up. “You say that to every person that wipes your face for a living?”

“Only the mean ones.”

You heard him drop into the sofa in front of the vanity mirror with a groan. The familiar sound of rings clinking against the armrest followed immediately after.

For a second, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t awkward, you and Namjoon had passed awkward months ago. Now everything between you felt strangely domestic in the worst possible way, like you’d known each other too long, like your bodies had memorized each other before either of you realized it was happening.

You walked toward him with a bottle of micellar water and cotton pads, stopping between his spread knees.

His eyes flicked up to yours immediately. There was always that moment. That split second where his attention sharpened completely when you got close enough to touch him. You pretended not to notice it even though secretly it thrilled you every single time.

“Hold still,” you murmured, pressing the cotton pad against his cheek, harder than intended.

“Ow.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re violent tonight.”

“You’re stupid tonight.”

Namjoon watched you for a second through the mirror while you grabbed another cotton pad, lazy but attentive in that way he always was with you. Like even relaxed, part of him is still focused entirely on you.

“You in a bad mood?” he asked.

“No.”

“That was quick.”

“Because it was a stupid question.”

“Mm.”

You move to remove the makeup around his eyes, tilting his chin slightly with your fingers. He let you, always let you.

“You know,” he said after a second, “most makeup artists are nicer to me.”

“Then go flirt with one of them too.”

The words left your mouth so naturally you barely register them. But Namjoon did. And you saw it immediately, that tiny shift in expression, not really surprise but interest.

Namjoon hissed quietly when you pressed the cotton pad against his cheek again, rough. “Jesus. Did I do something to you?”

“Your makeup separated.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

You ignored him, dragging the pad slowly beneath his eye. Up close, you could see the exhaustion settling into his features now that the stage lights were gone. Smudged eyeliner, flushed skin, slightly swollen lips from dehydration.

Pretty. Disgustingly pretty.

You hated that your first instinct around him was always hunger.

“You are staring again,” he said lazily.

“You look rough.”

“Wow.”

“It’s true.”

He laughed softly under his breath, head tilting back slightly while you wiped makeup from his jaw. His hands rested on his sides at first, relaxed, but eventually one drifted absentmindedly toward your thigh. Not grabbing but fingers tracing the back of your skin.

Like he needed some part of his body connected to yours at all times.

You should’ve moved him away. Instead, you let him.

“You were weird earlier,” he said after a moment.

“There were seventy thousand people screaming your name. I think you’d recover from me being weird.”

“Mhm.” His thumb brushed once against your leg. “Still weird though.”

You grabbed another cotton pad. “Maybe I was overwhelmed by your intense celebrity status.”

“There she is.”

“What does that mean?”

“That tone.” His mouth twitched slightly. “The one you get when you are pretending not to be annoyed.”

You rolled your eyes automatically, but the truth was Namjoon noticed you too easily. It was irritating. Sometimes you genuinely thought he studied you the same way people studied languages.. or prey.

“I’m not.”

“Is it about me?.”

“Hell, no.”

“So it is.”

“Your ego has gone insane lately,” you muttered.

“My ego?”

“Yeah, not everything is about you. God, men get attention once and start acting stupid.” You rolled your eyes.

It took him a moment to understand your comment. And you realized it too late.

Namjoon let out a surprised laugh. “That’s what this is about?”

You shrugged casually, focusing on removing the makeup near his neck. “What?.”

“That girl with the sign?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh my god,” he murmured.

“What?”

“You are jealous.”

The word landed between you heavily, not because it was true but because he sounded so pleased realizing it.

You scoffed immediately. “Please.”

“You are.” His smile grew slowly, eyes dragging over your face like he was putting pieces together in real time. “Holy shit.”

“Yes, I’m so jealous of a girl holding cardboard,” you said sarcastically.

“No?” His fingers tightened slightly against your thigh. “Then why had you been glaring at me for the last hour?”

“I always glared at you.”

“That’s true.”

You hated that he said it fondly.

The room suddenly felt warmer than before.

Namjoon leaned back in the sofa, watching you openly now, completely entertained by himself. By you. By this entire situation. It made something ugly flare inside your chest again. Because the worst part was he genuinely didn’t understand.

Namjoon flirted naturally. Breathed attention naturally. People orbited him constantly and he walked through it without thinking twice. But you knew him better than anyone else in this building did. You knew how different he got when he actually wanted something.

And lately, he’d wanted you constantly.

The late night texts. The unnecessary touching. The way his eyes searched for you first every time he walked into a room.

Sometimes you genuinely thought Namjoon would crawl inside your skin if you let him.

“You are thinking too hard,” he said softly.

You blinked back into the moment. His gaze was steady on you now, a little curious, a little too perceptive, a little dangerous.

Without really thinking, you set the makeup wipe down onto the vanity and stepped closer until you were straddling him, legs on each side of his thighs.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened immediately.

“There,” you murmured quietly. “That look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you think you figured me out.” Your fingers hooked beneath his jaw lightly, forcing his head back enough to keep him looking at you. “You get so cocky.”

His breathing changed almost imperceptibly. “You are the one on top of me now.”

“And you are the one letting me.”

Neither of you moved.

The tension sitting between you felt almost violent now. It wasn’t really romantic or too soft, it was something greedier than that, like the two of you were constantly trying to consume each other without admitting it out loud.

Namjoon’s hands slid higher along your thighs slowly. “You know what your problem is?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“You think you own me.”

You smiled slowly. “Wouldn’t you like that?.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth instantly. That alone nearly drove you insane. There it was again, that overwhelming awareness he had of you, like no matter how many people screamed his name every night, he still looked at you like you were the only thing capable of actually holding his attention.

The thought stroked something deeply possessive inside you.

Good.

He should.

You leaned down until your mouths were barely apart, feeling his grip tighten instinctively against your thighs.

“Tell me something honestly,” you murmured against his lips. “Have any of those girls ever made you look at them twice?”

Namjoon went still.

Then his eyes lifted slowly back to yours. “No,” he said quietly.

The answer came too fast to be fake. Satisfaction curled warmly through your stomach. Your thumb dragged once across his lower lip before you finally smiled against his mouth.

“Thought so.”

And then you kissed him. And Namjoon kissed you back instantly.

Of course he did.

One of his hands slid up your thigh hard enough to leave warmth behind while the other moved to your waist, pulling you closer until your hips pressed against him. The angle felt really intimate, close enough that you could feel him growing beneath you.

You kissed him harder, possessively, like you wanted to prove him seomthing— something you didn’t know what yet. Or maybe you did but you didn’t want to admit it.

His mouth opened against yours with a quiet sound that nearly made something snap inside your chest. You hated how reactive he was with you sometimes. Hated how quickly his composure disappeared the second you touched him a certain way.

No one else got this version of him. The thought alone made your stomach tighten pleasantly.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to force his head back slightly. Namjoon exhaled sharply against your mouth, grip tightening on your waist immediately.

“There you are,” he murmured breathlessly, lips brushing yours again. “Didn’t know what reaction would get of you tonight.”

You laughed softly against his mouth. “You say that like this isn’t your fault.”

“My fault?” His eyes opened briefly, dark and lazy beneath half-smeared eyeliner. “You are the one looking at me like you want to kill somebody.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Mhm.” His thumb dragged slowly against your hip beneath your clothes. “Violent and jealous. I never got this combination out of you.”

You kissed him again before he could keep talking. Mostly because you hated how smug he sounded, and mostly because you loved it too.

The kiss turned rough quickly after that, all teeth and heat and too much wanting crammed into one small dressing room backstage. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew someone could walk in eventually, but the possibility only made your pulse spike harder.

Namjoon’s hands wandered greedily over your body like he’d been thinking about touching you all night. Maybe he had been. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the signs— the slight loss of control, the way his breathing changed whenever he got too fixated on you.

Obsessive.

That’s what this thing between you two really was. Not love, not casual either, something ugly and tabu.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, fingers still tangled in his hair. His lips were swollen now, makeup almost completely ruined beneath your hands.

Pretty.

You liked him prettiest when he looked wrecked.

Namjoon watched you carefully from beneath heavy eyes, hands resting possessively on your thighs now like he expected you to stay exactly where you were.

“What?,” he muttered.

“You look better like this.”

“Like what?”

“Messed up by me.”

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “You’re kind of sick, you know that?”

You leaned down again until your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “You like that about me.”

His grip tightened instinctively.

God.

The worst part was how perfectly you fit together in moments like this. Like every ugly possessive instinct inside both of you found relief whenever the other gave in first.

You kissed down his jaw slowly, feeling the way his body reacted underneath you immediately. The sound he made was quieter this time, almost swallowed by the room itself. Satisfied warmth spread through your chest. Good. He should react to you like this.

Your hands slid down from his shoulders, over his chest, lower until your fingers hooked briefly against the waistband of his pants. The movement made Namjoon’s head tilt back against the sofa slightly, eyes fixed on you the entire time now. Not teasing anymore, focused, hungry.

“You’re acting jealous.”

You smiled against his throat. “And what?.”

His hand slid up your back slowly. “You really couldn’t stand it?”

“The idea of you entertaining random girls?” You pulled back just enough to look at him again, fingers toying lazily with the button of his pants. “Please.”

Namjoon watched your hands carefully, then your face, like he was trying to figure out which one he wanted more.

“You’re possessive,” he murmured.

You hummed lightly. “Don’t you like it?.”

Something dark flickered across his expression at that, not discomfort but more like enjoyment. He liked you like that. Because Namjoon was exactly the same for you.

“I do,” he simply said. “I like everything you do.”

You couldn’t stand him.

Your hand immediately unbuckle his pants, slowly putting them down. Your eyes still fixed on his face. Namjoon’s eyes were dark. He was losing it too.

“Touch yourself for me,” you whispered to him.

Namjoon could come from your voice only.

You kissed his neck slowly, moving away until you were finally kneeling between his legs. You looked up as he started pumping himself over his clothes, getting harder at the sight of you. He groaned breathily, eyes getting lazier and hand moving a little harder. You could see the wet spot just right where his linen tip was, hitting his underwear so softly it made it look delicious.

You moved your hands to his thighs, slowly creasing them until you reached to his underwear. He threw his head back when your fingers touched his clothed cock, teasing him slightly with the tip of your fingers, rubbing them up and down to feel it in your hand. He tried not to moan when your hand finally wrapped around his underwear, you pulled it down. Namjoon looked delicious. His cocked jumped out hitting his long shirt. His cock was big, veiny and looked so pretty. You couldn’t wait to put it in your mouth, missing it after days of not touching each other.

Your hand moved the base of his cock, squeezing it slightly. His veins bulged under the skin, thick and ridged, pulsing when you gave another tentative squeeze. One fat vein snaked right along the underside, throbbing harder every time your thumb brushed over it.

“Shit— that feels good.” his hips jerked into your hand involuntarily, and he threw his head back, breathing ragged. “S-sorry. You’re doing s’good.”

He was hard as a rock and his tip was shinny with pre cum and red, begging to be taken care of.

You stuck out your tongue, slowly licking from the base to the head of his cock. His back arched slightly, head thrown back as he gripped the sofa. “Look at me,” you demanded. And he did. “I want you to look at me while I make you feel good.” Your lips kissed his mushroom tip. “I want you to remember who makes you feel this good.”

He was going to cum so fast.

Your lips wrapped around his tip before sucking it in. Namjoon tried not to throw back his head back to the sofa, mind getting dizzy. You started sucking his cock so slow and hard that he felt like it was the first time he was receiving a blowjob. You could see the satisfaction in his eyes, in a way he liked you like that, possessive, sick to prove a point.

Namjoon was losing his mind. Mouth opened, his fingers sinking into your hair to push you closer to his cock, trying to take some control over the situation. His cock popped past your lips with a wet sound, thick and hot on your tongue. You tasted skin and salt and him, his veins dragging along the flat of your tongue as he pushed deeper, inch by inch disappearing into the wet heat of your mouth.

Your tongue circled his cock tightly before sucking again, he gritted his teeth hard at the sensation. Your right hand squeezed the beginning of his cock, moving it up and down as you sucked his tip with determination.

Namjoon felt so close.

No. Wait.

There wasn’t too many things that bothered Namjoon’s mind. Lately, the list had reduced to just two. The first one was you, you and the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about whatever was going on between you two— the second one he clearly couldn’t remember right now.

Namjoon knew he was fucked. The moment you got drunk one night months ago and you finally let him touch you the way he had dreamed for months. It was game over for him. But he knew there was something between you two that couldn’t be tamed in the moment. There was a missing commitment that he knew you two weren’t able to get in that time. Still, it bothered him that maybe you could be seeing other people.

He could too, but he didn’t want to.

He only wanted you. He only wanted to make you feel good. He only wanted to touch you. He only wanted to talk to you.

Only you.

There was no one else in his mind except you. And in that moment, specially in that moment, there was absolutely no other thought that making you feel good, making you feel like you actually belonged to someone, him. He liked you like that, crazy in your feeling, not knowing why you were acting like that. So possessive over someone you didn’t know you wanted.

Namjoon was a patient man. He could wait for you to find out.

But he wasn’t so patient about other things.

“Umm— wait, wait.” He pulled you from your hair. Looking at you kneeling in front of him. Mouth swollen, lips red, a line of saliva connecting you to his hard cock. “I’ll cum inside you— I wanna make you feel good first.”

“But—”

“Stand up,” he demanded you. “I said I wanna make you feel good first.”

Namjoon didn’t give you too much time to think, pulling you from your arms and pushing you to the counter in front of the mirror. He took a seat on the chair. His hands moved your skirt to your hips and he quickly made you sit in the cold wood, opening your legs to see what he most desired. He put himself between your legs, panties already soaked. Even as your chest rose and fell, you held yourself up, letting him put your feet on the edge of the desk and spread your legs apart completely.

His rough palm caressed your thighs before he started biting them, plump lips marking your skin.

“Joon—”

“Yes. Now moan my name, baby. Gonna touch what is mine.” He said, eyes dark as he looked at your panties and your cute wet mound sticking to the material. His thumb stroking your inner thigh. “Already soaked, you’re always this ready for me, huh.”

“Yes, always ready for you.” You nodded, already fucked up by his touch.

“Good. Now you know who owns you.”

He easily hooked a finger and slid your panties to the side, leaning down, tongue sticking out as he licked a wet strip up your sweet cunt.

“F-fuck!—”

And before you could even properly moan he was wrapping his arms around your thighs, shoving his face even deeper making you jolt and whimper loudly.

He wasn’t soft and didn’t go slow. Namjoon was hungry. Intoxicated of you.

His hands went to the back of your thighs to hold you in place and he went straight to suck your clit. You threw your head back and moaned. His tongue flattened to moved it around your clit, trying to stimulate you more. He was going crazier than before, hungrier, hornier. His teeth trying to grabbed your clit and making you moan louder at the sensation.

His lips started kissing your pussy before licking your entrance with desperation, his tongue tried to reach your insides while his nose moved around your clit. He kept doing that for a couple of minutes. He couldn’t see you anymore, only being able to hear you while he was making out with your cunt. He was making a mess with his face, trying to drink all your juices and making you feel good.

He went back to your clit, sucking with more vigor now, wanting more every time. Your fingers buried in his hair, slightly pulling off them before pressing his head harder to your core. Looking for more friction. He moaned at your desperation, looking to come undone. He could swear he was about to come untouched.

“Mhmm, s’good— Baby I’m gonna—”

He suddenly stopped, making you whine.

It took everything in him not to go back to finish his job. But he wanted you to come undone in his cock. He knew how he wanted to wrecked you.

Namjoon didn’t even clean his mouth to kiss you, lips moving hungrily over yours before taking a seat back to the sofa. Legs spread wide, jeans down to his the middle of his thighs and cock looking red and hard pointing at the ceiling. He looked so good like that, waiting for you to take what was yours.

He patted his thighs. “Come on now. Take whatever you want, baby.”

In less than a second you were straddling him again, kissing him messily to prove him you were going to do exactly what he said do. You were going to take whatever you want, whatever that was yours.

“I want you.”

With your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, you bucked your hips up, eyes locked on the way his length gleamed with his pre-cum, drooling from his tip so yummy. It was all so lewd, and he wasn’t even inside you yet. Your hips moved slightly upward. You grabbed his cock with one hand so you could line it up at your entrance. Your other hand pressed down hard on his abs, throwing your head back as you slowly lowered down to take him.

“I said take it. Take it like you mean it,” Namjoon didn’t let you take it slow. He moved his hips upward with strength so you could take him the way he wanted you too. Hard and mean. “Take it like it’s yours— Uhm, y-yes, yes. Like that— uhmm.”

You whimpered when he filled you up. Feeling every vain, every inch of him inside you. His fat tip touching your favorite spot.

Slowly, you lifted your hips, then bring them back down again, trying to find a good pace. His jaw clenched a little and he pinched at your waist, and then his own hips bucked up against yours so you did the same thing again until you found a steady pace and before long, you were bouncing up and down on his cock.

You started to ride him. Moving slowly up and down at the beginning so you could get use to his length. It always felt like the first time you two fucked. It felt so good, stretching you completely. His big fat cock, you could feel every vein and twitch inside you. His warm, it felt so good wrapped around you

“It’s mine,” you said. Fucked up already. Too drunk of him, too honest. “You’re m-mine.”

He looked at you, eyes already too gone. He looked mean, like a dragon. “Then do a better job. Ride me good.” He slapped your thighs.

You whined at his mean words before starting to fuck him faster and moving your hips better.

The sounds were obscene. His cock plunging into your wetness with each bounce of your knees, the sofa moving dramatically against the floor. Your clit hitting the lower part of his stomach in such a right way. You could feel your juices dripping on him making an even bigger mess.

You didn’t care. You didn’t care if people were waiting for him or how much time it would take to clean off all the mess. You just cared about showing him he wouldn’t find anyone better. No one would make him feel better than you, no one could do a better job than you.

“Come on, baby.” He slapped your ass. “Gonna make me do all the hard work?”

“Sh-shut up.”

“Lazy girl, making me do everything.” He wrapped his left arm around your waist and with his right fingers he began to rub your clit, with intention. You moaned into his mouth and he took the opportunity to insert his tongue into your mouth, licking every part of you. Tasting every inch of you. He was the one leading, as always.

“No, no—”

“Uhmm, you feel good.” He bit down your jaw until he reached for your neck, leaving bruises with his lips. “S’kay, lemme take care of you now, okay?.”

He started fucking you, moving his hips upward faster and meaner. His dirty fingers left your clit and grabbed your hair to kiss you again. You moaned in his mouth, his lips eating you with lust and hunger. His arm around your waist grabbed you in a possessive way, tighter, leaving bruises, pushing you down every time his hips went upward to slammed into yours. The sounds were almost pornographic, it felt too good, too much.

Namjoon kissed your mouth again before his fingers buried themselves in your hair and he pull it hard, making you throw your head back. He started kissing and biting your jaw and neck, leaving more marks on your skin.

You were his. Only his.

You moaned loud when he hit the right spot inside you, not caring if anyone outside could hear you. You hoped they will. That way they’ll know you were the one to get him see like that, you were the only one he get to touch and kiss like that.

He was being so good to you, hitting the right places, making you break apart. Your knees began to slip slightly, your thighs burning, no longer having almost any strength to keep going. You pulled his hair and started kissing his neck too, you wanted to leave marks too, even if you shouldn’t. Even if you really shouldn’t. He knew you shouldn’t. It was wrong, it was dangerous — but fuck it, he loved it. He loved you possessive, obsessed for him.

It made him go insane the fact the you wanted to mark him as yours too.

He was. He was yours. He so badly wanted to be.

Namjoon moved his hand on your hair to grabbed your neck. His fingers pressing hard around the lower part of your neck, his cold rings against your sweaty skin. You opened your mouth to complain but his gripped hardened around you, becoming almost difficult to breathe correctly.

“Say it— say it.” His lips ghosted yours but he didn’t kiss you, just teasing you. “Say ya’ mine. Moan my name— shit, s’ good— moan my name and say you’re mine.” You whined and he smirked slightly before slamming his hips harder onto yours, fucking you faster, meaner. “Say it for me, baby. S-shit, you’re takin’ me s’good — Say you’re mine, p-please…”

You squeezed him so good he was losing it. His mouth found yours again. He could feel your warm and wetness swallowing his cock. He feel every inch of you wrapped around him. It was so good. It was perfect. You were perfect.

You cried out. “I’m yours.”

Namjoon felt your walls squeezing him harder. He moaned in your neck, you were sucking him so hard it was too much. He rubbed your clit desperately, helping you find your release. It didn’t take you too long to do so. Your high hit you like a truck, your nails scrapped his shoulder, your mouth parting to moan loudly. You closed your eyes, walls closing so hard and your juices coating his cock. Your vision went blurry, your breathing uneven. Your thighs burning like hell. You broke apart in his arms.

“I’m yours too.”

Namjoon’s cock twitched inside you with one last thrust. His eyes rolled back, his hands gripping your skin as he heard your whimper. That hit his final straw. His forehead hit your shoulder as he felt succumbing to the sweet release. He came undone, ropes and ropes of hot cum filling up your sloppy cunt and spurting down onto your thighs.

It felt so good. Having you in his arms, making a mess of you. You making a mess of him.

It took you both a couple of seconds to come back to reality. The high of that sensational orgasm still feeling in the air.

You moved slightly away just enough to be able to rest your forehead in his shoulder. Namjoon pushed you slightly closer, still inside you. His hand rubbing your back sweetly.

“You know,” he said softly, voice a little rough and tired, “this is a crazy reaction to a cardboard sign.”

You snorted, feeling insanely embarrassed.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter anymore what label you and Namjoon had. You knew he was yours anyway.

you know exactly what inspired this….. okay bye!! hiatus back on!!

permanent taglist: @lovingkoalaface @dna-black-and-blue @hoemeprazole @deedeeps @taegiekookk @gukihoney @sftlrmin @libbieminie @savorghost @moonprincesskoo @yooforeaa @kelsyx33 @jjkszn @st4rbbg @senaqsstuff @connnn @rpwprpwprpwprw @llallaaa @lovelye79 @jjkkkk15 @nellbyy @jkmommymilkies @chaerinmin @albascardigan @wvndkoo @pradaheeseung @annyeongbitch7 @tastykookoonut @whoa-jo @zsazshiiing @taylorluvation @parapiop7 @j0cgr0c @elinaki92 @osakis-gf @mar-lo-pap @angeleclipsey @jkayy-prodian @bjoriis @sweetnspicyworld @sadiayn @kookdollia @jcnggukie @imjustcrabby @albascardigan

[onlythehobi]

hell yeahhhhhhh

[followyourfleart]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝟒𝟕: 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝 ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ

Next | Pervious | Fic Masterlist | a03

blurb - Your first days of 2004 become your last four with Joel in New York. The brief time left together is filled with heavy conversations about the future. Together, you confront difficult questions about the paths your lives may take once you part ways.

Word Count: 11.4 k

He would be a liar if he said you didn’t have the most comfortable bed he’d ever slept in. 

Joel had the honor of sleeping by your side many times. In fact, he had done so since he was a child. You, he, and Tommy all bundled up in the weak cold months of winter with your legs knocking together, bodies shivering. Each time, you’d lean into Tommy’s arms, face nuzzled into his chest with your back presented straight to Joel’s face. 

Twins, his mama would explain to Joel every time you and he ran off somewhere. A sort of not-so-biological connection that existed. He had thought it was stupid; last time he checked, you hadn’t been strolled out in a bassinet as well when Tommy was born. 

Yet, it didn’t matter. Because by the middle of the night, you would leave Tommy’s grasp and slip into Joel’s muttering sleepily about how Tommy got sticky-sweaty while Joel was a proper warm. He took those moments and bundled them into his heart. 

Joel had a lot of things he kept close to him. Sarah’s birth, cooking with his mama, fixing up the truck with his daddy, learning from Clyde, and fighting with Tommy. But he kept his moments with you in an extra grip, because the time between them was so far apart. 

So when he got to sleep in bed with you—sexual or not—he was overwhelmed. Two months without that drained him more than the thirteen years ever had. Maybe a taste of you had gotten him addicted far worse than the pathetic following he did in his youth. 

Joel wasn’t plagued by these thoughts constantly. He wasn’t some philosopher pondering his relationship with you—at least, when he was happy. Sometimes, the little connections would pop up in his head, and then he’d brush the threads away like spider webs. 

That’s what happened when his eyes were barely able to open. Joel’s face was pressed deep into your pillows—satin, he believed?—with his naked body pressed into the sheets. It was slightly chilly against his skin, to the point where it made him shiver. 

No sunlight beamed over his skin. Rather, he could hear the soft beat of snow hitting your windows. There was no warmth except for the center of the bed, which was already escaping him.

He thought for a moment he was back in a dream. His dreams were never easy waters.

Joel was barely able to blink a couple of times, fighting the sleep that weighed on his bones and face. His muscles were taut as he pushed himself up from the bed in a groan. Naturally, his hand reached toward your side, trying to find you and wake you up as well. 

Yet, he felt nothing. 

That woke him up. Without his glasses, everything was fuzzy. It was even worse with the morning fog hanging around his brain, but he still managed to push himself up and sit sideways.

Your side of the bed was empty, the comforter all bunched completely over his legs. There was no sign of you. Not by the side table, or the dresser—the tray was even gone—or any noise coming from downstairs. 

He couldn’t help it; all of this was an exact flashback of Dallas. 

When he woke up then, he had the slamming of the door as his wake-up call. He had called your name so many times, yet there was no answer. He was completely alone, left to reel with the fact that he had just had mind-blowing, drunk sex the woman he had been in love with for two decades. 

Just like now.

Joel swung his legs over the edge, using the comforter to cover up. His head twisted around, as if you were hiding from him. “Sweetheart…?”

He hated how doubtful his voice sounded, but he couldn’t help it. Had you gone to work, leaving him to pace around your living room until you came back? Had you left in shame again? No, that wouldn’t be the case, because you both had had the most heartfelt conversation on a rooftop. He had just fucked your brains out and came inside you. You wouldn’t have left. 

He stood up now, the fabric trailing behind him as he stubbled with tired legs, voice louder this time. “Sweetheart? Where are you?”

Nervous, he headed for the slightly opened door. 

But he stopped when the flush of the toilet and the quick rush of water caught his attention. 

Maybe it was the fact that relief rushed through his body and relaxed him; he didn’t move. But when he realized that he was buck naked with nothing but his hand and a comforter covering his crotch, his face turned red, and he almost jumped back into bed. 

Before he could, however,  the bathroom door opened, and there you walked out. You were yawning, hand covering your mouth. One of his shirts—from his dresser downstairs, matter of fact—covered your torso, dipping over your thighs, though he saw the flash of clean panties underneath. Your hair wasn’t kept at all, in its most natural and beautiful form 

You spotted him and smiled. That smile. A star-studded, heart-throbbing, mind-blowing smile that made him dizzy. But it faded when you frowned and looked down and morphed into a smirk. 

“I didn’t know the lobby provided this type of service.” You teased, leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, legs crossed over each other, “Nude breakfast and all the benefits. I wouldn’t have called this personally, but if it’s you…”

“Oh, this ain’t—this ain’t anythin’.” Joel managed to wrap his legs and tie a knot on his waist, securing the fabric and freeing his hands. “I was just wakin’ up, is all.”

“Hmm… have you been working on your thighs, Miller? They seem bigger than before.”

“I have, actually.” He beamed when you noticed his progress, so much so he didn’t notice you walking toward him. “Pickin’ up shifts to work at sites and also workin’ out gave me a lot more muscle than ‘fore. The kids say it's ‘bulkin’’, but I call it keepin’ healthy—grumph!”

You had kissed him, mouth against his to silence his words. He tasted the minty toothpaste on your tongue as he worked his lips against yours in smooth rhythm. He held the back of your neck and felt your arms lay on his shoulders. He slightly pulled back to speak. 

“I didn’t brush my teeth, yet.” The words were against your lips.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Kinda does. You don’t want to have to wash your mouth ‘gain and—”

“Shut up and kiss me, Joel.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He turned and walked you backwards until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you both fell. Your lips never separated once. The comforter pulled and fell onto the floor as he landed on top of you, but he paid no mind.

All he had was you and him in that moment. There could be a fire that was burning all of New York City down, and he would still find time to kiss you. Nothing mattered except you. There was only you in his eyes. 

Your legs lay on either side of his hips. You pecked him over and over, soft smacks against his lips that warmed him up far more than the bed could. 

“Did you shower yet?” He asked while still running his mouth up and down your jaw. “You don’t smell like it.”

“Are you saying I stink?” You pushed him back, though he fought back to stay close. 

“Never. I’m just sayin’ that gives me less time to lay on you ‘fore you decide you want to clean up.”

“Says the man completely naked on me right now.” You teased. Joel blushed, looking away from your face and his body, but you laughed and pulled him back in. “It’s okay, I like it.”

“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause we had sex.”

“You know, sex is such a crude word.” You tapped your chin in mock thought, “What about… making love? Or, devils tango? Or—”

“First off, I ain’t sixty.” He traced his hand up and down your warm spine, causing the fabric of your—his—shirt to rise. “Second off, sex ain’t evil. If it was, then we’re the most evil of ‘em all from how I was pressin’ you up ‘gainst the window with my face ‘tween your—”

“See! Crude!” You laughed. Suddenly, you were pushing him to lie on his back, with your hips perched on his. You sat right on top of him, not that he had any issue with it. He liked having his hands back on your hips and your thighs bracing around his stomach. “You should really learn how to watch your language.”

“Says the woman on top of me.”

“Are you complaining?”

Joel looked up at you, thumb running over your panties. “How could I?”

Your eyes softened, and you leaned over him. Your arms found their place around his head as you softly kissed him over and over, lips moving together in harmony. Both your hands roamed and touched, feeling everything that you both had missed. 

It was painful to remove his mouth from yours, but he had to. Even though all he wanted to do was stay in bed and forget the world, there were still things he promised to do. 

Despite your obvious disappointment—which he found endearing—he still managed to smile. 

“Sweetheart, what is this?”

“Us?”

“Yeah. What are we?”

Fingers caught in his hair, you looked at his graying scalp instead of his eyes. “We’re… together again, obviously.”

“Obviously.” He repeated it like either of you knew exactly what it meant. “But what is together? Are we back to bein’ me bein’ your boyfriend? Is this… is this somethin’ you wanna just do for tonight?”

“Never,” You frowned at him. “Ever say that to me again. You are so much more to me than just sex.”

“Crude language.”

“I’m serious, Joel.” Peppering kisses on his nose, you still kept that serious look on your face. “This isn’t Dallas where I pretend this didn’t happen. No, I said we would make this work, and we’re making it work.”

He was thankful for that. He couldn’t have been luckier, even if he tried. “We will. I don’t need an exact title for what we are. Still earnin’ you back—”

“Another thing.” You spoke with such sureness that it felt like he was a subordinate at your office. “I don’t want us to have that dynamic.”

“What dynamic?”

“You know, the one where you’re constantly chasing me and wanting to prove yourself to me. You have proven yourself to me and you’ve done the work. Now, it’s up to both of us to make this work.”

“But I don’t want you to feel as if I did all that and now I’m goin’ to be lazin’ ‘round.”

“When have I ever known you to lazing around?” You questioned with a quirk of your lip. “It’ll just take a bit of time before we’re ready again. And I know our end goal.”

Joel didn’t need you to say it loud for him to know either. 

‘Til then…” His arms tightened around you. “Stay for a bit. Wanna sleep in.”

“Joel, I have—”

“Lies, you don’t got work. Michelle herself ain’t gonna be there, so you don’t got to either.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” You shook your head. “I was going to say… maybe we could—I don’t know if you’re up for it—shower and then eat something. Everything will be closed since it’s New Year’s… but tomorrow we could take a stroll around the city, just you and me?”

“Sounds awfully like a date, sweetheart.”

“A two-day date situation,” You held up the numbers on your fingers in case he couldn’t catch on. “Since we’re landlocked here. And there’s a lot two people could do by themselves.”

Joel swallowed as you rose to your knees, straddling his hips. “Like what?”

“Depends on what we’re feeling like. Movies for hours, could order in some McDonald's—”

“Now that sounds wonderful.”

“—or…” Like the simple creature he was, he watched your nails drag over his chest and down his navel, “...we could listen to your suggestion. Stay in bed a bit longer.”

“I wouldn’t be against that. Reason why I suggested it.” Joel’s hands reached up and through your shirt, feeling your soft torso. 

He was about to pull you down when you suddenly swung yourself off, leaving him alone on the bed. Joel covered himself up with both hands, watching with a soft grunt as you strutted back to the bathroom. 

Your—his, again—shirt landed on the floor. Your back was exposed to him, revealing the faint bruising of where he had gripped you last night. Over your shoulders, on your waist, deep in your hips. You arched an eyebrow while pushing open the door.

“Are you going to watch or join?”

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. 

He got up and followed you. By the time he shut the door behind him, you had already stripped and were turning on the water. Your fingers tested the heat, and you both waited for a second before you slipped through the shower doors.

The water was a steady drum over your skin, cascading down your front. Over the perfect body he couldn’t help admiring. It ran down your neck, over your breasts, dripped over your waist. You ran your hands over yourself in the most ordinary way possible, but it was the sexiest thing he had ever seen. 

You giggled when you noticed him not coming in. He closed his mouth. Was he drooling? Joel hoped you hadn’t noticed, but when you opened your own mouth and trailed your finger out of the corner of your lips down, he knew you had.

As quickly as he could, Joel brushed his teeth with his toothbrush and your toothpaste. He had kept an extra pair up here during the nights he had slept in your bed. He had thought it would be a simple thing. Now, it was the most important thing.

Joel spat out this toothpaste and gruggled water. He joined you in the warm spray, his back taking all the water. Before you could say anything, he was already on you, holding you tight and trading soft, slow kisses. You held him through it all, unable to get a proper grip.

But that was fine. Joel could keep you near him without any help. 

You suddenly laughed softly against his lips, “It seems like we always shower together, Miller.”

“You complainin’?”

“How could I, especially when you look so good like this?”

“What, wet and naked?”

You put a bit of thought into it, “Yeah, that might be it.”

Joel laughed this time, pecking your lips childishly. He couldn’t get enough of it. 

He also couldn’t get enough of how your lips felt on his skin. Pillowy, trailing down his neck and over his collarbone. Joel held the side of your head, refusing to let you go. 

Then you went lower.

And lower.

Down his chest and belly and navel, hungry for him in a way he couldn’t keep up. 

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” He tried to dip his head to bring you back up, “Come back to me—”

“But I wanna be down here.”

You were already sinking, knees folding beneath you and your hands sliding down his hips. Joel’s grip on the side of your head tightened for a second. He couldn’t decide whether to haul you back up or just hold on.

“C’mon, baby… you don’t gotta—” His voice came out softer than he meant. Water ran over the places your mouth had just been. “I’d rather have you up here. Don’t need you on your knees for me.”

You looked up at him through the steam, lips already brushing the trail of hair below his navel. “I know you don’t need it. But I want to. Let me take care of you for once.” Your hands stroked slowly up the backs of his thighs. “You were so good to me last night… let me make you feel good too. Please?”

His resolve was crumbling fast, and the way you were looking at him—adoring and a bit wicked—wasn’t helping. It also wasn’t helping that your face was right next to his half-hard cock, looking up at him with the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen.

He exhaled hard through his nose, thumb brushing your wet cheek.

“…Alright,” he muttered, almost shy. “But if your knees start hurtin’, you get up. Deal?”

You smiled against him. “Deal.”

You started slow, testing the waters. Kitten licks that started on his tip and explored the slit right on top. Curiosity about how you could break him pushed you down his shaft, tasting all of him. 

Then you had taken him into his mouth, and he knew he had lost. 

Lord, he was overwhelmed. The warmth of heated air, constant water, and now your lips wrapped around the base of his cock were going to send him onto a rollercoaster that was too fast. And there wasn’t even anything for him to hold onto; the shower walls far too slippery. 

He wasn’t going to last.

He never lasted with you, but it was way worse now. 

Your tongue took and took more, tasting, taking your fill. Joel threw his head back, knees suddenly weak and letting out noises he didn’t even know were possible. Your nails were now digging into his thighs, the same ones you had just praised only to claw into. 

Joel squeezed his eyes shut, about to moan—

Slap!

He jolted, then groaned when your lips left his cock altogether. You had harshly tapped his thigh. Not enough to hurt, no, but enough to clear up the fog bellowing in his head. 

When he looked down, chest heaving, you had a stern look on your face. Your lips were turned downwards into a pout, but he could see the wicked gleam in your eyes. You held a firm grip around him, not letting him go.

“Keep those eyes of yours open, or this stops.”

“I’m tryin’. It’s just been a long time, ‘kay?” He blinked, déjà vu hitting him square over the head.

You giggled, resting your cheek right across his wet thigh. “Doesn’t feel so nice when it's turned onto you, does it?”

The urge to whine was immense, but he kept his cool. “So this is… this is what, payback?”

You hummed, dragging your lips slowly along the thick vein on the underside of his cock. The heat of your mouth and the shower water mixed until he couldn’t tell which was which. 

“Maybe a little. You made me work so hard earlier… made me beg.” Your tongue flicked over the head, tasting him, before you pulled back just enough to look up again. Water clung to your lashes. “Figured it was only fair I return the favor.”

Joel’s jaw flexed. “You’re evil, you know that?”

“Mm. And yet you’re still hard as a rock in my hand.” You gave him a slow stroke, and his hips twitched hard against your grip. “Eyes open, Joel. Don’t make me stop.”

He let out a rough breath, forcing his gaze to stay locked on yours even as his brows drew together. Water ran into his eyes; he didn’t bother wiping it away. “Yes, ma’am.”

That earned him a soft laugh. 

Then you leaned in and finally took him into your mouth again, sinking until your lips stretched around the thick base. Your tongue dragged along the underside as you started to bob, unhurried and deep. 

One hand stayed wrapped around what you couldn’t fit, twisting gently on every upward pull, while the other rested on his thigh, feeling the muscle jump under your palm.

He kept his eyes open for you just like you’d told him. Every time you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, a low sound rumbled out of his chest, half-lost in the rush of the shower.

You kept going, and Joel’s control started to fray without him noticing. His hips began to rock forward on their own. Small, instinctive thrusts that pushed him deeper into the wet heat of your mouth. 

The first few times he caught himself and tried to still, but the pleasure was too much. Your tongue, the tight seal of your lips, the way you took him so willingly—it pulled more from him than he meant to give.

His hand wrapped around your wet hair. The next thrust went deeper, then even deeper. He was chasing the slick drag of your throat, lost in how good it felt to—

Until you gagged.

The sound snapped him out of it worse than the slap. Joel’s eyes flew wide. He immediately tried to pull back, horror flooding his chest.

“Shit—sweetheart, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

But you shook your head as best you could with him still on your tongue. The movement was weak, but clear. Your hands stayed on his thighs, holding him there instead of pushing him away. 

Permission; clear and quiet.

He’d never done this before, never let himself take your throat like this. The thought alone made his stomach twist with nerves. It felt almost wrong, and so goddamn good he could barely breathe.

But despite those facts, he was now holding your head in place. Then he started to move again.

He kept the first few thrusts shallow, testing, watching your face for any sign of distress. When you only moaned around him and relaxed your throat, something inside him let loose. He pushed deeper, sliding into the fluttering heat of your throat and holding there for a heartbeat before pulling back. Then again. And again. And again.

A broken, awed sound left him. He wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to being the center of it all, more willing to give you all the pleasure than to take any for his own. The only time you gave him a blowjob was at his birthday, and that was already a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Too much for his simple brain, really.

But you were letting him take, encouraging him really. And every time he sank back in, pleasure rolled through him so hard his knees nearly buckled.

Your soft, muffled moans vibrated around his cock, the sound of them only driving him higher. Joel didn’t notice the way one of your hands had slipped between your own thighs, too lost. His own sounds grew into half-moans and half-broken curses spilling out of him between thrusts.

“Fuck… sweetheart—you feel so good. Takin’ me so well… Christ, your throat—”

The pressure built fast, tighter and hotter than he expected. He felt himself tipping over the edge and couldn’t stop it.

“I’m—shit, I’m gonna—” His words dissolved into grateful, breathless muttering. “Thank you… thank you, sweetheart—feels so fuckin’ good—you’re so good to me—”

He kept thrusting through the first thick pulse of his orgasm, then his hips jerked a little too hard. His cock slipped free of your mouth mid-release. Hot ropes of cum striped across your cheek, your lips, the bridge of your nose. 

Joel’s eyes flew wide.

“Shit—shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” He kept coming anyway, unable to stop the rest of his load from landing on your face, still apologizing between ragged breaths. “Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to—fuck, I’m sorry—”

But you didn’t pull away. You stayed right there on your knees, eyes open and swallowed in the black of your pupils as he spilled the last of it.

Joel stood frozen, chest heaving, hands still gently cradling your head. Water ran down both of you, diluting the mess on your face, but not too much because his body was covering you from the spray.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

He just looked at you.

And you looked right back at him.

He broke out of his daze, and nearly tipped over with how gleeful you looked. It didn’t take any strength to lift you, even with how weak he was feeling. Your own legs were like jelly.

Joel kissed you. He didn’t care that he was licking at your sweat or his cum. No, he just needed to let you know how grateful he was for you.

His hands were gentle as he wiped your face clean with warm water and careful thumbs, brushing every streak away until your skin was clear again. You just stood there with that content, goopy little smile, eyes half-lidded and happy, like a cat who’d gotten exactly what it wanted.

Joel let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh against your mouth. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

You hummed, still smiling, and nuzzled into his jaw.

Realization hit him a second later. “Wait… you didn’t come yet.”

His hands settled on your hips, and he started guiding you backward, turning you so your chest pressed to the cool glass of the shower door, his broader body warm against your back. One arm already sliding around your waist, the other starting to drift lower.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, reaching back to rest a hand on his thigh.

“Yeah, I do,” he insisted, stubborn against your ear. “Ain’t fair if I’m the only one who—”

“No.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Joel.”

He paused, lips still hovering near your temple, gearing up for another round of insistence. That was when you lifted your hand and showed him your fingers: shiny, with soft strings connecting your pointer and middle fingers.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, that classic smile still on your face.

“Might have taken your lessons and applied them. Helped me beat you to it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.” You shivered like you were reliving the moment. “Seeing you come like that… does something to a woman. I couldn’t help myself.”

Joel’s brows drew together. His mouth tugged down at the corners, pure disbelief mixed with a little pout. “You can’t just—lookin’ at somebody ain’t ‘nough to—”

You scoffed, turning in his arms so your back pressed to the cool glass. “You don’t believe me?”

He hesitated. Joel always believed you, even when it made no sense. Even when it made his ears go a little pink. He exhaled through his nose, “Well… if you say so…”

But you weren’t finished.

While he was still talking, you brought those fingers to your own mouth and slowly sucked them clean. The wet sound of it cut through his rambling. Joel’s eyes dropped to your lips and stayed there, watching every deliberate pull of your tongue. You took your time, making sure he saw the way you savored it.

Then you tapped his bottom lip with one damp fingertip.

Joel frowned.

You tapped harder.

His mouth opened on instinct.

You curled your fingers under his jaw and guided his face down toward yours, closing the height difference until his breath mixed with yours. For a second you just held him there, looking at him. 

Then you parted your lips and spat, a warm string of saliva landing directly on his tongue.

Joel’s whole body went still.

He should’ve been startled. Should’ve pulled back or laughed it off. Spitting in someone’s mouth wasn’t something he’d ever asked for or done, wasn’t something he’d ever thought he’d want. 

But the second he could taste it—your slick, your spit… hell, even a bit of his own cum—something low and hot twisted in his gut. 

The intimacy of it. 

The filth of it. 

The fact that it was you doing it to him.

His eyelids fluttered. An involuntary sound caught in his throat because his cock, which should have been half-soft, was now getting hard all over again. He’d never bounced back so quickly in his life. 

You giggled, “Now do you believe me?”

“I… I…”

“What is it, baby?”

“Yes… yes, I believe you…” He murmured, burying his face in your neck after swallowing.

Your nails traced his spine, holding him in your arms.  “Though… I’m not against you making me come a second time. A redemption. Outside this shower and after we properly clean off. I think we’ve been here for over thirty minutes. Oh, and we should eat something real quick. And pick out a movie.”

Joel smiled even though you couldn’t see it. “Let’s just stay here for a bit.”

“You’re forgetting it’s my water bill at stake. Plus, I thought you were always so money-conscious.”

“Forgive me if I want some rest from the best fuckin’ thirty minutes of my life.”

That earned him a light smack between his shoulder blades. He pulled back, and suddenly, your face was flushed, and he was sure it wasn’t from the steam. “Joel Miller, you dirty dog! Don’t lie, I only sucked you off.”

“You’re all shy now! After you just spit in my—”

“Shush, shush!” You covered your face, squirming as he tried to get a look at your face. “I was lost in the moment!” 

The laugh that went through his chest and echoed out into the bathroom was full and heavy. He liked seeing you shy, liked seeing you flit back into reality. It was hard for him to catch you off guard, and it was oh-so cute when he did.

“Could you—and I’m askin’ this with all the love in my heart—get lost in it ‘gain?”

“Pervert!”

“Look who’s talkin’.”

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

You readjusted your purse, picked up the pink asymmetrical top from the rack, then held it up to Joel’s face.

“How do you think she would like this?”

He raised an eyebrow and adjusted his glasses. “You really wanna know what I’m thinkin’?”

Crossing your arms, you rolled your eyes, “I was asking how Sarah would feel, not her thirty-six-year-old dad.”

Joel hummed in consideration. His fingers ran through the rack of clothing, all different variations of the one you were holding up. Blues, yellows, pinks, and greys. The shopping bags on both of his arms swung around. 

The entire store was mostly empty—thanks to holidays still being in full swing—with only a couple of restockers working around you both. Some pop song played on the speakers above your head. 

Lunch had been good. Great, really. It was like a proper date without a proper title. He had pulled out your chair, ordered exactly what you liked because he already knew, and paid for every bit of it even though you fought back with your own card.

And of course, he had won.

Now, you both were wandering store to store, picking out things that everyone back home would like. You had already finished up shopping for Tommy, Raymond, and your dad. They were really easy to shop for. Lorraine had been a bit harder, but you had managed. 

“Well, I ain’t really keen on her wearing shirts this short—”

“Oh please, don’t act like you didn’t see me wearing worse.”

“Different.” He plucked the shirt from your hand, tucking it under his arm. “My daughter versus the woman I love.”

“And yet you’d still get it for her.” You smirked. 

“Yeah, well, I know she’d like it.” Without a single complaint, he turned sharp and walked to another rack you had been eyeing. You huffed, spotting the graphic t-shirt Joel was eyeing. 

You picked out a style you thought she would like—a graphic of the Spice Girls when they were still together—and a couple more. All of it was piled into Joel’s arms, and he silently followed you.

You and him made your way to the denim section. Jeans, shorts, and skirts all hung off the walls. You picked out what Joel pointed to as her size, and soon, his whole chest was covered by teenage girl clothes. 

As usual, your usual fight over who would pay ensued, with you winning because Joel’s hands were tied up by bags that whacked him every time he tried to reach for his wallet. You happily paid for it all, too glad with Joel’s displeasure. 

The streets of New York City were the same as the store. At least, the best it could be for one of the busiest cities in the world after New Year’s. Even the streets were as clogged with beeping cars and their angry drivers. 

You looked down at the new bag in Joel’s arms. “I’ll call my driver and have him take the bags from us. Won’t take him too long.”

Joel looked like he completely hated the idea. “It seems like we’re… we’re inconveniencin’ the man. I could just carry ‘em.”

You were already pulling out your phone, dialing your driver’s number. “I want to show you a lot of the city today. You can’t do that with all those bags in your arms.”

“It feels wron’ though.” He came to stand right by your side. “Y’know, havin’ someone do all this drivin’ when I could just take ‘em with us.”

“Do you want to?” You asked him honestly. Your finger hovered over the call button. “I mean, I’m not against you carrying it all, but I don’t want your arms to ache.”

Joel pressed his lips together. His eyes flickered around with guilt. You knew him better than the back of your hand. Being served was never something he was used to. Whether it be in your own relationship or in the real world, Joel always had put himself last, but now you were giving him everything he needed to be first. 

Though he eventually nodded. That was all you needed to press call and tell your driver your location. Once you got the confirmation that he was coming, you cut the call and pocketed the phone. 

You bumped your shoulder, tilting him off balance slightly. “You should be excited. I’m taking you somewhere special.”

Joel looked down at you, “Where you takin’ me, huh? Spoilin’ me so much.”

“I know, right? Taking you shopping, having a date, giving you morning head seems like a lot—”

He choked, slapping his chest to get out his spit from his throat. “We’re—we’re in public!”

You looked around, faking a scandalized expression. You placed your hand on your heart as if the stress was putting strain on it. “Really?! You think anyone heard me?!”

“Tryin’ to be funny, ain’t ya?” Joel gave you an exasperated look. “Says the same woman who was so flustered after our shower that you couldn’t look at me properly.”

You hated how a flush crept up to your cheeks, “That was—that wasn’t—”

“See? Don’t dish out what you can’t take.” He shrugged.

“Oh, I’ll dish out something for you to—” 

Before you could finish your colorful sentence, a familiar black car had pulled up. Luckily, your penthouse was close to this side of the city. Joel waved down the car, stepping forward to greet the driver and push everything into the backseat. They spoke some more words before the driver took off. 

You fidgeted with the zipper of your purse while he came back to stand in front of you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets to combat the cold. 

“Now, you goin’ tell me where we’re headin’, or is this ‘posed to be a mystery?”

You smiled and clasped your hands behind your back, already walking toward the direction you had memorized long ago. Together, you both matched each other’s paces, conquering block after block while leaning toward each other naturally. 

“How about you try figuring it out?”

“‘Gain, tryin’ to be funny.”

“Hey, but you—” You point straight at his face, “—are the one who is constantly listening to what I have to say.”

Joel blinked, eyes going slightly crossed as he stared at your fingertip. A heavy look of concern washed over his face, and before you could ask him what happened, he already had your hand in his grasp. “Your fingers are freezin’. You forgot your gloves.”

You glanced down at your bare hands. “Huh, must not have remembered them…”

He seemed offended about that statement. “Here, lemme give you my gloves. Might be too big but it’s better than nothin’—”

“You seem to forget I’ve dealt with thirteen years of New York Winters.” You said it with a twinge of pride as you both stepped down a curb and crossed the road, you on his left side. “You know how many times I’ve rushed to class in my thinnest jacket because my other one was in a washing machine?”

“That ain’t what’s happenin’ here, is it?” Joel retorted. “Now, you got the chance to be warm.”

“Well, I’m not letting you lose your fingers.”

“I ain’t either.”

Stubbornly, you both glared at each other. It was only when Joel relented by huffing and turning his face away. You thought you had won, smiling smugly. You tilted your nose up with pride until you noticed Joel had gone silent. You looked back and…

He wasn’t walking anymore.

Instead, Joel was cursing and moving his hands faster than you could track. He was standing closer to the buildings, not blocking the way of traffic.

You groaned, spinning on your heels to walk back over to him. “Don’t be too mad that I found a way to dodge your chivalrous attempts to be a—”

But before you could finish, you noticed him taking off his left glove. You tried to stop him, but he had already reached and taken your wrist, pulling your whole body against his side as he took your left hand and shoved it into the warm embrace of the fabric. 

Then, your right hand was shoved into his jacket pocket, with his own bare left hand joining yours. Joel’s fingers took up most of the space in the pocket. They were thick and broad and hard, a tell-tale sign of his years of hard work. And those same fingers gracefully wrapped around yours, warming you up.

You blinked at him, and he at you. 

Suddenly, his hand was nothing compared to how hot your face was getting. “Ah—well, your hands are really warm.”

“You’re just now findin’ out ‘bout that?” Joel was the one who looked prideful. 

You clenched your teeth, resuming your walking, but you couldn’t stop yourself from squeezing his hand back. 

Together—hand in hand—you traversed the city once more.

You guided him through the crowded sidewalks, weaving between tourists and locals alike. Joel didn’t question anything, his thumb occasionally brushing over your knuckles inside the pocket. Every so often he’d glance at you, trying to figure out what you were up to but was content to let you lead.

By the time the buildings started thinning, and the air grew sharper with salt, your excitement was nearly impossible to hide. You pulled him down the final stretch, the low roar of the water and the distant horns of boats growing louder with every step.

When you finally stopped near the large glass building, you slipped your hand free and turned to face him. Joel raised a brow.

“Close your eyes.”

He hesitated for half a second, then obeyed, a small, amused smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re really committed to this surprise, huh?”

“Shh.” You carefully covered his eyes with your hands just to be sure, then started guiding him forward. Joel stumbled once, then again, his free hand reaching out blindly until it found your waist.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he muttered, “Can’t see a damn thin’.”

Whitehall Terminal was grand and large, with the words Staten Island emboldened over the front entrance. At night, you knew they glowed blue, but in the day it was turned off. Fewer people than usual entered the building, but the majority of them were tourists. You could tell by the numerous cameras clicking and the ‘I ❤︎‬‬ NY’ shirts. 

You took Joel toward the wall so he wouldn’t get bumped into. You tried to see the expression on his face even though it was covered. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

And with that, you peeled your hands off his face. Joel squinted, adjusting to the light, but they widened when he saw the building. His eyes darted over everything. More so, he tilted his head when he heard 

“What is this?”

You stepped around him, clasping your hands behind your back, your purse hitting the back of your thighs. “This place? Whitehall Terminal.”

“A terminal for…?”

“A ferry! The Staten Island Ferry.” You waved your hand toward the sign like he couldn’t see it. “It’ll take us over the Hudson River, and we can see the skyline of the city. Plus, I don’t think you’ve seen the Statue of Liberty up close.”

“I haven’t seen the statue so close.” He said with an awe-struck tone.

“Exactly! Which is why…” You took his hand with both your clothed and unclothed hands. You dragged him toward the entrance. “… you’re going to love this.”

“How much are the tickets?” Joel asked. “I can pay you—”

“Nice try, but this is a free ride.” 

You and Joel slipped through the doors and into the large lobby. The chatter echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the windows. You could see the Hudson River, the city, and the Atlantic Ocean stretching throughout the view. 

“Do you like it?”

You and Joel slipped through the doors into the wide, echoing lobby. Voices bounced off the tall windows and polished floors—families laughing, tourists pointing, the low rumble of announcements over the intercom. Beyond the glass, the Hudson stretched out gray and restless, the city skyline rising sharp against the late light, and farther still the open water that would carry you toward the Atlantic.

“Do you like it?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the water, then the distant silhouette of the Statue of Liberty standing green and solitary against the horizon.

“Yeah… I do.” A disbelieving shake of his head. “I’ve only seen the pictures of her. Feels different standin’ here ‘stead of just starin’ at a screen.”

You watched the way the light caught the lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders had eased just a fraction. Then you reached into your purse and pulled out the small silver camera you’d been carrying all day. It was compact, and a little scuffed from use. 

“Can I take your picture? With the view behind you.”

Joel’s eyebrows lifted. “Me? Sweetheart, I ain’t exactly camera quality.”

“Please?”

He huffed, but he didn’t argue further. He walked over to the window, planted himself in front of the glass, and stood there like he was waiting for a mug shot. His shoulders square, arms stiff at his sides, and expression carefully neutral.

You lifted the camera and peered through the viewfinder. He looked so formal. The same awkwardness you’d always known was there, only more apparent under the bright lobby lights and the open space around him.

“Be more natural,” you said, lowering the camera a little. “Just… just relax.”

Joel tried. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a smile that came out crooked, uneven, like he wasn’t sure where to put it. It made the whole pose somehow worse.

You frowned. “You know what? Go back to glaring.”

The crooked attempt vanished. His face settled back into the familiar, slightly stern expression he wore most days. It was still posed, still careful, but it was him. The camera clicked softly. You lowered it and looked at him over the top of the viewfinder, something warm and private curling in your chest.

“Lemme take me one of you.” Joel insisted, stepping toward you and holding out his hand. You placed it there, and swapped places with him.

You readjusted your hair, fixed your clothes, and looked back at Joel. His eyes were covered by the camera, but you could see his mouth slightly open. You cocked an eyebrow, “How do I look?”

“Beautiful…” The camera clicked repeatedly, with Joel constantly adjusting how he was positioned. He bent his knees, lifted himself higher, went to the right, then the left. He wanted that perfect angle. 

You laughed at the sight, eyes closed. “You’re putting so much effort into this. I took one picture of you.”

“I got experience.” Joel said while he flipped the camera into a vertical view, “Teenage daughter with her teenage friends? Gives me the best trainin’ possible. Plus, if it means I get to take some of these pictures home with me…”

“Souvenirs?”

“Mhm…”

“Well, at least we should take a picture together.”

Joel poked his head out, then nodded hard. “We can do that.” He came to stand right by you, pressed up to your right. The camera was placed a bit higher than his head, the silver gleaming before your face. 

His picture-ready smile—just as awkward as before—was plastered on his face. You looked up at him, at how his jaw was scruffy and thick. Despite how stiff he was, the twinkle in his eyes was so apparent. It was so easy looking at him. 

You couldn’t help it: you leaned up and kissed his cheek. You didn’t care that it was blurring the picture. You wanted him to know exactly how you felt. 

Joel’s breath staggered a bit, but the clicking didn’t stop. In fact, it got a bit faster. The only reason you were pulled back was that his face turned to meet your lips. Quick pecks were exchanged, and you both laughed. Yours was light, while his was a deep rumble in his chest.

You pulled back, grinning wide, “Liked that?”

But before he could answer, the intercom lit up:

The two-thirty PM Staten Island Ferry is now boarding. Please make your way to the gate, and make sure you have all your belongings.

You looked around, spotting everyone heading forward. You glanced back at Joel, who hadn’t stopped staring at you. “We should head out now.”

“Yes ma’am.” He said with a soft tone. 

Together you moved with the thin crowd through the gate and into the long, slightly echoing tunnel that led down to the slip. The air grew cooler, carrying the stronger scent of river water and diesel. 

At the end of it, the orange ferry waited, its white railings bright against the gray water. You climbed the stairs two at a time, Joel, right behind you, until you spilled out onto the upper deck.

Your chest was heaving a little from the rush when you finally reached the starboard railing. The view opened up clean and wide—no more glass between you and the water—just open air and the city stretching out behind you. The Statue of Liberty stood clearer now.

Joel rested his forearms on the rail beside yours, shoulders brushing. For a moment neither of you spoke. The deck under your feet vibrated faintly as the last of the boarding passengers settled in. There weren’t many; the boat felt almost quiet.

Then the engines deepened their hum, the ropes were cast off, and the ferry began to ease away from the dock, sliding out into the open water of the harbor.

For a long moment, neither you nor Joel said a word. You didn’t want to anyway. You’d rather enjoy the moment in silence with him. Plus, you could enjoy the view on your own. 

The skyline rose in layers of steel and glass, catching the afternoon light. You let your eyes travel across it, naming the shapes without thinking.

There was the Empire State Building, tall and steady near the center, its antenna still catching the sun. A little to the right and lower, the Chrysler Building’s distinctive crown glittered, Art Deco edges sharp even from this distance. 

Closer to the water’s edge you could pick out the Woolworth Building’s Gothic spire, and farther south the cluster of lower Manhattan towers that framed the open space where the Twin Towers had once stood.

You didn’t say the last part out loud. You just watched the light move across the remaining skyline, the way the buildings seemed to lean into one another against the wide gray of the river.

Joel’s arm brushed yours on the railing. He wasn’t looking at the city; rather, he was looking at you. 

“Thank you.” That was all he said.

“For what?”

“For brinin’ me out here.” You nudged your head toward the skyline. “I told you I wanted to travel, see the world. I never thought New York would be the first stop.”

“I told you then, you deserve it, Joel. Disney World, Grand Canyon, Northern Lights, Pacific Coast Highway… you’re going to see it all.”

Joel shook his head, lowering it. His hair was tussled in the wind. “The city seems like a good start.”

“An amazing start. And we barely scratched the surface.” You wistfully looked up at the sky. “There are so many restaurants it would take years to get through them all.”

“We gotta start tonight then. Me, you, some hole in the wall. And I’ll be payin’ for it this time.”

“If you could get your wallet out fast enough.”

Joel chuckled, “Maybe you could just leave your purse at home, then. You’re too quick for me.”

“Again, I’m saying you’re getting a bit too old.” You pushed him with your shoulder. “Think it's time for me to take care of you.”

“Don’t you start with that.” He pointed a bare finger at you. “I’m takin’ care of you for the rest of our lives.”

You blinked at him. “Really?”

“‘Course I am.” He seemed offended. “I’mma take care of you forever.”

“We won’t live that long.”

Joel looked at you through his lashes. “Y’know what I mean. Can’t imagine a world where you’re not by my side, and I’m not takin’ care of you. I know you can take care of yourself—you prove that every day—but it's the little thin’s.”

You tilted your head toward him. “What little things?”

“Drivin’ you to work, watchin’ Friends ‘til midnight while we talk, helpin’ you with your hair… those litte thin’s.”

“Hm… and do you think we won’t have that anymore?”

“If that’s what you want. You said… you said yesterday that you were thinkin’ ‘bout the stuff that comes ‘fore datin’. Then we’d go back to boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“I want to give us more time before we just jump back into a relationship. That’s what we did last time, and that didn’t really… well, you know how that ended. It was a huge rush.” You shook your head and brushed hair off your face. “But I don’t know how that will all work. I mean… you leave in two days, Joel.”

“I know.”

“And when will… when will it be the next time that we see each other?”

He looked away. “I don’t know.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to keep your emotions in check. “And we have whole lives without each other. Me here with work and all the late nights with them. You with the company and Sarah. Just how it was for thirteen years but with us trying to be something more.”

“Y’know…” Joel ran his gloved thumb over his bare knuckles, “For those years, that’s all I wanted. For us to be on good terms even though we were time zones apart. I think I would’ve found courage by then, fixed myself sooner, asked you out sooner. In fact, my whole life would’ve been way different.

“So I don’t want to go back home with doubts. I don’t want to think ‘bout a life where I get back on that plane, and we go nowhere. ‘Cause like it or not, I don’t see myself with anyone else.”

“Joel…” You reached forward, placing a hand on his.

“And y’know ‘causal’ and me don’t work. I’m too fucked up for that. We had sex. Multiple times, in fact, while we’re not datin’. You kissed me too. So it’s either… all or nothin’. I either can’t have you or I’ll will.”

You stared at him, at the emotion on his face. Joel was at his most vulnerable, on this bright orange ferry that was carrying so many. You bit your lip, that same rawness spilling out. “I don’t want to be in the middle. I want all or nothing too.”

“That’s good. We’re on the same page.”

“But how?” You asked honestly.

“What do the kids all it… long-distance?”

You snorted, but it was wet. “You want to long-distance date me?”

“I wanna keep workin’ on fixin’ us for a month or two, then ask you to be my girlfriend. It would be… over the phone, I guess. I would be glued to the thin’.”

He tried to laugh, but not even you could find the humor in it. “And if it doesn’t.”

“It will,” Joel said it with such surety that it shocked you. “If there was one thin’ I could get in this life—one thin’ for sure—I would want ‘nother chance with you. And I sure as hell wouldn’t let it go.”

You flipped around, pressing your back to the railing so that you were facing toward the deck. “I wouldn’t waste it either. I want that life with you, Joel.”

“And I don’t expect you to give up anythin’ for us. Your career, your money, your home here, I don’t want you to lose what makes you you. Our relationship is ‘posed to add to your life, not take away from it.”

You smiled, closing your eyes in bliss. It felt good having him put down that fear before you could even spiral about it. It wasn’t too long ago that men fell for successful women, but then expected them to become mothers and wives. To give up everything they had worked for just for marriage.

But not Joel. No, he wanted you to flourish with him. He wanted to support you. You always knew that, but having it said out loud was satisfying to no end.

“So we’ll try?” You turned your face toward him.

“We’ll try.”

You both went back to the silence. The rush of the river below took up all the space. Coming closer, the Statue of Liberty with her torch waved you closer. The broken shackles on her feet spoke volumes about how you felt many times in this city.

You felt like that now, with Joel here.

Broken free from the fears of the past with Joel. 

With Joel.

❛ ━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━ ❜

“You’ll call me as soon as you land.”

“I swear it.” 

“And you have everything, right?” You pulled back just enough to do a quick scan of Joel. “Backpack, phone, wallet, new suitcase I got you—”

“Which I’m still incredibly grateful for. You didn’t need to buy me one, sweetheart”

“—with all the things we bought for everyone… you should be good then.”

Joel smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you for the checkup. Now, kiss me ‘fore I head out.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Not a single lick of shame existed in your body in the middle of that airport as you leaned up and left a million kisses on his lips. The intercoms blared over your head, stating flight changes and cancellations, and people moved more than usual for John F. Kennedy International Airport. 

January fourth had come far too quickly. Far too fast for you to keep track of. You had meant to soak up as much time as you could with him, but it slipped by your fingers. Days spent waking up late with him, hours getting ready and finally heading outside to sightsee. You finally put your days off to good use; spending the holidays with the one that meant the most. 

 It was pitch black outside—Joel had, of course, picked the latest flight so he could spend the most time with you—so much so that the snow wasn’t visible. You both took a cab, and you held his hand the whole time while your foot thudded against the floorboard. He sat eerily still and quiet, just watching the buildings turn into runways. 

Of course, only Joel Miller could find calm in flying back home after deciding to go long-distance. You barely did relationships, and now the man you just got back with was flying back home. Alone. 

You pulled off his lips to fix his jacket collar. “And if there isn’t enough leg room, or they aren’t doing something fast enough, you call me. I can arrange for a private jet to take you home in about an hour, just say the word.”

“Are you… are you babyin’ me ‘cause this is my second time flyin’?”

“Of course I am!” You huffed. “I hate how you flew for the first time alone. And for me. The least I can do is make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Y’know I would do it ‘gain, right?” He tilted his head down, forcing you to look into your eyes while you were too focused. “I need you to know that.”

Joel’s hands found the expanse of your back. They slipped underneath your jacket and rubbed soothing circles against the fabric of your shirt. Looking up at him, you sighed in relief. “I do know that; it’s just… I get worried, is all.”

“Hmm… well, I don’t think the plane is goin’ down. They gotta have built it properly—”

You smack his chest slightly harder than you normally would. “That’s not something to joke about.”

“I’m sorry.” To make it up to you, he kissed your bare face, moving alongside your hairline and stopping between your eyebrows. “I won’t talk like that.”

“Good. Especially since it’ll be a while before I see you…” You paused, biting your bottom lip. “I’m going to miss you so fucking much.”

“I will too.”

“No, not just that.” Gripping the front of his shirt, you buried your face into his neck. “It’ll be hard. Work, Sarah, everything… I know we talked. We talked all night. But I still can’t wrap my head around the fact you’re about to be almost two thousand miles away from me. Willingly too. I’m willingly letting you go too.”

“Seems like torture for the both of us.”

“Oh, if you only knew. I’d move you here. I’d take Sarah and everyone and give them a fresh start here. School would be good for Sarah, Benji, and Kevin. Business would work great for you and Tommy, and I have connections to get Maria a job. My dad would get amazing care here. Hell, even my mama could find a better facility. Add your own mama and dad on the plan, and we’re set.”

“But you can’t.”

Defeat washed over you. “I can’t.”

“But what you can do—” Joel moved so that your chin was in his hand and he was making you look up, “—is be the amazin’, strong woman I know. Hold down half of our fort here while I manage the other half there. I’ll call you as soon as I land, and we’ll fix up a schedule for when we’ll call.”

“Alright…”

“And I’ll still be vistin’ you. This ain’t gonna be those thirteen years or the last two months. I’ll fly here every once in a while to see you. And you’ll come back home too.”

“Promise?” Your eyes gleamed with hope you didn’t know you could possess.

Joel never looked more sure in his life. “I promise.”

You hugged Joel, trying to keep him as close as possible. He breathed in your scent, pressing his mouth on your head. Whether he was kissing you or just holding on, you couldn’t tell, but you didn’t care either. At least he was close.

You would miss him. 

You would miss his presence pushed up against you in the bed while he practically lay on top of you. You would miss how he held onto you no matter where you both went. You would miss his listening ear that always gave you another side to discussions you hadn’t considered. 

You would miss how he could sharpen or soften you in any moment. You would miss his laugh when it was unrestrained. You would miss the twinkle in his eyes when he talked about the things he loved. You would miss how he loved with his whole being.

You would miss him.

“I’mma miss you so, so much, sweetheart.” Joel’s voice was muffled. “I don’t know how I’m gonna sleep at night. I barely did when you were away.”

“If you keep talking like this, I’m not going to be able to let you go.”

“Is it bad I’m ‘bout to start encouragin’ you?”

When you looked back at him, his eyes were shiny. Unable to see him like that, you tutted and wiped right underneath his eyes, messing up his glasses. He was forced to close one eye with how hard you were pressing into his skin. 

You tried to hold your own composure, refusing to let Joel feel your own sadness. But he caught on, brushing at the corner of your own eyes. You suddenly felt the wetness there, not realizing you had let a tear slip.

“No tears. Be the stron’ one, sweetheart.” Joel said, just in time for the intercom overhead to announce his flight number. You and him jerked back just enough to listen, until it disappeared. Joel looked back at you, “Seems like… like that’s me.”

“It is.”

You both stared at each other before smashing your lips tight together. Joel’s suitcase was forgotten by his side, both his hands locked over your body. 

“Tryin’ to—mwah!—get as many kisses as I get. So it’ll last me ‘til I see you next time.” He reasoned. 

It took force to get him moving. It took too much strength, too, physically and mentally. You pulled back your lips from his. “You have to go, you can’t be late.”

“I know, I know…” Joel trailed off, “... just one more hug?”

You scoffed, “As if you have to ask.”

You hugged him tight one more time, running your fingers over his nape to try and feel the baby curls there. Joel was huffing, clearly trying to smell your perfume and shampoo. 

Once again, it was you who pulled away. It was you who cleared your throat, composed yourself, and grabbed his suitcase before it could get knocked away by traffic. “Go, go Joel. You’re gonna miss it.”

“Y’think they’ll hold the plane for one more kiss…?”

“Go!” But you give it to him either way, tasting salt. 

Joel stepped away from you. It hurt, watching him inch further and further away while throwing glances back at you. Then, he was taking full steps through the crowd, weaving his way to security. He joined the line of bored people waiting their turn, but he looked anything but bored. All he could do was crane his neck to find you so far away.

You waited the whole time as he made his way through. Even though the heater was on, you wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering from his lack of warmth.

Joel was scanned down; his luggage went through the sensors, and nothing happened. Everything went as smoothly as it could, and soon, he was putting his shoes on and grabbing all his belongings from the bins that had reached the end of the belt.

Your heart was in your throat, and your hands inched up to wave him goodbye.

There was no way he would see you. He needed to focus on finding that gate, and he needed to focus on not being nervous.

But Joel always had his way of surprising you. 

He whipped his head around, and through the sea of people, his eyes were locked into yours. His whole arm shook as he waved back. Though you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was smiling. 

You waved back, and it took you brushing your hand to tell him to ‘go’ for him to shake his head and listen. 

Joel disappeared behind the wall, and all that was left was you standing alone. 

You stood there awkwardly for a couple of seconds. People had to scoot around you, muttering ‘excuse mes’, but you didn’t make a move. You waited a bit longer before sighing and turning, heading back for the doors.

The cold air bit at your cheeks, much harsher with the darkness’ help. All around you, life was moving with such haste it was a heavy contrast to you. Cars buzzed through the lane, suitcases and backpacks stood on top of snow, and breath from people lifted to the air.

It didn’t take you long to wave down a cab. The first one that came to you was a bit beat up, but it would work. You got inside, saying short greetings to the driver and giving your address. 

The cab was quick to get through the heavy traffic, getting out of the airport grounds and back into the New York City streets. You watched the city through the windows, that feeling of loneliness becoming your friend once more. 

Though you didn’t last too long. 

Your phone buzzed. You felt it in your pocket. Wiping your eyes, you pulled it out and flipped it open. You frowned, noticing Joel’s name was glowing in the dark. 

Worried consumed you. Did something happen already? You thumbed through all the different screens until you finally logged into your chat with him:

[JOEL]: Made it to my gate.

[JOEL]: It was close by.

[JOEL]: [photo]

The picture was clear; him standing awkwardly in front of the windows that showed glowing runways and planes. His own flight was parked right outside, maintenance working on it. Joel wore a neutral expression with a small smile. He never was the type for set-up pictures. You only got his real smile when it was candid. 

Your heart slowed down, enough to where you could type back.

[YOU]: Handsome.

[YOU]: You look very handsome in those glasses.

Your camera flashed, slightly blinding you as you sent back a picture. When you looked, you could see the faint redness of your eye and the flush of your nose. You still managed to smile for him.

You sent it.

His response was immediate.

[JOEL]: You’re underestimating how strong my willpower is.

[JOEL]: Please don’t cry.

[JOEL]: Not over me.

[YOU]: Have I told you how much I’m going to miss you? 

[JOEL]: You have.

[JOEL]: I’ll miss you more.

[YOU]: Impossible.

[YOU]: If they wouldn’t tackle me to the floor, I’d rush through security and find your gate and kiss you.

[JOEL]: You think I wouldn’t do that too?

[JOEL]: I’m this close to leaving my stuff here and walking back to your penthouse, and get some frostbite while I’m at it.

[YOU]: Sarah would never let you live with the fact you got frostbite over me.

[JOEL]: Then at least she’d know what true love is.

You laughed. 

You hoped he was laughing too. 

But you couldn’t hold onto it for too long. Not when your heart was breaking yet was so full. Like a dam, fracturing and falling apart completely.

[YOU]: I love you

[JOEL]: I love you too, sweetheart.

[JOEL]: Make sure you eat something for dinner that isn’t that takeout crap.

[JOEL]: You should have some leftovers from yesterday in the fridge. 

[JOEL]: And don’t sit by the phone too much and get some sleep.

[JOEL]: Even when I do land, I know it’ll be late for you, and I don’t want you up all night

[YOU]: How are you going a whole time zone away and still finding ways to baby me?

[YOU]: Only you could have a skill like that. 

[JOEL]: Only for you. 

[YOU]: Cheeseball.

[JOEL]: Is that my new nickname?

[JOEL]: I like it.

[YOU]: Do I get a new nickname?

[JOEL]: Honey, sweetie, babe, dear.

[JOEL]: Want me to go on?

[YOU]: Actually, I think sweetheart is the only one for me. 

[JOEL]: Then, ‘sweetheart’, you’ll keep being.

There was a long pause before his next text was sent:

[JOEL]: We’re boarding now, I have to go.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you typed:

[YOU]: Alright, just make sure you don’t forget anything.

[JOEL]: Already padded myself down to make sure I got everything. 

[JOEL]: And remember what I said.

[JOEL]: If you’re tired, go to bed.

[JOEL]: I can still call you in the morning; your sleep matters to me. 

[YOU]: Is it weird I miss your nitpicking as well

A beat of no response, then something.

[JOEL]: Not really, no.

[JOEL]: Cause you wouldn’t want it any other way, you love it

[YOU]: That is true.

[YOU]: I love you, and your nitpicking.

I feel like I'm playing with dolls and making them kiss every time I write smut LMAO. But, about damn time these two have their way with each other!!

Chapter 47 discussion subreddit

Tag List (link open):

@d0uwannkn0w, @saymonyung, @missladym1981, @somedayheaven, @ashleyfilm, @m0ldy-p3ach, @bearbo28, @millersrevolver, @forevermoretaylors, @pascalbrinas, @ae303, @fabiola-love, @itsmermers, @persiar9, @taniamiller, @televanglist1c, @crybabycowgirl02, @secretlettersfromyourlove, @purebarnes, @ashispunk557, @adoringanakin, @silksepia, @madnessofadaydreamer, @fuckthatbazinga, @juniperberries123, @joeldarling, @anqieluv, @s20066, @paperbag33, @lwmysun, @angelamariaxo, @opallanky, @paulieloverz, @vinnstarr, @woodxtock, @lysistratablogs, @kikixdee, @meme73-4 @onlythehobi, @kaletales13, @honey-moon-13, @sinpathyforthedevilish, @honeyphiil, @clownedcakez, @foryouaremine-atlast, @ichaborgasm, @serene-kn1vezz, @pinkcabinet, @kirsteng42, @captured-memory

[onlythehobi]

i can't believe this story is ending 💔 brb i'm going to have a meltdown

the spit part??? HELLO????? I AM THE CORRECT AUDIENCE FOR IT 😛 sososo nastylicious ughehrhjrhrh

they doing long distance omg how can u not love them 😭 and the whole you'll see the world joel bit omg yes sc is the sugar mommy here; she's a providerrrrrrr

also where do i get a naked joel miller delivered to me thank u

[deerfawnn]

lonely souls

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: pope shows up at your place, using your spare key for the first time and you're happy until you learn that he's here for the first aid kit. content warnings: angst!!!! finally!!! reader's lonely, one tiny barely noticeable mention of pope's suicidal tendencies, reader sits in pope's lap + they share a bed, pope has cuts and bruises on his face from his boxing match, mention of blood, a/n: this took me almost six hours to edit and then tumblr wouldn't let me save it and i had to try and fix it for another two hours, so pls i'm genuinely so ready & excited to post this. also i do want to say that this isn't a series!!! it's just a bunch of one shots with an archetype reader :) gif credits to @abbotstudy !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3 wc: 6k

♡ bambi!reader and pope cody

You woke up to a rustling sound and for a second you were convinced it was a cat outside your window, ready to close your eyes again.

That was until you heard heavy breathing alongside it. Coming from your living room. You sat up in bed immediately, terror coursing through your veins. You rubbed your eyes furiously, trying to wake yourself up.

Maybe it was only a dream? But no, instead you heard more rustling and the same heavy breathing. Looking around your room, you found precisely zero objects to strike a burglar with.

Maybe you should call Pope, you thought as you slowly got out of bed. Your bare feet touched the cold floor, and you grimaced as the wood made a sound beneath your feet.

You took a step closer to the door, glancing at your lamp. Should you be stereotypical and hit a possible robber with your lamp? You shook your head. Surely no one was inside your apartment.

You peeked out of your bedroom only to spot a curly-haired man on your couch. And you knew exactly who those curls belonged to.

"Andrew!" you called out, relief sinking in as the man turned to face you. "God, you scared me." You pressed your palm to your chest as you finally rounded the corner towards him.

"You told me I could use the key," he said, eyebrows furrowed.

"You can. I just got—" you smiled softly, now finally standing in front of him. And then your smile faded.

With your nightlight on next to the couch, shining a light on him, the sight was not what you expected.

"Are you okay?" You instantly got closer, bending down to inspect his face. There were bleeding cuts above his eyebrows and on his cheek. You then spotted a first aid kit beside him, your first aid kit, and your heart wrenched.

"Andrew." You'd never said his name in such a disappointed tone before, and he rose up immediately, ready to leave, but you merely shook your head, as if understanding his confusion.

You didn't even ask, or wait for his approval as you always did; you simply cradled his face gently, your thumb brushing directly beneath the deep cut.

You were gazing at him in a clinical way and Pope was glad for it, because he was exhausted. The adrenaline was starting to drain out of his body, and he simply wanted to — he wasn't sure what he wanted.

When the job was completed, he knew he wanted you. He wasn't as concerned with sleep or drinking as his brothers and his nephew were. He just wanted you. All he could think about, while driving to your apartment, was you. He really just wanted to have your gentle hands on him and your belongings around him. He wanted to smell your vanilla scent and hear your kind voice.

Now here he was, and he was coming to the realization that he hadn't given any care to his appearance. He hadn't thought about how he'd gotten himself injured on the job and how he'd just had a boxing fight this morning. He hadn't considered anything but you.

He was starting to regret that.

"Andrew," You murmured his name again, this time without disappointment, and he felt his shoulders drop lightly from where they'd been bunched up about his ears. "You can come over anytime, but if you're hurt, I want you—I need you to wake me up."

Pope looked up at you as you lowered your hands from his face to his chest, peering down to see whether he had any injuries on his neck.

"Why?" was all he managed to say under your warm touch.

You didn't even acknowledge the fact that it was a rather stupid question. "Because I want to help you."

You lightly pushed him back on the couch, and he went down willingly, peering up at you with big eyes. Right, help him. He'd become so accustomed to his family brushing him off when he was injured, that he'd gotten used to taking care of himself.

Oh, bloody cuts all over his face? He'd just take care of it later. And then it would just get later and later, until he'd look in the mirror at 1am in the morning and see the splits and cuts and have to come to the realization that he hadn't simply failed to take care of himself but that no one else had wanted to either.

But you wanted to, and you were angry with him that he hadn't let you.

So Pope sat on the couch, watching you take a seat next to him and open the first aid kit, glancing up at him over and over again, still clinical, wondering whether to acquire more supplies or if this modest kit would suffice.

Pope watched you the entire time and thought that you looked so pretty.

He thought about it a lot, how pretty you were. He thought about it at night, when he couldn't sleep and all he'd hear was the plodding footfall of Smurf's in front of his bedroom door. He'd think about it when he was on a job, and he'd feel this innate desire to just stand still, hand the money to his brothers, and just…vanish in whatever way was possible.

But your pretty face would always flash in front of his face and he'd gather himself quickly, thinking about how you were out there, waiting for him, that he'd promised you a walk on the beach tomorrow.

He had you. For now at least.

You were wearing a large shirt, with cartoon animal figures on it, and shorts, hair in a loose ponytail with some strands framing your face. Pope wanted to push them back so you could see better. Or that he could see you better. He wasn't entirely sure.

You looked up at him, watching him with big eyes, evidently attempting to read his mind and he let you. He was so tired.

"Are the others okay?" you asked quietly, gathering what you needed and setting the first aid kit aside.

"Yeah," he mumbled, and he didn't have to say it for you to gather that he'd gotten the worst of it. Of course, he did.

He could see the sadness that flashed across your face, and he hated that he was the one to put it there. You had probably been sleeping peacefully. This was precisely why he didn't deserve your spare key.

He could feel himself starting to get uncomfortable, fingers tightening in his jeans, crawling the fabric together, completely missing the way you glanced down at his hands.

"You know I was just going to text you," you said quietly, and Pope looked up at you, still out of it with how uncomfortable he was feeling. "Window in my room's broken and with the wind, it won't stop hitting against the window sill over and over again." now finally grabbing the antiseptic, you applied some to a pad of cotton. "Was driving me crazy."

Pope let go of his jeans. "I fixed that a month ago."

You shrugged. "Storm happened recently, I guess it broke again."

"The storm was two weeks ago," he stated in a not exactly, happy voice.

You bit your lip, realizing in your need to distract him from whatever he was feeling, you'd exposed yourself. "I didn't want to bother you. You had a lot going on."

You didn't say it in an accusing tone, but Pope could hear the loneliness oozing out from it, overflowing combined with the loneliness in your eyes.

He had been busy. With boxing matches. Smurf's fault, and he couldn't tell her he didn't want to do them because he wanted to be with you. Smurf was still under the impression that you were friends with Craig. Only Craig. And she had never cared about Craig's friends before. So he had been blowing you off, worried she'd catch on and hurt you.

The guilt overwhelmed him, making him feel nearly nauseated. The soft sensations of your palms touch on his face, now scorching. "I'm sorry," he mumbled as you tilted his head towards you, gently stroking the antiseptic across the cut.

You pulled back. "What for?"

"For—for not being around," he said quietly, studying your face to see if disappointment would return, but nothing changed.

"That's okay," you said quietly, a soft smile on your lips. "Just missed you, that's all."

Pope missed you too. So much. It hurt. "Smurf—she kept me….busy."

It wasn't a lie.

"I can see that." You nodded at his face. The only dig you'll ever make at Smurf and Pope liked that.

He was tired of people always telling him that his mother was evil. He knew that. He was more than aware of it. He didn't need people telling him about the things he had to live through and was still living through. He needed an escape, not to have her follow him everywhere. He needed a place where her name wouldn't be uttered from every corner.

And you gave him that.

You observed him for a minute, and he let you, because he really had just wanted this all day and all week.

After every boxing match, he just wanted your attention. He liked the way you looked at him; it was never judgmental. You looked at him with curiosity, which he thought of odd at first, but now liked.

It made him feel like you could never get enough of him, like there was always something new about him that you could discover. He liked that. Most people had a fixed image of him and never went beyond it. You didn't. You took in every minor shift in him, and thoroughly enjoyed it.

He could tell by the look in your eyes that you wanted to say something, so he tilted his head. "What?"

You finally looked up, like you'd been spaced out, and only now realized he was there. "It'd be easier to clean the blood if I just—" you cut off, staring at him before shaking your head. "Nevermind," you mumbled, taking his face back in your gentle hands, already wiping across the cut again with the cotton.

Pope furrowed his eyebrows, before lightly reaching for your wrists, pulling them off his face. "If you, what?"

"It's fine. This works for you, right?" you asked, now nervousness creeping up on you because he was cornering you and you didn't like that. Clearly.

Pope stared at you, before he dropped his hands. "You want to sit in my lap?"

He really did know you. Too well even.

Your eyes darted from his face back to his lap. "No, no, it's fine. This works," you mumbled, already lifting your hand again.

Pope titled his head, and before you knew it, his hands were on your hips, and he was lifting you to sit in his lap, knees on each side of his hips while he stared at you and you stared back wordlessly.

"Is this okay?" he asked quietly, worried that this was actually not what you wanted.

But you nodded, too flustered to speak. Pope let you continue tending to his wounds until he glanced down, noticing how you were hovering, just barely.

With a frown playing on his lips, he grabbed your hips. "Sit down."

You still hovered, biting your lip anxiously. "M'too heavy for you and you're hurt."

"You're not heavy, and I don't care," he mumbled, pushing you down on his lap gently, but with no way for you to resist.

Your gaze shifted to his, to see whether he was repressing a groan or some pained grimace, but there was only plainness in his eyes. He stared back at you wordlessly, waiting for you to continue, praying your hand wouldn't travel back down to his chest like it had before. He didn't want you to feel his racing heartbeat.

You were so close, closer than he'd ever had you, and you tilted his head again, your thumb pressing into his chin, fingers spreading across his cheek as you gently brushed the antiseptic across his wounds.

The entire time you tended to his cuts, you checked on him. 'This okay?' 'Does that hurt?'

It wasn't hurting. Pope knew that he should be feeling some pain on some level, but he wasn't feeling anything. His palms were softly stretched around your hips, his hands just barely beneath your shirt, feeling the warmth of your skin. It made him dizzy.

"Where did you get all of this?" You asked quietly, as you moved on to another cut. There was so much blood, and not just that, but also dried blood. Some of the wounds were be old, while others appeared new.

"Job," he mumbled, and you drew back, nearly making him whine since your face wasn't close to his anymore.

"That's not all." It wasn't a question. And you hated to be this pushy, to corner him, but you were terribly worried. Clearly not all of these bleeding injuries were the result of a job; he had done something on his own.

He stared at you, tilting his head as if saying you going to keep asking?

You bit your lip, hard, shifting your gaze away from his as you returned to the cut on his forehead now, gently brushing along his eyebrow.

He felt horrible about being responsible for your guilty and worried expression.

You only wanted to help.

But he was scared. Scared what you'd do if you found out he punched and beat people in his free time. It was scary. It was a scary sight, and he had nightmares about the way people looked at him after he exited the ring. The silence that followed as if he'd done something horrible rather than something they'd been actively rooting for and only then decided that it was an inhumane thing to do.

He wondered why people always chose to condemn him. Why everyone in the world did the same things he did, but he was the one deserted, forced to beg for mercy from everyone.

Why did everyone root for his opponent to strike him? Why did everyone cheer as he felt the blood trickle from his mouth? Why did everyone denounce him the moment the blood dripped from his opponent's nose?

He didn't want you to look at him the same way.

You kept cleaning and eventually Pope got tired, sliding back, careful not to drop you as his back touched the sofa. You kept brushing, apologizing for being sluggish, but he only shook his head, grateful that someone was looking after him for once in his life.

After a while, you pulled back, looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Think I'm done," you mumbled. "Are you hurting anywhere else? Need painkillers?" you asked, not moving yet because his grip on your hips hadn't loosened.

"No." Pope shook his head.

You stared at him, expecting him to release your hips, but he just…didn't.

So you sat there with your hands in your lap, waiting for whatever he would say, but he didn't. You were used to silence from Pope. He remained silent a lot. However, sitting on his thighs in silence was nerve-wracking. Especially for you. There was nothing to distract you from acknowledging how nice this was, how you never wanted to get up ever again.

"Take care of yourself, Andrew," you said quietly, needing to fill the silence while getting him out of his head. "I worry about you and I just—I don't want you to keep getting hurt even if you enjoy boxing."

Pope's head snapped up, and you realized your mistake then as he straightened up, with you on his lap, your hands darting to his shoulders to keep you from falling, despite the fact that he hadn't even taken his hands off your hips.

"Who told you about my fights?" He sounded mad, and you'd never had that tone aimed at you, though you weren't so sure he had. It sounded more like it involved whoever told you about this very secret of his.

"No one I just—" you pressed a thumb into his shoulder firmly and unconsciously, and it wasn't until he felt the pain run through his body that he realized he was scaring you or at least what he feared he was doing.

"Craig— Craig took me to one of them," you whispered, and Pope's fingers dug firmly into your hips, unconsciously unaware of what he was doing, until you lowered your hands from his shoulders to his wrists, thumb pressing where his pulse was racing. He swiftly withdrew his grip, shoulders slumping in defeat.

You'd seen him.

"I didn't stay." Your hands remained wrapped around his wrists, dragging them away from your hips and between you where you continued on to hold them. "I realized what it was outside, and Craig had a strange look on his face. I knew it was you in there."

Craig had said he wanted to show you something, and you'd assumed it was something little, such as a new shop, or something he had created. He'd mentioned wanting to open a gym, so you'd figured it was that.

But when you arrived at a parking lot with a ring nearby, your brows wrinkled. Craig had urged you to get out of the car, but you'd had a bad feeling. And when you stepped outside, and saw Craig's faintly triumphant expression, you knew something was off. So you'd shaken your head, insisted on going back home, lied about having a shift at work coming up, and forced him to drive you home.

But you weren't stupid. You knew what had been waiting for you in that ring, if not for Craig's victorious shine in his eyes, then for the fact that Pope's car had been parked in the same parking lot as Craig.

And you couldn't allow yourself to watch Pope do something he hadn't invited you to, and something you knew Smurf had coerced him into.

"Craig wanted to—" You wanted to be nice, didn't want to throw his younger brother under the bus, but it was hard not to. "He just invited me to watch, but I didn't go inside."

Pope studied you, his gaze flitting all over your face to see if you were lying, but you clearly weren't. "Why?"

"Because you didn't know."

That was enough for you? Him not knowing? He had never set boundaries with you about what you could and couldn't do, but you just… figured it out.

"You didn't see anything," he asked, still in disbelief, and you shook your head.

"I promise I didn't even walk in," you said quietly. "Didn't see a single thing."

Pope stared at you, and then back to your intertwined hands. "Thank you for not—not watching."

You merely offered him a faint smile, looking down at your entangled hands too. His hands were so much bigger than yours and cold, so cold. You turned your hands lightly, brushing gently across the back of his rough hand.

"Your hands are cold." You whispered quietly.

"Sorry." Pope tried to pull them out of yours, but you held on.

"Uh, uh." You smiled up at him. "They'll warm up like this," you mumbled, lightly running your thumb across the back of his hand.

There must have been two minutes of silence before Pope gently spoke. "I should head home. It's late."

Your expression changed in an instant, with sadness washing over it so rapidly that Pope wondered whether he had imagined your earlier smile. "What?" he asked, perplexed as to why you were now visibly so upset.

"Nothing." You offered him a feeble smile, letting go of his hands and rising from his lap, falling back down on the couch. "Just watch your cuts. And be careful. Take a break from—from fighting."

You were now rising up, adjusting your shirt, tugging it down, as if waiting for him to get up too so you could say goodbye. He stared up at you, eyes darting across your face. He stood up, his feet almost nudging yours, close enough that he could see the pressure you exerted on your lips with your teeth.

"What's wrong?" he said, tilting his head to catch your eyes.

You glanced at him, shaking your head, before looking away again. "Nothing. Have a safe drive home."

Pope gazed down, seeing just the top of your head as you continued to stare down. You hadn't moved yet, so he figured this was your way of being petulant, childish even.

You wanted him to realize the mistake he'd just made, and you wanted him to fix it. He had to repress a smile at that, and he felt evil for feeling the need to smile in the first place.

"Hey." He prodded your foot with his, slowly bringing his palm up to brush his knuckles against your upper arm.

When you focused your attention on him, he quickly dropped his hand. "Did I come in too late?" he asked, his face wrinkled with concern. "I—I knew you had a first aid kit—and you gave me your key." he added quietly, hand moving to touch his pocket, where his fingers tapped restlessly against the metal.

You glanced at him, and Pope realized with dread that he had exacerbated your sadness. He'd said the wrong thing. "I'm sorry."

"Don't have anything to apologize for," you murmured, drawing away and letting him pass. He didn't. He continued to stand there, and his eyes were desperate enough for you to crumble.

"Andrew, you didn't do anything wrong, I promise." you said softly. "I just—" You looked down at your feet and then back at him. "You always leave."

The words hit Pope hard. He felt like the air had been knocked out of his chest. He felt his chest squeeze tight as he stared at you. And you hadn't even realized how horrible those words were to him, assuming he was just upset that he had made you sad. And he certainly was. He hadn't meant to make you feel like that.

He would never intentionally make you feel like that.

He didn't want to be someone who leaves. He never wanted to leave. If he could stay in your warm apartment for the rest of his life he would. If he could stay with you forever, he would.

He just didn't want to be someone who overstayed his welcome.

Pope was scared that eventually you'll realize who the real Andrew Cody was. Realize that sometimes Pope had to remind himself of certain manners with you, that when you scrunched your face with slight indignation when his brother insulted him, that they were actually right.

He was weird.

He liked to sit in silence for hours. He couldn't sleeping. He liked to be clean and organized and if it were up to him, he'd be reorganizing your entire kitchen right now. He got overwhelmed and he got angry. And he was sad a lot.

He didn't have many good days.

If he stayed, you'd see and experience all of him. And he just…couldn't do that to you.

Pope had no words for you, and he had no idea what to do either. As he peered down at you, the buzzing in his mind grew louder, fingers twitching at his sides.

You quickly took notice of the twitching and your eyes snapped upwards, taking in his expression more carefully and realization dawned on you.

You had hurt his feelings. Really badly.

You had never seen this expression on his face before, it was pure and unguarded hurt. Panic surged up in your body.

"I mean my apartment at night," you added, as if that would fix everything.

He never stayed, that was a fact. Whether it was for the night or anywhere else. He didn't stay at the beach, when you were with the Cody’s, he didn't stay after dinner, he just…. never stayed anywhere.

Your words were for nothing. He knew you were lying.

Pope didn't want to lose you.

Everyone at some point realized that he had weird inclinations, and they'd start by giving him odd looks until they were suddenly gone from his life. And he made mistakes with the people he cared about. A lot of them and he couldn't bear making a mistake with you.

Pope was becoming increasingly uncomfortable in his own skin, and before you knew it he was moving past you, ready to leave, doing exactly what you told him he always did.

But you were already reaching for his arm. "Andrew."

You instantly stopped him, turning until you were directly in front of him, panic in your eyes. "I didn't mean it like that." You weren't sure what the meaning of that was exactly.

Pope stared at you, his chest rising with every hard breath. He looked so hurt, and you hated that you were the cause of it.

"I just want—I want you here," you finally admitted, the words flooding out of you just so you could erase the hurt you had caused to him. "I like having you here, and I—I don't like it when you leave." 

That word again. He winced.

"I want you to stay the night," you eventually said, looking up at him with eyes that were not as courageous as you hoped.

Pope stared. You wanted him to stay. Why? What difference would it make if he stayed? Why would you want him in your house? Didn't you hear that he was scary? Surely Craig had told you. He wasn't safe for you.

"Why?" His voice cracked on the word.

You stared at him, deciding if being brutally honest was worth it. "Because I'm lonely, and you make me feel like I'm not."

It sounded selfish, you knew that. But he wouldn't stay if you told him you liked him so much it physically hurt to stay away from him. That you hated how he left after dinner, and how you would lie in bed thinking that if you'd been more brave you would be hearing the rustling of the sheets in your spare bedroom and know there was another beating heart in your home.

Maybe you were just selfish. Maybe you were evil for wanting him here because you couldn't stand the silence of the house.

You always felt lonely around Craig, around Deran, around everyone. Everyone made you feel lonely, even lonelier at times.

Except Pope.

When Pope was around, you felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the fact that another human being was speaking to you, wanting to talk to you, and that someone wanted you around.

And at times it was almost too overwhelming, the added seriousness of realizing that Pope was more than important to you and you'd distance yourself.

But then, lying in bed at night, you'd miss that feeling.

The feeling of your heart racing when he brushed up against you in the kitchen, when he asked you a question and awaited the answer with his patient hazel eyes, and you'd start having sweaty palms, how he'd insist on buying you things, and you'd be too nervous to say no, and then you'd feel bad for taking his money and the guilt would wreck your body all night.

You missed all of these feelings. These feelings that you would have considered unfavorable in any other situation.

Pope turned every feeling you had ever been scared of into something you wanted to feel.

And the loneliness would become more unbearable by the second. Something you'd grown accustomed to over the years, now felt like it was tearing you apart. The deafening silence in your apartment started feeling sickening, and you couldn't stand it anymore, unable to sleep because you craved Pope's presence so badly.

Pope stared at you, taken aback by the abrupt honesty. You had never outright confessed to him that you were lonely, though he had had a feeling.

"Okay."

That was all he had for now. Pope had never been a man of many words, and it frightened him sometimes, that this lack of a quality would make him lose you.

His actions were what others judged him on, so how was he supposed to fix his mistakes if he didn't have the words? Baz had always made mistakes and hurt people, but Pope had seen him make amends to everyone with words.

Pope didn't have words. All he had were his actions and those were never enough for the people around him.

They were for you.

A smile appeared on your face. "Yeah?"

And Pope nodded, and the strain in your shoulders eased, and you finally took your fingers from his forearm. His arm felt like it was cold again, the warmth from you that keep it alive, disappearing, and it flopped back to his side.

"You want the spare bedroom?"

He shrugged. "Wherever you want me to be," and he meant that. Wherever you wanted him to be, he would go.

You stared at him and then you nodded. "Spare bedroom it is."

You walked away without another word and Pope hurried to follow you down the hall. "I don't know if I have any clothes for you." You mumbled, glancing at the bed and the empty closet in the bedroom.

"That's fine," he said, implying that he was going to sleep in his boxers.

"I'll get you some water and Advil," you murmured, glancing at his wounds, which he had entirely forgotten about, and before he could say no, you walked out of the bedroom and Pope was left staring at the sheets. He was going to sleep in the same house as you.

He had done that before it had just been his place.

Now he was staying at your place and Pope couldn't help how strange that made him feel. It felt like too much good. He didn't have this much luck in his life. What if something bad happened? What if tonight he had a nightmare? What if you realized you actually didn't want him around?

You said he helped with your loneliness. That circled around in his brain, the only thing comforting him about the idea of this entire sleepover. He was helping you. You'd said it yourself, and you wouldn't lie to him, would you?

While you rummaged through the kitchen, Pope stripped down to his boxers and sat down on the edge of the bed, waiting for you. His fingers tapped restlessly on his thighs as he stared at the wall. It was empty. You seemingly never used the spare bedroom.

He heard you enter the bedroom, and he returned his gaze to you as you placed everything on the nightstand.

"Thank—"

"I'm not like— forcing you to stay here, right?" You interrupted him, your eyes wide with concern, as if you hadn't heard him speak. "Because I'm not trying to. I just worry that you think you can't stay here for whatever reason and I want you to know that you can and that I— I want you to." You wrung your hands anxiously, shifting back and forth on the back of your feet.

Pope watched you stammer through your words, one hand planted on the bed and the other no longer boring holes into his jeans. "You're not forcing me."

He wasn't sure how you'd gotten to that conclusion.

"It's just— I didn't mean to guilt-trip you into this. I just like having you around and I—" try to get you away from Smurf as much as I can. I'm worried about her effect on you. I'm scared she'll rope you into another boxing match tomorrow, and you're already hurt, and I can't have you get hurt again. I want you to know you're safe, and I want you to have a break. I missed you. And I worry about you.

You didn't have the courage to say all of this.

"You're not guilt tripping me into this." Pope spoke slowly, his eyes fixed on yours, waiting for you to finally hear him. "I want to be here."

You stopped moving restlessly, hands falling to your side, staying still. "You're sure?" You whispered.

Pope nodded, still watching you with concerned eyes. Jesus, he had underestimated your overthinking.

"Okay good." You mumbled, and once again kept looking down, zoned out again, but not leaving.

He pushed back the covers, sitting up more properly against the headboard. "Do—do you want to stay?" He cringed. This was your apartment, your bed, even if you didn't sleep in it.

Pope knew you didn't want to go to your room. He had learned to read your body and the way you were standing here, zoned out, was your way of saying that you wanted to stay.

He had seen it enough with Craig at Deran's bar, when you clearly had wanted Craig to stay with you, but he would simply get up and leave. Pope would always swoop in and make the dark corner of the bar with the drunk and high people surrounding you, appear less terrible.

You didn't say much as you slipped beneath the covers and Pope had to suppress a smile at that even though his heart was speeding up ready to burst out of his chest.

He laid down staring at the ceiling, resisting the urge to turn on his side. He knew it was rather impolite to turn his back to you.

"Is the bed good?" you asked quietly and Pope turned his head just barely, meeting your eyes.

"It's good." He wasn't sure what you meant by good, but it was soft, and it felt nice enough for his bruised back.

He stared up at the white ceiling above him, shadows from the trees outside dancing over it. He didn't notice your eyes on his chest, or the way your heart sank at the sight of the bruising.

Even in the dark, you could see the discoloration. Purple, red, blue. You felt nearly nauseous, your stomach churning as you quickly averted your gaze from the sorrowful sight.

You didn't have the heart to tell him that the winces and groans he suppressed as he slid closer to you were not okay, and that no one was supposed to live like this.

Though you had a feeling he knew, but he had told himself he deserved it, that the people in his life told him he deserved it. That, in his mind, this was punishment for the things he had done, and for the things he knew he was going to do.

You looked back up at the ceiling, hoping that this was enough, that sleeping in a safe apartment would allow him to forget about the horrors of the day for just a few hours. That he knew, that your door was always open to him, that you liked him and that you wanted him here.

It was impossible to be sure if he knew, as he would never admit it, but in the quiet of the night, with your head on his shoulder and his arm around your waist, you hoped it was his unspoken way of letting go of the nightmares and knowing that he had a home here with you.

[onlythehobi]

my brother in christ....... if there's no happy ending for these two istg-

all the little thoughts, the details and how well they know each other, what they don't say out loud ENOUGH

[deerfawnn]

drunk confessions, tender hearts

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: craig tells you things about his family and you gradually realize how much you don't fit in. how much you don't fit in with pope. so you get drunk and pope's left to deal with the mess craig made of you content warnings: reader's drunk & dizzy, pope's abandoment issues, reader's very insecure, mention of reader braiding her hair, craig slander, shirtless pope bc i love shirtless pope, pope carries reader for a bit a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with another bambi!reader and pope fic that is also sort of a pope cody character study!! also my favorite trope ever!! bc i love it when reader gets so drunk she says and does things she really shouldn't. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 wc: 5.9k

♡ bambi!reader and pope cody

Pope didn't plan on showing up at Craig's bar. 

He wasn't up for it, but he had nothing else to do, and you were nowhere to be found. He tried texting you, just checking on you (or so he told himself; in truth, he really just wanted to talk to you because he felt so inexplicably lonely in Smurfs house), but you didn't respond to any of his messages.

So he decided to pay a visit to his brother and ask him if he had any fresh information on the job they were currently working on. When he stepped in, the bar was packed. Obviously, at 10pm no one would anticipate anything different. 

Pope looked around, examining each face. No threat, no threat, no threat.

This is why he disliked going places without you. When you were with him, all he felt the need to was to focus on you, think about you, and hope that you were okay and feeling safe. He didn't have to think about hundreds of people crammed into a tight space, drinking and yelling right in his face. 

Pope headed to the bar and waited for Deran to notice him. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the counter, his ears ringing from the loud and drunken sounds around him. It felt like his brain was buzzing from the volume. It almost hurt, and as much as he envied Deran's bright future sometimes, he despised being in here. 

He quickly withdrew his hands, noticing how dirty the counter was, a scowl forming between his brows. Disgusted, he looked at his fingertips, briefly considering going to the bathroom to wash them. But the bathroom was much filthier, so Pope just dropped his hands to his sides, fingers twitching with discomfort. 

"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.

"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged. 

Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.

"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.

"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"

Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."

Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction. 

You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own. 

Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother. 

But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.

You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."

You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.

Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.

"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back. 

You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him. 

"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?" 

"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.

"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.

You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay. 

His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.

"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."

Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope. 

His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."

"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.

"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."

You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this. 

Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.

You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.

There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never. 

You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word. 

Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you. 

He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.

Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs. 

He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite. 

Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.

"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open. 

You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest. 

He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"

You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.

Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now. 

When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle. 

You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.

"You're nice to me," you whispered. 

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.

"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.

"You're fine." 

It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door. 

You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys. 

"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.

"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them." 

Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket." 

You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?" 

Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."

"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word. 

Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.

It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you. 

You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful. 

He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.

When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."

It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face. 

"I know," you whispered, ashamed.

"You shouldn't be alone." 

You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did. 

Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.

He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."

You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.

But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.

He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.

You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.

You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.

"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.

Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk." 

"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question. 

Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.

"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.

You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff." 

Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.

You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.

"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.

"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.

You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."

You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.

Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.

"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.

"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "

You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.

You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.

You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here." 

It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too. 

Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.

Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips. 

"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.

Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.

"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.

"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.

"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.

You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.

"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice. 

You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.

Pope couldn't be sure what his younger brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.

There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around. 

None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.

Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking. 

Like me. 

That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.

Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.

When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.

"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."

You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."

You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising. 

"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.

When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.

"What about you?"

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"

You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?" 

Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.

Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did. 

"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before. 

He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you. 

"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before. 

You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone. 

Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.

You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.

Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. 

Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry. 

He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.

When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?" 

Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you. 

"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter. 

When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"

Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary. 

He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.

" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?" 

You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.

Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.

He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around. 

You didn't turn around on purpose. 

"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.

"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets. 

He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"

Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.

And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.

"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.

You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.

His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip. 

Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.

He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move. 

Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.

Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.

"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."

He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.

"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.

"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to." 

It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.

You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached. 

He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.

"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.

"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me." 

Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.

"I know," he whispered against your hair. 

[onlythehobi]

i'm in love with them ur honor please protect them !!!!

[thatfanficstuff]

Tummy - M. Robinavitch

Pairing: Robby x Reader

a/n: inspired by this post by @spookypeachpitt13 because I apparently am incapable of not writing a fic for one of her fantastic ideas.

You had a problem.

A monumentally big fucking problem.

It wasn’t debt or drugs or some mortifying shameful secret. No, it was much worse. You were completely, unavoidably, 100% in love with one Michael Robinavitch.

You had tried not be. God, how you’d tried. You’d read the blogs, the subreddits, the HR policies. You reminded yourself every single day that falling for someone at work, particularly one in a position of authority was a horrible idea. But then he’d bring you coffee when he noticed you dragging or pat you on the shoulder after a rough case or just look at you with those preposterously gentle brown eyes and you’d forget every warning you’d ever given yourself. It was hopeless.

He was impossible not to love. He was always doing things for you, had a way of making you feel less like a cog in the machine and more like a person. Which honestly was a little inconvenient when you were trying to restrain yourself.

And then there were the other things. The small things that made you want to cry from longing. God you were a dramatic bitch. But honestly, his beard with that gray running through it. His stupid hoodies he wore every day over his scrubs. The glasses which he’d started wearing to read last winter. Those fucking glasses. Jesus. And the way he’d push them up with a knuckle when they slipped? Well, it was practically pornographic.

But the thing you loved the most, though you would never say it out loud, was the little belly he’d gotten lately. It wasn’t unseemly or even prominent. It was just enough to stretch the fabric of his scrub tops, just enough to look soft and warm and utterly huggable. You’d catch yourself imagining all the undignified things you wanted to do with it. Run your hands over it, rest your head on it, press your lips to it and listen to him laugh. Yeah, you had issues.

Which led to the problem. You. Could. Not. Stop. Staring. You could never, ever hope to hide the way you looked at him and you lived in mortal terror that someone would notice and tell him. Or worse, that he would notice himself. You imagined your career ending because you couldn’t keep your feelings to yourself. It kept you up at night.

You sighed in singleness and your gaze drifted to where Robby stood talking with Jack during the shift change. Robby patted his stomach and you bit your lip.

“I’m getting a belly. I need to join a gym or something.” Robby sounded so defeated.

It was such a nothing comment, one that wasn’t even directed at you. You should have just ignored it like so many others. But for some reason you didn’t. Maybe you were overtired. Maybe it was the tone in his voice. Maybe you were just hopeless.

“I don’t know…I kind of like a tummy on a man…it’s comfy,” you managed to stutter out.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Robby and Jack both turned to you in surprise. Robby’s brows lifted and his mouth dropped open a little as color flooded his face. Jack looked stunned for a moment then a sharp mischievous grin crossed his face as he glanced between you and his friend.

You wanted to die. No, you wanted to vaporize and be swept away into the hospital’s ventilation system never to be seen again. “I don’t…I don’t know why I said that.” Your whole body heated in embarrassment as you ducked your head to hurry away. Robby called your name and you shook your head. “I have to check on a patient.”

You were absolutely not going to have a conversation about how inappropriate you had just been, especially with the man in question. Nope. Not happening. You tried to remember if you had any marketable skills outside of medicine because you were pretty certain you had just tanked your career.

You picked a room at random and checked in with the patient who was still waiting on the results of his labs. After getting him some water and rechecking his vitals, you felt more centered.

You left the room and almost ran into Jack. “Sorry,” you said, voice small.

“You do know your shift ended fifteen minutes ago?” There was a teasing tone to his voice. 

“I was just finishing with a patient.”

“Uh huh. So, I have a question. Is it all tummy’s you like or Robby’s in particular?” he asked like it was the most normal question in the world.

You made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a sob and covered your face with your hand and groaned. “Jesus Christ, Jack. Can we please never talk about this again?”

Jack chuckled. “Oh no. We’re discussing this every day for the rest of your life. Robby turned crimson. It was beautiful.”

“Jack.” His name came out in a whine. You couldn’t help it.

“I’m not judging, I just think it’s adorable. The guy’s been beating himself about his weight for months, and you go and tell him you love it. He’s probably over the moon.”

You peeked through your fingers. “He is not over the moon. He’s probably mortified.

Jack shrugged. “Maybe. But he’s also not going to forget it. Trust me, you just made his day.”

You huffed out a weak laugh and shook your head. Maybe you hadn’t ruined everything after all. You headed home with the ghost of a smile on your face.

The next morning, you found Robby pouring himself a cup of coffee. He wore the same hoodie as the day before and a tired smile. When he saw you, he hesitated then offered you the cup, ears turning red.

You took it, fingers brushing for a split second. You mumbled a thank you and ducked away, but you caught him watching you with an odd, hopeful look in his eyes.

Maybe things would be okay. Maybe the universe would give you a break for once.

The rest of the day shifted into a blur of cases. Through it all you couldn’t shake the feeling of Robby’s fingers brushing against yours. You found yourself stealing glances at him throughout the day, trying to decipher the look in his eyes. Was it hope? Pity? Amusement? You couldn’t tell and the uncertainty gnawed at you. You could still see the softness in Robby’s eyes, the slight curve of his mouth as he handed you the coffee. This was ridiculous. You were acting like a lovesick teenager, not a grown woman.

The end of the day ticked ever nearer. You were checking the vitals of a man that had been brought in for abdominal pain. He was large, body tense with discomfort, eyes wild in a mixture of pain and anger. You tried to soothe him but his agitation only seemed to grow.

Suddenly he lunged at you, grabbing your wrist in a vice-like grip. You gasped and called for help as you tried to wrench free. His other hand came up, fingers curled into a fist and you braced yourself for the impact.

“Hey!” Jack’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. You stumbled backward as you were suddenly released. Jack eyed you while him and Mateo got the guy back on the bed.

Robby rushed in, eyes wide with concern. “What the hell happened?”

Jack glanced over. “Patient got agitated. Take care of her, I got this.”

“Come on.” Robby placed a hand on your elbow to lead you out of the room. He steered you to an empty room as your wrist throbbed, heart pounding in your chest. Once he got you settled on the edge of the bed, he slipped his glasses on so he could get a better look at your injuries. “What happened?”

You held out your arm. “He just grabbed my wrist.”

Robby hummed and looked it over. “Well, it’s going to bruise but I think you’re okay otherwise.”

You sucked in a breath that turned into a sob. “I thought he was going to hit me.”

He made a tsking noise and stepped closer to you. He pulled you into him so your forehead rested against his belly, one of his hands cradling your head while the other ran up and down your arm. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”

Once you’d calmed, he moved to sit beside you, close enough his thigh pressed against yours. His hand grasped yours, fingers intertwined. “I wanted to talk to you. About what you said yesterday.”

You couldn’t look at him but you nodded your head so he knew you were listening.

“Did you mean it?” His voice was soft, uncertain. “You don’t mind that I’ve got a bit of a belly?”

You looked up then, eyes wide. “Mind? Robby…” You sucked in a breath, bracing yourself as you remembered Jack’s words yesterday. Your shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “I love it. I love everything about you, but especially your tummy.”

Robby leaned in, his eyes never leaving yours. You could see flecks of color in the brown. You could feel his breath, warm and minty mingling with yours. And then, softly, gently, he kissed you. His lips were warm, his beard soft against your skin. You melted into him, eyes fluttering closed, every nerve ending alight.

He pulled back and rested his forehead against yours. “I love everything about you too, honey.”

You laughed, a breathless giddy sound. You reached up, cupping his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard against your palm. You didn’t know where this would go. But for now, this was more than enough.

[ceriseangels]

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗦𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗘𝗮𝘀𝘆 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝗧𝗼 𝗡𝗲𝗲𝗱- 𝗠.𝗥.

Pairing- Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Nurse!Reader

WC- 5.8k

Summary- Michael is insecure. With you, that just won't do.

Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, p in v sex, spanking, tummy riding inspired by @cinnxmxngxrl, tummy appreciation like crazy, kind of mean robby, robby's a bit of a perv, fresh relationship, a little toxic but they're in healing mode, everything but the smut is proofread lmao we ball, forever shoutout to @whatif-ialreadydid for being the best beta reader

A/N- divider from @sweetmelodygraphics ! this is genuinely i think the filthiest thing i've ever written do not stone me in the town square if it's awful

Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest as you near your senior attending, his head turned down towards his clipboard, eyes looking up at you from the top of his glasses.

The sight weakens your knees, and you resist the wobble as you round the counter of the hub, leaning your elbows against the flat marble surface.

You study his face for a moment, allowing yourself to relive the past couple weeks you've shared with him- from dinner and coffee dates to recently spending the night at his for the first time- it's been…good.

Spending time with him is fun, but you've finally discovered that fucking him is even better. You knew it would be.

You wouldn't have expected that dating the brooding, grumpy attending would be full of so much unbridled joy, especially after getting word from Dana about his past behaviors, the 'seven week itch' many like to call it.

He shrugs at you, eyebrows knit together in a 'what the fuck' manner. This snaps you out of your reprieve, and your cheeks burn as you meet his eyes.

"Whatcha got there?" You ask him shakily, reaching for the clipboard.

He gives it to you, shaking his head incredulously.

"30-year-old male, pain in the chest and abdomen, waiting for a CT scan to come back," he summarizes, and you nod while listening.

"Need someone to go check on him?" You ask, and he shrugs.

"I probably should do it," he says, balancing the idea in his head. "Wanna come with?" He adds, and you spring to his side like an eager bunny.

The man lying on the hospital bed looks like he could've been an early 2000s Abercrombie model- tall, blonde, tan. It doesn't do anything for you, never did. You can see the way he sits up, though, the little spark in his eye as he adjusts himself on the bed.

With your back turned, you allow yourself a little eyeroll at his obvious peacocking. He's even puffed his chest out a little. Very confident for a man with suprapubic burning.

"Hello, sir," you chirp anyway, telling the man your name. "I'll be assisting Dr. Robby with your care."

"Lucky me," he says, winking.

His eyes haven't left you since you walked in the room, as if Robby, his literal doctor, wasn't even there.

You ignore it, an incredulous scoff leaving your lips as you saddle up at the charting station, looking to Robby before continuing.

He's looking at you, though, eyes burning in a way you haven't seen before with him. You've seen him happy, angry, sad, you've seen him at his absolute worst, but never has he had such vulnerability lacing his pretty features.

Your stomach rolls at the intensity of his gaze, it cuts a circle out of your middle like a laser gun in a cartoon. Your cheeks burn under his pressure, and you purse your lips in silent communication.

Please help me.

Fortunately, he sees this for what it is, able to bounce back quickly from whatever was on his mind. He looks away from you, and it's like a bucket of cold water was thrown on you.

You turn your gaze back to the computer, making any small changes or edits to the chart based on what Robby says. His voice is clipped, and impersonal, a psychological trick you learned in med school. It keeps the patient from getting too close, you'd learned. Robby is really good at it.

This man seems immune, though, because when you turn around, the patient's eyes are still trained on you. You take an instinctive step back, a movement not unnoticed by Robby.

He steps closer to you, almost shielding you from the man laying in the bed. A soft scoff escapes your lips, and you step around him, needing to get a current update on his vitals.

You see the fear in his eyes as you near the bed, and you flash him a calm smile. I' m fine, don't worry about me, you tell him.

He understands you, but you're not sure if he believes you.

"How'd I get lucky getting the pretty nurse?" He asks as you wrap the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

Your tummy twists at his words, doing your best to power through the familiar discomfort. Being a young nurse, this was unfortunately inevitable. Although, it's never happened in the presence of the guy you're sleeping with.

You're squished flat between all these layers, tension threatening to suffocate you completely. Your cheeks burn as both men stare at you, trying to ignore it as you pump the rubber bulb, eyes trained on the dial above his bed.

"Ooh!" The patient winces, hand reaching up to grip yours. "That's tight."

There's an elongation as he says it, an innuendo laced through his words that churns your stomach like week old butter.

"Sir," you quip, voice emotionless. "You have to keep your arm straight so we can get an accurate read of your BP."

The hiss of the inflation leaking out of the cuff whirls through the room, annoyance crawling up from the pit of your stomach, spreading wide in your chest like a plague.

"You know what-" Robby throws his hands up, shouldering his way past you, grabbing the BP pump from your hands.

"Dr. Robby," you say, voice loud and stern.

He looks up at you, taking in your angry eyes. His soften momentarily, and you know what he's saying. I'm sorry, I just can't continue to watch this. What he says, though, is not as kind.

"Go," he barks, reassembling the cuff around his bicep. "Help…" his eyes scan the busy department bustling behind you. "McKay with something," he shakes his head in reference to her.

You turn around, watching her help wheel a gurney into Trauma 2, stomach dropping at his words. You whip your gaze back to him, a petulant pout forming at your lips.

"We're done here," he grits through his teeth. "Go."

Angry tears burn behind your eyes, shame pooling in your belly at this vulnerability. His brow furrows, and you spin, trudging toward Trauma 2.

The rest of the day defeats you, and you finally get to drag your tired body to your locker, twisting the lock to your corresponding numebers. Familiar heavy footsteps grow louder behind you, and your hair stands on edge, goosebumps flushing your skin.

In the weeks you've come to know him more intimately, you've realized you have your own personal Robby spidey sense. You know when he's near, what he's thinking, what he's on the verge of saying in any given moment.

"What do you want?" You ask flatly, attention resuming to gathering your items.

"I'm sorry, about earlier."

You roll your eyes, a sarcastic pshh escaping your lips.

"Okay," you say, mockingly.

"The way he talked to you…" he started, and you turn to face him.

"The way he talked to me what, Michael?" You cut him off, throwing an arm out. "You do realize that I get hit on everday, even when you're not around to save me?" He winces at this reminder, and you cross your arms over your chest. "I'm a big girl, I can handle myself," you slam your locker shut, locking it and trotting off.

"Shit, wait!" You hear him hiss behind you.

He chases you out to the parking lot, where a rainstorm conveniently, gloomily greets you.

You trudge on, hoping it'll deter him. You should know better than to underestimate his stubbornness, though. His work boots pad off the wet concrete, a little jog in his gait to catch up to you.

"Hey!" He shouts over the roar of the storm, as you finally reach your car.

You turn at the door, eyes wide and lips pouty.

"What, Michael? Are you here to tell me I can't handle my own job again? I had enough of it the first time," you turn to open the door of your car.

Suddenly, Robby's broad chest hovers mere millimeters away from your back, the bump of his tummy tantalizingly close to the curve of your ass. Heat blooms between your thighs, and you're desperate to quell it.

He doesn't help, reaching an arm around you to press against the door, slamming it shut before you can slink in.

You throw your hands up in defeat, turning to face him, anger lacing your features.

"Michael!" You whine, stomping your foot. "I'm soaked! Please!"

He grabs you then, pressing his lips against yours, large hand moving wet strands of your hair out of the way.

Despite your anger, you positively melt into him. Your knees go weak beneath you, and you fall into him as you deepen the kiss, tongue prodding at his closed mouth. He relents immediately, and you enjoy your favorite flavor.

His hands near your lower back, slinking dangerously low for your work parking lot.

This snaps you out of it and you pull away, brows knitted together in anger this time, lips turned down.

"No!" You tell him, holding up a finger. "You can't just kiss me and I'll forgive you! That's not how this works."

"Let me take you out then, baby," he reasons with you, eyes big and sad. His arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you closer and kissing you one, two, thre more times.

"Let me take you somewhere nice, treat you special," his lips continue their assault down your neck, biting at your collarbone. "Would that help?"

"A little," you grumble, "but I expect groveling," you joke, even though your bones feel like jelly.

"Done and done, baby," he murmurs against your skin. "Friday, 7 pm. Wear something nice," he breathes into your ear, a shiver unzipping your spine.

He smacks your ass before finally letting you go, setting you back against the door of the car you so desperately tried to open minutes before. He leaves you then, walking back into the hospital without so much of a glance back.

You stand there for a moment, letting the rain hit you and watching him walk away.

You huff under your breath, swinging your door open and sliding in. You rest your head against the steering wheel, letting out a stressed shriek against the faux leather.

Dammit, Michael Robinavtich. What is he doing to you?

The halter of your deep red satin dress hugs your neck. The flowy fabric drapes down your frame, all the way to the ground, where you snap white heels into place.

Nerves drum through your veins, heart beating in your ears as you wiggle white gold, dangly earrings into each of your lobes, popping two diamond studs in your doubles.

You take a step back, doing a full 360° in order to spot any possible errors. There's a knock at your door, then, and you jump. Scurrying towards the door, you grab your purse and tuck it under your arm.

You swing the door open to find a version of Robby you've never seen before- clean cut, a fresh trim to his beard, a suit jacket and white button up stretched deliciously over his broad chest.

Your eyes can't help but fall there, focusing on the strain of that middle button, where the apex of his tummy meets the fabric. Heat pools in between your legs, your tongue involuntarily sliding out over your bottom lip.

The apples of his cheeks turn pink, and he lets out a soft chuckle.

"Likewise, sweetheart," he mumbles, holding out his arm.

You shudder, eyes wide and trace-like, reaching for his arm like Sleeping Beauty and her spindle. Inevitably drawn to each other, that's you and Michael.

He wasn't lying, the place he took you to is nice. Nicer than anywhere your debt-riddled salary can afford.

"Michael…" you gasp, sliding into the booth. "This is too much, really," you insist while the waiter instantly serves you with wine- a prepicked selection that so happens to be your favorite.

"Mmhm," he tuts in disagreement, shaking his head as he lifts a glass in cheers. "It's nowhere near enough."

You clink your glass against his, the butterflies in your tummy merciless, relentless.

"Do you tell all your E.R. girls that?" You ask, relishing in the sip of the tangy white wine.

"All my E.R. girls?" He asks, cocking his head to the side like a confused dog.

"Yeah." you nod your head. "Noelle, Collins, even Al-Hashimi that first day…"

He visibly shifts as you list them off, and immediate regret seeps through you like poison.

"That's what you think you are?" He asks, tipping the glass to his lips. "Just another notch in my belt?"

"You said it, not me," you poise, testing out your waters.

The waiter comes back to you, then, refilling your drinks and taking your orders. After he leaves with the menus, you turn back to Robby. An eerie silence settles over the two of you, like a thin, picky blanket. You're the first to scratch the itch.

"Well, that's what this was at first, wasn't it? Just sex?" You ask, and he rubs the back of his neck with an open palm. His first sign of disregulation.

You shift uncomfortably in the booth, feeling like you've said too much. You can't stop, though, now fixated on wiggling more information out of Robby.

"I guess I just assumed it was the same with them, too, just from what I've heard."

"They weren't just sex," he says, and you roll your eyes.

"That's not what Perlah and Princess told me," you said, and he shakes his head.

"What the hell do they know…" he grumbles, taking another sip.

A giggle spills from your lips, the wine letting it flow easier. But then, what he says really settles over you. They weren't just sex.

"So, that's not what they were but that's what we are? Just sex?" You ask, and he scoffs.

Your heart races, but this time it's with adrenaline, annoyance, a little bit of anger and fear. Poking Robby's buttons was a dangerous game.

"You know what you are to me," he grumbles, looking through the back-again waiter, placing steaming plates of expensive food in front of you.

You're silent, the cracks of the pepper grinder the only noise between you two.

"Did I say something wrong?" You ask, popping a bite of food into your mouth.

"Nope," he drags out, folding his hands over his pasta.

Your heart sinks at his lie, at the food, at this whole night. This was supposed to be an apology for him acting like an ass. Instead, it's turned into an entire conversation about his old flames.

Guilt and blame swirl within you at the same time, a hurricane of ugly emotions that you just can't quell.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes big and sad.

"You're so pretty," he mutters and you roll your eyes.

"Thanks," you grit out through clenched teeth.

He smiles.

"I-" he starts, and you pick your head up like a dog hearing the word walk. "I'm sorry about this week, again. I still feel bad."

Robby's been a work in progress for a while now, starting therapy soon after his proposed sabbatical. He still has his slip ups, but he's much more able to recognize not only his mistakes, but that he can learn from them and be better because of them.

He's not perfect, but he's better, and looking at him right now, over your fancy candlelit dinner, you can't help but forgive.

"It's okay, you were concerned for me, I get it," you tell him, crossing your hands.

"It wasn't- it's not that," he rubs the back of his neck again, and you sit up straighter. "Like you said, you know how to do your job. You're a big girl."

The pet name beats through you like a gong, warm and loud deep in your belly.

"So…" you start, brows drawn together. "What was it?" You ask, voice flat and confused.

"It's ridiculous," he tries to wave it off, his gaze dropping to his plate.

"Michael," you start, reaching your hand across the table, settling lightly on his forearm. "Your feelings aren't ridiculous-" you're cut off, broken apart by the server once again grabbing plates, refilling one more glass for the two of you before delivering the bill.

Robby rolls his eyes at that, and you feel him start to shut down again. He storms out to the parking lot after he pays, and it's a challenge to keep up behind him.

"Michael!" You shout for him, heels clacking off the cement, an eerie callback to your conversation days before.

This time, you actually make it to the car. Sliding in to the passenger's side, you place a hand on the gear shift before he can do anything. His eyes find yours, yours that are challenging him, daring him to speak what's on his mind.

He'll break first. He always does.

"I was insecure," he blurts out, and sweet vindication fills your veins, though swiftly followed by confusion at his admission. Robby? Insecure?

You tell him so, and he shakes his head.

"I mean, you saw that kid," he chuckle. "He's like a fuckin' model," he says, and it starts to click.

"Michael…" You trail off, voice soft and sweet, aching with affection for the man beside you. "Michael, do you really think I'd want that asshole more than you?"

He turns his head down, gaze meeting the folded hands in his lap. You reach for his bicep, turning him toward you just slightly.

"I just…" he trails off, and you place a gentle hand on his forearm, reassuring his safety in this vulnerable moment. "When I saw him flirting with you, I couldn't help but think that maybe I'm holding you back, that you should be with someone your own age. Someone as gorgeous as you."

You're speechless, the air thick as it absorbs the weight of his confession, jaw slack as he refuses to look at you. Your heart twists, your strong, confident attending now so small, curling in on himself in the driver's seat.

"Do you know how gorgeous I think you are?" Your voice is breathy, labored as it's laden with growing lust.

"Gorgeous…" he laughs at himself incredulously, pressing his forefinger and thumb to his temple, elbow resting against his window.

"I'm serious," you deadpan, and he freezes.

"How?" He mutters. "How can you be?"

You rest your hand on his thigh, achingly close to the core of him.

"Take me home," you utter sweetly. "I'll show you."

The rich smell of Robby's cologne and the expensive wine swirl through you as you spill into Robby's house, the perfect amount of tipsy adding a sway to your step. Your manicured hands wrap around his forearm, tugging him closer to you as his free hand works his tie off.

He relents, unable to resist you, and you pull him in, lips meeting his. The warm familiarity of kissing Robby is glaringly absent, his lips stiff and unwelcoming. Your brows knit together, and you quell the attack of your lips.

"Michael?" You ask, rearing your head back.

He takes the space as an opportunity to wriggle out of your arms, strong shoulders easily bursting through your lazy grasp.

Your brows crease ever deeper, lips turned down in a sad pout. Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach, heels echoing off the red oak lining the floors of Robby's house.

You recall all the times you've been down this path, laughing, crying, kissing. Never once have you felt so uncertain. It shakes you, especially when you come upon the bathroom door, shut closed.

"Michael, are you okay in there?" You ask, knocking lightly.

You hear a wet sniff, and your heart clutches. You knock a few more times, a bit more rapid.

"Michael? Can I come in?" You ask, concern evident in your tone.

He doesn't answer, and you take that as a yes. With a warning, you twist the knob, and are met with a sight you've never before seen.

Michael, leaning back on the granite bathroom counter, arms crossed over his chest, biting nervously at his thumb. Tears well in his eye, not tearing the threshold just yet. His lips are wobbly as he gnaws on his thumb.

You reach up, pulling his hand away. It's then he comes back to life, and there's an immediate stream flowing down his cheeks. Your lips twist into a frown, lump forming in your throat as you pull him to you.

You wrap him in a sweet, salty kiss, his tongue immediately slotting against yours. He pants against you, and you swallow him greedily.

Your lips form into a little 'o' around his tongue, sucking him in and letting go with a pop! You place another kiss on his lips, and he chases your lips as you pull away.

His desperation goes straight to your ego, burning hot in your belly, throbbing between your legs as you press closer against him. You lift up a leg, and he holds it against his waist, spreading you open so you can feel his pants getting thick.

"Michael," you breathe, your head dropping back in delirious desire.

His lips and teeth attack your neck, biting and kissing and scratching, eliciting sweet moans from your lips.

His hand finds your ass, slapping against it and giving it a healthy squeeze. A shiver unzips your spine, the feeling of his hands on you electrifying. Nobody's ever made you feel the way he does.

You tell him so, grabbing at his shoulders, his chest, his belly.

"Michael…" you whisper against his lips. They ghost over yours in a quick pause, as he cocks his head in confusion. "You make me feel so good," you say, and he absolutely melts.

"Shut up," he whispers against your neck, placing kisses against your skin.

He presses into you as much as possible, completely embracing you with his big arms.

"I'm serious," you mutter, nails scraping the back of his neck. You relish in his shiver against you, and he hugs you tighter.

"Do you know how many guys my age have fucked me without caring about me at all?" You ask.

"I don't even wanna fucking think about it," he groans out against your skin, as his hands reach behind you, untying the halter of your dress.

The slinky fabric falls immediately, the pressure of his chest against yours stopping the fabric from falling completely over your tits. He changes this quickly.

He pulls back, and even the slightest change hurts your heart. You instinctively grab for him, but he grips on your forearms, cocking a brow at you, eyes saying 'watch it'. Exhiliration runs through you as you shimmy out of the fabric, only revealing your breasts, dress falling around your waist.

His attack is immediate. He turns you around and lifts you up onto the counter. He pulls your legs around his waist, pressing his hard center flush against your soaked one.

You wriggle you hips up and down against him, desperate for any friction. He sucks in a pained breath through his teeth, latching on to a nipple almost immediately.

His lips close around you, sucking and pulling, closing his teeth down and tugging. You arch your back, pressing more of yourself against him. He moves to the other side and repeats.

"Do you even know how fucking good you make me feel, Michael?" You ask, calling back to your earlier question.

He buries his face in your neck, lips assaulting the sensitive skin there as you talk to him.

"All those guys my age, the guys you're worried about? None of them made me cum. Not one," he grows hungrier at this, groping and kissing and growling against you. You writhe against him like a possessed doll.

"Not fucking right," he groans, thrusting into your clothed core. "So fucking beautiful, deserve the world."

You sob against him, kissing and kissing and kissing him.

"You have nothing to worry about, baby," you tell him, and he falls into your further. "It's you, it's only going to be you, baby."

He lifts you off the counter at this, carrying you to his bedroom, tossing you down sloppily.

Your legs are hanging off the edge of the bed, and you hike them up to spread yourself for him. The gusset of your panties slot between your soaking lips, a finite pressure against your clit.

His brow furrows at the sight of you, lips formed into an 'o' at the sight of your baby blue panties.

"Jesus Christ, baby. You're fucking soaked." he drawls, dipping his hand into your underwear.

You whine at the contact, grinding up into his touch.

"God, so needy, huh baby?" He asks, and you nod your head. "The pretty nurse needy for an attending twice her fucking age? Y'know how dirty that makes you?"

He pulls your hips flush against his, his slacks now gone, one less layer keeping him from you.

"Love being dirty for you, Michael, it feels too good," you groan out, shame burning your ears, squeezing your eyes shut.

He teases you often about the age gap, what you now know as insecurity has been a running joke throughout your relationship. The fact that the nurse that constantly gets hit on has a thing for her old man attending.

Though you're not ashamed of him, he can make you feel so embarrassed. Only when you want him to, though.

"I know, I know," he coos, fingers fiddling with his buttons. Your fingers fly up, doing the work for him.

He chuckles at this, sardonic and mean.

"So wrong but so right, you can't wait to get your old man naked, hm?" He asks, and you wiggle your hips against him, desperation becoming unbearable.

Your hands cross the vast expanse of his chest, eagerly crawling down to the peak of his tummy. Your nails scratch over the wiry hair of his tummy, running a nail along the waistband of his boxers.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, reaching under your hips to lift you up, pulling your panties off of you. He brings them to his nose, taking a greedy sniff, tongue darting out to collect the wetness coating your panties.

You gasp, breath getting caught in your throat as he tongues the fabric, tossing them across the room when finished.

Your dress comes next, his boxers soon after. This isn't the first time you've seen him naked, but this time it's different. You're different, he's different. Your heart pounds in your chest at the intensity, bringing him down to crash his lips to yours.

He falls on top of you, legs settling between yours as he scoots you both up the bed, your head resting on the pillows. You brace both hands against his shoulders, pushing him gently down to lay back on the bed.

You swing your leg over his hips, hovering your pussy above his tummy. You clench around nothing, your slick dripping onto his hairy skin. You plop yourself down on the apex of his tummy, the coarse hair catching your clit in a way that just unravels you.

He gasps as your bodies connect, his hands grabbing your ass almost immediately. He rocks you back and forth, back and forth, butterflies swarming your tummy at the pleasure unfolding between your legs.

"Michael…" you whine, rocking your hips faster. He slaps your ass in encouragement, and you press your hands against his chest. "Feels so good, you don't even know how hot you are."

You feel him fist his cock behind your hips, and you grind in deeper.

"Please say that again," he whimpers, eyes glossing over underneath you.

It goes straight to your ego, and you arch your back, tits jiggling from your rapid movements.

"You're so fucking hot, Michael," you groan. "Gonna make me cum all over your tummy."

"Can't believe you," he breathes out a chuckle, cheeks tinting red and your heart swells at his bash.

"I'm so serious," you groan, white hot burning growing bigger and bigger in your tummy. "Can guarantee you that jackass today wouldn't find my clit," you breathe, doing and saying whatever gets you closer to your high. "You make me cum every fucking time, that's never happened before. It feels so fucking good being with you, baby."

He throws his head back at your words, brows knit together in pleasure. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as a groan tears from his chest. You feel his release coat your ass, his stomach and pelvis beneath you.

His orgasm spurs your own, tsunamic waves of pleasure crashing over you, jerking your body back and forth on top of him.

Your pussy throbs as you come down from your high, wiggling your hips until it's too much, the scratch of his hair now too rough, your clit too raw to take any more.

You run your hands up your backside, up your back, collecting his release, licking it off your hands. Your mouth waters at the salty taste, gargling around your own fingers.

"Holy fucking shit," he whispers, pulling you down to him.

You collapse on him, arms wrapping around his neck, face buried there too.

He flops you back on to the bed, turning on his side as he studies you. He has a relaxed glow to him, a genuine smile bracing his lips. It's beautiful, he's beautiful.

You run your hands against his beard, up to his scalp. He shudders at the feeling, and you kiss his nose.

"I'm gonna fuck you so good, baby, just need a minute," he murmurs against your temple, wiggling his pelvis against you.

"Yeah?" You ask, nails scraping the back of his neck. "Think it takes more than a minute to get your dick hard again, old man."

He pulls his head back, brow cocked at your nervy comment.

"Y'know what?" He says, sitting up on the bed. He gives you a 'come hither' motion, and you prop yourself up on your knees.

"Get over my lap," he manhandles you over his lap, lifting your pert ass in the air.

"'m gonna spank you until I get hard again. Stop bein' a brat," he grits.

You whine at his words, your tummy turning as you brace for impact.

Smack!

Michael cracks his hand down on your plush skin, the contact stinging, lurching you forward.

"Ah!" You whine, wiggling your hips in the air.

This invites another spank, and another, and another.

You whine at his mercilessness, the force of his hands knocking the wind out of you.

You pulse and throb around nothing as Michael continues his assault, smacking your ass raw with his calloused hands.

"Michaellll!!" You whine, rocking your hips back and forth. "Bein' so mean, please don't be so mean."

Of course, he's only meaner, cracking down one, two, three, four, five consecutive smacks in a row.

He soothes you after this, his large hand running over your sore ass.

"'m sorry baby," he coos, admiring his handywork. "Y'should see the way your ass jiggles when I hit it. You'd never wanna stop either."

You whine, shoving your face in his thigh as you pound your fists in the mattress, wiggling your hips in desperation.

"Get on your back, baby," he instructs, and you're quick to listen.

He smacks the inside of your thigh, and you flinch.

"Good girl," he coos, reaching for your center. "Always so fucking wet, didn't even know y'could get this wet. Such a slut, hm?"

You nod desperately, thanking your lucky stars when you see his stiff cock lining up with your entrance.

"Yes!" You groan out, hands tucked under your thighs to spread yourself as wide as you can. "Such a slut for you," you plead with wide eyes. "Please put it in."

He obeys, thick tip bursting through your entrance. Your breath hitches at the stretch. His sizable length is always a big one, no matter how many times you take him.

You're so wet, though, he easily flushes your hips together, giving you a moment to take him in before he starts moving. He grabs your legs, standing tall on his knees and bringing them aronud his shoulders.

He uses this new position to pound into you, hips slapping into the inflamed skin of your ass. It hurts so good, whines and moans flowing out of your mouth.

"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back on his shoulders. "'m not gonna last long, I'm sorry baby."

"It's okay, angel," you whisper, and he shudders at the name. "Me either," you squeeze hard against him, your second release coming fast. "Just let go, we can do it together again, hm?"

He groans at this, thrusting into you harder, faster.

"Yeah?" You tease, a light chuckle escaping your lips. "You like cumming with me, baby? Like feeling how tight I am around you when you get me there?" He nods against your ankles, resting his cheek against them, pressing kisses as he nears his peak.

"Fuck, yes, baby," he shakes his sweaty hair out of his face. "Cum for me. I need to come from you cumming, please, oh fuck," he grits, stomach clenching as you tighten around him, your second high of the night even more intense, rattling you deeper.

Your stomach burns with the heat of your release, clenching and twisting out your orgasm. You feel him twitch inside of you, his own groans, whiny moans leaving his lips.

He falls on you, giving you a few more soft thrusts before slowing his hips entirely, balls flush against your ass.

You whine when he pulls out, an absolute mess spilling out of your pussy. He watches it with wide eyes, leaning back on his heels like a puppy, panting for you.

"So gorgeous," he whispers, leaning in to kiss you. He climbs off the bed, holding his hand out for you.

You whine, jelly limbs resisting the idea of leaving Michael's bed.

"C'mon, pretty girl," he taps your thigh, making you whine. "Gotta shower, you're a mess."

"Can't you just lick it up?" You ask, and you revel in the pink tint of his cheeks.

"Baby," he breathes, chest heaving up and down. "If you cum again, you might pass out."

"Please," you whine, giving him your widest, most irresistable eyes.

He rolls his eyes, hands propped up on both his hips.

"How about a compromise?" He asks, and you sit up. "You come in the shower with me, I'll eat you out in there."

You've never gotten out of bed so fast.

[lovaeir]

Pope whispers to himself during sex.

MDNI 18+

You first notice it when he’s got you laid on your back in his bed, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you. His foreheads resting against your own as you bite your lip, trying to stay relatively quiet. But when he shoves his fingers in and curls, your mouth flys open, a sharp gasp spilling from your lips.

Pope nods “there it is.” he whispers while your heads rolled back against the pillows, eyes shut. His thumb moving over your clit. His palm squelching against your sex as he curls his fingers, pushing rougher against that spongy spot inside you. “You can take em’” he nods and you realize now he’s talking to you, he wasn’t before. You clench around them and he nods, thumb pushing harder against your button, “good girl.”

—

The next time you notice him doing it is when he’s eating you out. Your legs are spread open for him, pussy clenching around nothing. “S’ pretty” he whispers as he moves down, kitten licking at your clit. “she tastes to good” he whispers into you, his lips wetting from being pressed against your arousal.

You can see his arm start to move and know he’s jerking himself off while he’s on his knees. He’s whimpering into you, slobbering all over your cunt and sucking it back up, tongue flicking against you. Pope lets out soft grunts before pushing his tongue deep inside you, flicking it around. His idle hand moving up to squeeze your breast. “So good.” He pipes up, pulling back and looking at you. “You’re so perfect.” He says at a normal volume before diving back in. You’re smiling to yourself, back arching up off the mattress and hands tangling in his hair.

—

When you finally say something it’s when he’s inside you. His face is dropped into your neck, panting against your skin as he moves his hips. “feels made for me.” He whispers into your skin, but you can’t hear him well so you pull his head back to look at him. “What?” You ask out of breath. “What?” He asks back, hips slowing. “I didn’t hear what you said” you smile, brushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face.

“I didn’t say anything.” He shakes his head, eyebrows scrunching together. You know he did, you felt his lips move against your neck. But he’s not admitting to it and looks genuinely confused so you figure it wasn’t for you. “Okay” you giggle, hands moving down to squeeze his ass, making him groan and push his hips back into you.

[onlythehobi]

head empty, full of him

[onlythehobi]

search ‘my vibe’ + a colour you like on pinterest and pick the ones you find most aesthetic. . ۫ ꣑ৎ . tagged by @simpingforjoel

[ceriseangels]

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH who... somehow ends up on the dance floor with you?

Contains: 18+ MDNI, grinding on the dance floor, unprotected p in v sex, bathroom-at-the-bar sex, little bit of dirty, talk, absolutely not proofread, about 2.2k words

It's late. Too late for any wise decisions to be made. Maybe that's why you sway your hips, run your hands through your hair. It has nothing to do with feeling your attending's eyes on you from across the bar.

You were surprised to see him waltz into the day shift's monthly happy hour, loose Carhartt's slung low on his hips, meeting a dirty pair of work boots after a long day. The image of him in the entrance of the dive, emerging like a hero from a cloud of nicotine smoke puffing in from outside, sears itself in your brain.

Twirling around to the beat of your favorite song, you manage to sneak a quick glance his way. His jaw clenches when you make eye contact, hand gripping his drink tighter. It's electric, the way his gaze burns into yours, sends waves of fire through your veins.

You flip your head the other way, hair swishing down your back as you continue your little show. The problem is, he's not the only one who's noticed. Turning around, you come face to face with a generic, fraternity looking boy making his way to you.

He squeezes through the crowd, eyes almost predatory in the way they scan your body. He saddles up in front of you, and his eyes go wide before he can extend his hand.

A sturdy pair of arms wrap themselves around you, and you tense only for a moment before realizing who it is. Woodsy cologne floods your senses, the plush of Robby's tummy an instant comfort.

What you don't expect, is the kiss he plants on your temple, turning his gaze to the now slack jawed Chad, frozen in front of you.

"Sorry I left you alone too long, baby," he mutters, eyes venomous as he stakes his claim. "Bathroom line was crazy long."

He punctuates this with a wave, grabbing your hand and spinning you to him. Placing your hands on his shoulders, you meet his pretty, satisfied face.

"Doctor Robinavitch!" You scold, lightly swatting his bicep. "What was that all about?"

It's then that realization dawns on his face, his cheeks going pink, a sheepish smile on his lips.

"I just…" he trails off, averting his gaze and shaking his head. "Couldn't stand the way he was looking at you."

As he speaks, his hands trail down from your back, to your waist, to the spot right above your ass. You sway in his arms a little, a hopeful hint for him to continue his journey. He smiles, a sardonic thing that spreads across his face like poison oak. It's infectious, spreading through your entire body.

"I love this song," you whisper, your noses grazing as your rhythm picks up, reaching back to link his hands between yours.

"I don't know it," he responds, still a bit sheepish for a man already growing hard against you.

"You're about to," you whisper, turning your body around so your ass flushes against his hips.

Your nails scrape up the back of his neck, something you see him do often in the ED, and it has its desired effect. He shivers against you, a light groan of surprise escaping his lips.

You smile, your hands reaching his hair, giving a few scratches before pressing his face into your neck, the point of his nose running down the length of it. His lips are eager, you can tell by the pants fanning your neck, so you turn your head to his ear.

"You can kiss me, it's okay, Dr. Robby," his title drips off your tongue like syrup, sticky and sweet and oozing through his body.

"God, you can't fucking call me that while I've got a hard on pressed against your ass in front of everyone we work with," he breathes, pressing one sweet kiss to your neck. "Not here, though, you hear me? We're gonna finish this song and then you're gonna meet me in the bathroom, nod if you understand me."

It's almost pathetic, how eager you are, his sardonic laugh flowing through you like lava. His hands find your hips, speeding them up, grinding them back against his cock. Butterflies release in your tummy, your heart pounding at the need coursing through you.

The song is sensual, some R&B singer talking about loving on his woman all night. You can only hope it's a manifestation of your night to come. You continue to maneuver your hips against his, heat rising between you like a sauna.

The way he grinds against you is easy, bodies fitting into place like puzzle pieces. You wiggle your own a little, moving down against him and back up, his hands grabbing your hips, your waist, desperate clutches for any piece of you he can have.

Throwing your head back, a light gasp spills from your lips. You turn your head, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whisper,

"I've always wanted you, Robby," he shudders at your confession, pressing you harder against his prominent length. "You're so hot when you're in charge, did you know that?"

He shakes his head no, eyes squeezing shut as you pout and coo.

"That's such a shame," you press a kiss to the shell of his ear, giving a little bite when he shivers. "When I go home, after a long day, and I reach my hand in my panties, I think about how you murmur in my ear when you help me intubate, I think about how you take your hoodie off when you get too warm, I think about-"

"Jesus fucking Christ," he growls, abandoning his own rule as he drags you off to the bathrooms.

You make the mistake of glancing over to the PTMC booth, which is full of slack jaws and wide eyes. You find Trinity, giving you a surprised thumbs up as you trail behind the chief attending.

You thank whatever deity lies above when the bathrooms reveal to be single stall, and available. Robby nearly tosses you in there, locking the door and resting his forehead against it.

"Did you like that?" He asks, and you quirk a brow, even though he can't see. "You like making me hard in front of my entire staff?"

He turns now, the look in his eye dark, cunning. Sinking your lip to suppress a smile, you nod, slinking over to him. He stays put, and you press him up against the door with your body.

"I really liked it, Robby," you whisper, grazing your lips over his.

"Call me Michael when I'm about to fuck you, understand?" He asks, waiting for a nod before crashing his lips into yours.

You let out a muffled 'mmph!' against him, eliciting a light chuckle from his throat. Teeth clacking, you nearly devour each other as you stumble backward, clamoring behind you for the counter.

He lifts you up, your short dress hiking around your waist as you spread your legs. Lifting his head back, he takes in the wet patch on your pink panties, a low 'ffffuucckkk' leaving his lips.

"You got this wet just from dancing with me, baby?" He coos, finger tracing the gusset of your panties.

You nod, biting your lip.

"I told you I want you, Michael," you try out his name, feeling formal on your lips. "Think about this all the time."

"Really? God, am I lucky?" He mutters, peeling the flimsy fabric down your legs. "Holy shit, look at that," he whispers, eyes wide as a string of your wetness clings to your panties.

"Can I put my fingers in you? Need to stretch this pretty pussy out, is that okay?" He asks, looking up at you as he kneels, now face to face with your glistening heat.

You nod, mumbling out a sweet, "Yes Michael, please."

He pouts, and you ache to lean down and kiss him.

"So polite," he muses, pressing the tip of his finger to your entrance.

Your head falls back, a light 'ah!' falling from your lips. The breach is intrusive, already feeling full. You have no idea how you're going to take his cock, but you're eager to find out.

Once he's reached the knuckle, he curls his finger, reaching a spot that sends electric shocks through you. You kick your legs out a little, squeezing your eyes shut with a moan.

"There it is, that's the spot, hm?" He asks, and you nearly weep.

He starts to thrust, moving his finger in and out as his lips find your clit. The feeling is euphoric, suckling mixed with yet another finger nearly pushing you over the edge already.

"So soon?" He murmurs against your clit, and the coil in your belly tightens even more.

"I'm sorry, Mikey, it just feels too good," you whine, and he releases a grunt against you.

"Fuck, love when you call me that, honey," he growls, and you look down to find him rocking his hips against the hard cabinet beneath the counter.

You chuckle, eyes glossy as you sink your fingers in his hair.

"God, Michael, you're just as desperate as I am," you remark, and his playful brown eyes find yours.

"That's right, princess," he says, placing a kiss to your button. "So you better hurry up and cum for me so I can sink my cock into that pretty pussy, hm?"

This does it, the coil in your belly snapping as euphoric waves wash over you. Your head hits the mirror as his fingers ride out your high, maneuvering your walls until you're shaking around him.

"That's it, that's a good girl," he murmurs, and you let out a sweet cry before you slump against the mirror.

He pops up, the cracking of his knees accompanying the lust in the room, and you let out a sweet chuckle. His cheeks go red, and he shakes his head, fiddling with his belt.

Your eyes are hazy as you watch, big hands quick and nimble against his button, his zipper. He pulls himself out, giving his thick length a few strokes. It's big, the biggest you've ever taken, and your wide eyes give you away immediately.

"I've got you, not gonna let it hurt, okay?" He reassures, and you nod.

He clears his throat, lining himself up against you as you grasp his biceps. There's a brief moment before he sinks in, where you spot his tattoos, Momento Mori. You run your thumb against it, resting your temple against his chin before placing a sweet kiss there.

"You done?" He asks, fondness dripping from his tone.

You nod, leaning back and spreading yourself even wider. He takes this as the invitation it is, pushing his head in. You gasp, nails sinking into the skin of his arms.

"Oh my God, Michael!" You whine, wiggling your hips to get more of him.

"Patience is a virtue, baby," he teases, giving you another inch.

He caresses your head, pushing your wild hair out of your face as he rests his forehead against you.

"So pretty, should tell you that a lot more," he murmurs, finally sinking into you all the way. You squeeze your eyes shut, tightening around him at the compliment. "Yeah? Like being my pretty girl? Prettiest girl in the whole ED, smartest, too."

You whine, your pussy throbbing around him as he starts to rock his hips.

"Yeah, you like being my pretty girl, don't you?" He asks, and a tear almost slips out.

He licks his lips as he watches you, picking up his pace to the perfect rhythm. A light moan escapes your lips, raking your nails up his chest as he moves.

"'m all yours," you nod. "Your pretty girl."

His balls slap against your ass with lewd smacks as he nods his head, his eyes aglow.

"Fucking. Mine," he grumbles, leaning down to suck your neck into his mouth.

His hands find your tits, squeezing and pulling at the taut skin.

"So fuckin' pretty, gonna blow my fucking load baby," he rasps, his pace growing sloppy against you.

"Please cum in me, Michael," you keen. "Need you to fill me up."

He reaches down to rub your clit again, and the added pressure has you right at the edge.

"Please cum with me, baby," he practically begs. "Gotta feel you tighten around me while I empty these balls, got it?"

You nod, tears finally spilling as your second orgasm hits. The Earth stutters on its axis, mini explosions bursting through your tummy.

"Fuck yes!" He groans, his cock twitching inside of you. "That's it, that' s my girl, cummin' for me so good."

All you can do is nod, brain mush and body soup as your orgasm continues to pulse through you. Robby thrusts into you one last time, pulling you in for one last sweet kiss.

Soon enough, all you can hear is the heavy breaths exchanged between the two of you, followed by some sweet chuckles. Reaching up to the nape of his neck, you play with his hair and say,

"I don't know about you, but I'm not going to be the one to face our coworkers after all of this."

He laughs, cheeks going pink as he pulls out. Cleaning you up, he murmurs,

"I'll take care of it. You're my girl, remember?" You nod. "That means you don't have to worry, that I'm gonna take care of you."

And to you? That sounds perfect.

[xoxostarfire]

°❀.ೃ࿔* Lesson Eight: it’s probably a bad idea to wear your exes ex-wife’s clothes, even in an emergency°❀.ೃ࿔

Spotify | pintrest visuals | masterlist | ao3 | kofi

*the formatting of this is weird cause I’m uploading on my phone- I’ll fix the spacing when I’m on my computer :)

Chapter summary: you wake up at Joel's house and are surprised at how...calm he is

Authors note: HEY PEOPLE! THIS IS EARLY CAUSE IM GOING OUT OF STATE TOMORROW AND WONT HAVE MY COMPUTER TEEHEE. I LOVED WRITING THIS CHAPTER I LOVE WRITING THEM INTERACTING BUT

MAJOR TW FOR PAST RAPE DESCRIBED

I also want to draw attention to this post I made if you haven’t seen it ☺️ love you all

Wednesday, September 2003.

Listen.

Listen.

You didn’t mean to get wasted and show up at Joels trailer. Do you really mean to do anything when you drink? You didn’t go into that bar with the intention of becoming inebriated and going to Joels. You went into that bar because you didn’t want to go home in tears again. You wanted to let your anger out at your stupid fucking cunt employer in a healthier way.

At least she had the courtesy not to do it before the school day started so you wouldn’t go through the entire work day in a complete rage that affected your job performance.

You had just finished organizing some of the reading binders for tomorrow when Karens unmistakeable figure appeared in the doorway.

“Let’s have a little chat in my office,” she didn’t even greet you, her voice devoid of that overly sarcastic happiness she put on. Something was wrong. Again. Hell, she was so rigid that her bracelets weren’t even clacking on her arm.

After yesterday, you just were not in the mood to deal with anymore bullshit. You did exactly what you told your brother. You started to implement some different methods from Sarah that you knew had been shown to help children with dyslexia. Just by the sheer grin on her face during the whole lesson, you knew that you were doing the right thing. You hadn’t seen her smile this widely once, not even when you were letting the kids do some free coloring, which she seeed to enjoy too. No, this joy that she was experiencing came from finally understanding. Like when you spend your whole life only seeing blurriness, and you think it’s normal until you start wearing glasses.

Karen didn’t sit at her desk after shutting the door behind her. She just leaned against it, arms crossed.

“Who do you think you are?”

Your lips parted, but your throat suddenly felt dry. You had no idea what she was talking about.

“I’m going to keep this brief, because honestly, I’m so aggravated with you I don’t even want to look at you in my building right now.”

“I don’t understand - “

She held her hand up.

“Shut up. Honestly, just shut up. Don't you dare play dumb with me,” she scoffed. “You came down here from Boston with your fancy little awards, your high-and-mighty attitude, and your tragic little brain condition, and you honestly thought you could treat this district like your personal playground?”

You were rarely so gobsmacked that you were unable to defend yourself. Actually, you were quite good at snapping back quickly and not stuttering. But hearing your boss say “tragic little brain condition?”

That was new.

“I got a phone call first thing this morning from Joel Miller.”

There it is.

"He told me everything. He told me how you cornered him before back-to-school night even began. How you dragged him into a school supply closet and screamed at him like a unhinged lunatic. I know you’ve been gone, but do you realize that he is a respected business owner in this city? He is a hard-working father trying to raise a daughter completely by himself, and you are using your position as an educator to terrorize his family because you can't cope with a car wreck. Lets face it yeah? People get in car crashes every day. You aren’t special."

"That's not…that's not what happened," you choked out. "He was - I was trying to tell him about Sarah’s panic attack -"

"I don't give a damn about your excuses," Karen leaned in so close you could see the tiny veins in her nose. The botox really was not helping her this close. "You are acing like a bitter girl who is letting her personal vendettas infect a 1st grade classroom. You think you can just slap a label like 'dyslexia' on a child just to get back at the man who broke your heart? It is disgusting.

She sighed and rolled her head, her neck crackling in the process.

“I am warning you right now. You breathe in Sarah Miller's direction the wrong way, you look at Joel with anything less than perfect, submissive professionalism, or you drop one more of your little psychological theories on that family, and I will personally see to it that you are blacklisted from every school board in the state of Texas. You are on thin ice. Now get the hell out of my sight."

You didn't say a word to defend yourself. You couldn't. You were drowining in your own humiliation and the burning sensation in your face was almost painful.

You grabbed your tote bag off the chair, your fingers shaking so badly you almost dropped it, and practically threw your weight against the office door to escape. You sprinted through the hallway. There was an irony in the colorful art on the walls making you feel like you were suffocating.

You didn't even make it to the sidewalk. You collapsed against the brick wall of the school building, your knees buckling as you slid down to the concrete, and burst into tears. The shaking in your hands spread to your whole body as you buried your face in your hands, trying to hide the sound of your crying - as if it wasn’t obvious why a 29 year old woman was sitting in a parking lot.

He called her.

Joel had actually called her. He stood there and watched you be vulnerable with him (after you said some not so kind things first…), he watched you be honest about your conditions and your desire to help his daughter who is clearly struggling and his first thought was to try and ruin your livelihood. He was such scum that he wanted you broke, jobless, and humiliated in the city where you grew up. Again.

You were an unconditionally angry woman. It wasn’t something you could hide from other people, clearly, because your mother loved to remind you of it at every waking moment. Said that’s why you never dated after Joel, because “boys don’t like girls who are angry about everything.”

You never had the energy to explain to her that that wasn’t why you weren’t dating. And either way, you didn’t want to hide that about yourself. God forbid you still felt something! Everyone was so neutral and bland lately that you would take being angry over being emotionally gray any day.

You felt the anger building up in you again. Every time you thought of him, you smelled burning rubber and a loud shriek tore through your ears. You knew no one else could hear it, but that didn’t make it any less real to you. Any less loud. And as you pressed your palms flat against your eyes, weeping into the afternoon, you realized you didn't just hate him.

You wished the car had rolled a dozen more times. You wished the steering wheel had crushed him. You wished, with every single vengeful fiber of your soul, that Joel Miller was fucking dead.

You also wished you had a drink.

You swallowed back your next batch of tears and stood up, dusting your skirt off to no reward, because you were covered in endless pavement dust. The only bar you thought you could get yourself to was O’Malley’s, the pub that all of the college kids went to. It was kind of a rite of passage for the Dallas youth. Go to O’Malley’s and you are christened as an adult.

Joel never wanted you to go there. Even when you turned 21, he kept saying that it was skeevy and he didn’t want any weird guys touching up on you. Well look how far that mindset got him. Almost a month later, you were assaulted at a Halloween Party.

One of your last attempts at salvaging your relationship with Joel was inviting him to your friends Halloween party. You adored Halloween and for the past years while you and Joel were dating. He always let you dress him up in a cheesy couples costume, for one, but you also just historically had a good time. A lot of the Saint Patricks parties you ended up puking on your dorm floor, and the Christmas party, one of your friends would get too drunk and then the other girls would get mad at her and there was stupid fucking drama.

But Halloween? That was your holiday.

Joel had been making less and less trips to your school by then, even though he was the one who wanted you to go there so he could visit you more often. And you hoped by inviting him, maybe he could see why the two of you fell in love in the first place. Remind him that the world could be fun with the two of you in each others lives.

…

It was not fun.

The first warning that you should have cancelled the whole night was that he refused to do the costume. Which, fine, you can’t make someone where a costume if they don’t want to. But that wasn’t the Joel you knew. He sucked it up every year becasue he knew how much you loved and now you weren’t worth the energy anymore.

The second warning was that he didn’t say anything when you opened the door for him. No loving hug or ‘I missed you so much!’ He just looked at your costume - Vivian Ward because you had expected him to be your Edward - gave you a half smile, said “nice,” and went to grab a beer. You had immediately turned and went into your room and cry while one of your roommates rubbed your back and tried to tell you how beautiful you looked.

But you didn’t care what anyone thought if it wasn’t Joel.

The third warning came once the party started. You kept trying to hold his arm and introduce him to some of your newer friends that he hadn’t met yet because you were proud to call him your boyfriend. You spoke so much about him, and you didn’t want to make him feel nervous about not knowing anyone, so you thought that was the right thing to do.

Some random frat boy you were introducing him to had made a comment to Joel about stocks and how his exams are going and you jumped in to save him. It was some stupid shit like, “Oh, Joel doesn't have to worry about midterms, he's actually running things up in Dallas while we're all playing student.”

You thought it was nice. It was true afterall. You had helped him get Miller Construction going and he was thriving. You wanted it to sound like he was ahead of the curve, more adult than all of these children.

You realized maybe he took it the wrong way when he grabbed your bicep tight and whipped you around to face him. His pupils used to be huge when they looked at you. Now they were just slits, like a snakes.

“You think you’re so fucking slick don’t you?” He didn’t bother lowering his voice. He was drunk enough that he thought the room was just you two. “You just love pulling my strings in front of your little rich friends, thinking it’s so funny to remind everyone that I don’t go to school. That I'm just the grease-ball you drag down here to make yourself look charitable?”

“Baby, no, that’s not what I meant -”

“Just shut up,” he said so aggressively that the girl standing next to him gasped. "You're embarrassed of me. You've been embarrassed of me since you got your acceptance letter. You just wanted to drag me down here to put on a show and remind me of my place. Well, congratulations. You made it real clear."

Your lips were parted and your eyes quickly flooded with tears, the kind that came on so violently and out of control, you couldn’t even bite your cheek to stop them. You dropped his arm and turned on your heel, running down the apartment hallway until you got to your room.

It was the second time you had cried that night, and the walls of your room felt entirely too thin as the bass from the party vibrated through the floorboards. You honestly wished that something happened to make him hate you. That would break you, but it would feel better than this mess of wondering what you did to make him hate you so much.

Maybe that’s just what happened with you. Maybe you let people get close to you and then they ran away.

Anna, one of your 4 apartment roommates snuck in maybe 5 minutes later, holding 2 red solo cups filled with vodka cranberry - your favorite. How sweet.

She put your cup on your dresser and rubbed your back while you tried to suffocate yourself in your own pillow. But when you kept breathing, you rolled over so you could look at her while she spoke.

“Honestly, babe, he’s such a caveman,”She handed you your drink. “He completely embarrassed you out there…who does he think he is? You got a book deal in college and he’s just doing jack shit at home. He’s holding you back honestly. If I were you, I would dump him.”

You took a big gulp of your drink and grimaced at the burning. Sure alcohol made you more sociable, but the process of becoming more sociable sucked. Anna stayed for a few mintes, echoing the same old, “break up with him!” and performative friend shit. “You’re too hot for him!” And whatever. But her gaze kept flickering to the door and you knew that she really didn’t want to be there. You knew her goal for tonight was to take home the guy from the crew team that she was talking to.

When her cup was empty, she stood up, patted your knee, and left another full cup on your nightstand. "Don't hide in here all night, okay? Get numb and come back out."

It was stupid advice. But, it was the only advice you had. You spent the next hour (or so) drinking your vodka cran and then you moved onto your personal bottle of titos you kept under your bed and away from your RAs. Usually Anna bought all of the alcohol for parties since she turned 21 first, but your treat for yourself when you turned 21 was your own bottle.

You spun it open and nursed…a majority of the bottle. Fuck, it must have been the equivalent of 8 shots that you drank? You drank until your brain was a heavy and spinning like a planet. You were plastered, the room tilting every time you blinked. But none of that mattered.

You wanted Joel to come through the door. You wanted him to hold you, to apologize, to tell you he loved you enough to override the anger. That’s what he always did afterall. He wasn’t a man of many words, so any time you were sad or upset, he would usually come into your room and hold you while you cried or grumbled about what he did to annoy you, and then he would apologize profusely in your ear.

So when the door opened…of course drunk you assumed it was him.

The man had the exact same stature as Joel, with big, broad shoulders that always made you feel small.

Of course when the man’s boots scraped across your floor you though it was Joel. He was the only man you would know that would wear heavy boots to a Halloween party.

"Joel..." you whimpered, your slurred voice thick with alcohol and tears as you reached your arms up in the dark. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

The man didn’t speak to you. Just like Joel did. God, every single day you wished up and down that the man who came into your room spoke a single world sooner, because you would recognize your Joels voice anywhere, drunk or not.

He just leaned down and grabbed your waist, pulling you up toward him. When his mouth met yours, he tasted like beer, which Joel had been drinking, and cigarette smoke, which Joel had been smoking. It was like forcing broken puzzle pieces together. It was him. He came back to fix it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his hair, seeking the comfort of his body to erase the horrible things he'd said in the kitchen. Something felt wrong when you realized how fast he was moving. The man didn’t touch you slowly the way Joel usually did, because he knew going too fast made you anxious. This man was rougher, pushing your skirt up around your waist without any of the foreplay Joel gave you. But, you were too drunk to question it, too desperate for the validation of his touch to notice the slight difference in the way his hands held your hips.

He unbuttoned his jeans, his heavy breathing the only sound over the distant thud of the bass in the living room. He didn't ask if you were ready. He just pinned your wrists to the mattress and penetrated you in a single, sharp motion.

A soft gasp left your lips, your head rolling back into the pillow as the reality of the weight above you started to feel heavy, almost suffocating. You shifted beneath him, your hands coming up to rest flat against his chest, trying to find the familiar rhythm of the man you loved.

"Joel..." you whispered into the dark. "Joel, slow down... please."

The man above you paused, his movements pausing for a fraction of a second as he looked down at your face. He let out an unfamiliar chuckle.

"Joel's out on the porch, babe," the man said confidently. "But you're doing just fine."

Your boyfriend had the smoothest southern drawl you had ever heard. It had this calming factor that stopped your blood from boiling. It was a voice you recognized anywhere, and that was not your boyfriend's voice.

You had never experienced such a shock that your drunkenness completely evaporated. You didn’t realized biology worked like that. But your drunken giddy worldview froze instantly - the chest under your hands wa a hockey jersey, not a flannel like Joel’s. The cigarette smell wasn’t from smoking. It was from the firepit in the student commons.

This wasn't your Joel.

Your eyes went wide in the pitch-black room, your panic locking your joints as the stranger moved inside of you, entirely oblivious to the absolute horror shattering your soul in the dark.

Not Joel. Not Joel. Not Joel.

A violent surge of adrenaline fought to break through the paralysis of the alcohol, screaming at you to push him off, to fight, to scream. You shoved your palms against his jersey, your fingers digging in as you tried to wrench your body sideways. You tried to swing at him a few times, but he pinned your arms above your head.

"Get off…Get off me - "

No matter how hard you jerked your body around him, yor limbs felt uncooperative under his weight. He didn't even seem to register your struggle. To him, your frantic pushing was probably just you getting closer and closer to an orgasm.

When your body registered that you couldn’t get him off of you, it shut down. Your throat stopped making noise. Every time you tried to draw in enough air to make a sound, the smell of his unfamiliar sweat choked you. You were completely trapped.

So, you just stopped trying.

Your arms fell limp against the sheets, your fingers curling into the fabric as you stared blindly up at the pitch-black ceiling, praying to whatever God was out there that it would be over soon. You forced your mind to leave your body and retreat deep into the quietest corner of your own head while the stranger finished.

When he finally pulled away, the only thing you processed was the mattress lifting. You heard the rustle of his clothes, the slide of his belt buckle, and then the quiet creak of your bedroom door opening and closing. So quiet, like he knew what he just did was wrong. And he did it anyway.

It took a moment for your brain to catch up with your body.

But the one consistent?

You needed Joel.

He was the only person who could wash away the touch of the stranger. If Joel was here, he would fix it. He had to. He fixed everything.

You scrambled off the bed, your knees immediately buckling as the floor tilted beneath you. You caught yourself on the edge of the nightstand, knocking the empty plastic cups to the floor. Your hands shook uncontrollably as you pulled your skirt down, your fingers fumbling with the fabric of your shirt.

This was so wrong. Everything was wrong.

You pushed the bedroom door open. The party was still raging on - of course it was. Because no one heard you silently losing autonomy of your own body in the other room.

"Joel?" you slurred, your voice cracking as you stumbled into the living room, your eyes frantically scanning the crowd. You pushed past a group of guys by the sofa. "Joel?!"

"Hey, you okay?" someone called out, but you ignored them, your boots slipping on a spilled drink as you made your way toward the back porch. You didn’t care if you made a scene. No one would remember tonight in the morning.

The porch was crowded with people smoking and talking over the music, but the corner where Joel usually stood with a cigarette was empty.

"Where's Joel?" you gasped, grabbing the arm of a guy standing near the railing. "Have you seen Joel?"

He looked down at you, raising an eyebrow at your pale, tear-streaked face and your trembling hands. "Your boyfriend? Oh, yeah. He left like 20 minutes ago, man. Grabbed his keys and walked out. Said he was driving back to Dallas."

You let go of his arm, stumbling backward against the wooden siding of the apartment.

He was gone.

–

You were on your 2nd whiskey sour when someone broke your peaceful silence.

“Hey…aren’t you y/n?”

You closed your eyes and inhaled. You hadn’t run into anyone who recigized you yet, for good or for bad. But the bad grew to outway the good reason to remember you so…it was probably the bad.

The voice came from one of the 3 women at the book near the jukebox. They looked friendly enough, and not in that sarcastic way where they just want to poke into your personal life. And they all seemed to be about your age, maybe a few years younger.

The blonde in the middle gasped and slid out of the booth to come stand next to you.

“I knew it! I remember reading some of your short stories in the paper as a kid and then I read your book once it came out! Oh my gosh, we heard you moved to Boston! What are you doing back in town?”

Maybe it was the alcohol in your system, but them not referencing the accident once warmed your heart. You hadn’t been known just for your writing for years now.

“Just taking a break,” you gave out the same lie you gave everyone. You waved the bartender for another roud. “Just doing some local consulting work. Teaching a bit. Trying to be lowkey.”

“That’s so cool,” the second girl said, joining her friend by your stool. The third fried quickly followed. “We should celebrate you being back! Drinks on my tab!”

And so, you got completely and utterly drunk.

For the next hour, your lability to lie evaporated, as it usually did when you were drunk. You were an honest drunk which was great in the moment. It always made you feel like you were meeting yoru best friends. But then the morning after you were always filled with such profound anxiety that you never wanted to show your face again.

Before you knew it, you were leaning against the bar top with tears in your eyes as you told these equally drunk girls your ecrets.

“He’s a monster! I moved across the country to get away from him, and now his kid is in my classroom. His kid! And I tried... I tried to help her because she was having a panic attack, and he ran straight to the principal today and tried to get me fucking fired.”

“Wait,” the blonde girl slurred. “What’s his name again?”

“Joel,” you grumbled back. “Who even names their kid Joel!?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the brunette, who you think said her name is Emma held her hand up. “Joel Miller? The construction guy? Are you fuckig serious? He tried to ruin your new job after you helped his daughter!?”

“Yes!” you cried out, slamming your empty glass on the wood. “And then my boss called me a liability. She told me I was the problem. Me! All because he called her and bitched about me to protect his ego. I just…I just want to look him in the eye and tell him how much of a pathetic coward he is.”

The blonde girl (Dani?) stood up, slamming her hand down on the bar right next to yours, her face flushed with alcohol-induced solidarity.

"Oh, hell no. You are not letting him get away with that. You know where his office trailer is? It's literally 3 blocks down on the old textile mill site. My boyfriend works concrete on that crew."

“Really?” you blinked. Miller Construction had a crew now? Last time you were in Dallas it was still just Joel and Tommy.

“Yes! He's probably still there working late again. My boyfriend said he’s a total workaholic," she grabbed your bag off the hook and forced the strap over your shoulder. She hauled you up off the bar stool, steadying your swaying hips with a firm grip on your arms. "You go and bang on his trailer, girl! Show him he can't mess with your career. It's right down this street to the left - you literally can't miss it!"

“Yeah!” You cheered with drunk adrenaline. “I’m gonna tell him off!”

That was the last you remembered of that night.

–

When you woke up the next morning, it was still dark outside, so it wasn’t the light that brought you to consciousness. It was the gentle hand on your shoulder, rocking you back and forth.

You were tempted to shrug the shoulder off. Theo could let you sleep for a few more minutes - you only lived right up the street from the elementary school after all.

You grumbled and rolled over into the pillow before your brain started to wake up along with your body. Your head hurt so fucking badly that you felt each individual neuron pulsating through your skull.

Your bedroom at home was in the basement. With no windows. You had no way of telling it was light or dark out when you woke up.

The memory of storming to Joel’s trailer drunk started flickering in your mind like a faulty light bulb before finally staying on and buzzing.

You flew up right, scrambling to cover yourself with whatever was around you in case you were…well, in case you were naked. Though if you did drunkenly sleep with him you might have killed yourself in front of him.

But he wasn’t looking at you like a man who regretted the night before. He was standing there, in a black shirt with a small “Miller Construction” logo on the side, and some blue jeans. His hair was combed, but free, so his curls bounced around his head. Good to see he was finally listening to your advice - you used to tell him you hated his slicked back hair.

“Hey, hey,” he held up his hand like he was speaking to a spooked animal. “You’re fine. You’re fine. You were just drunk and it wasn’t safe for you to go home.”

You were still trying to mentally wake up and have your memory from last night connect with the present. You just stared at him, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

He glanced at how you were holding the covers over yourself.

“Relax. We didn’t do anything. I may be evil to you but I’m not a monster.”

You shakily let the covers go. You barely even felt the shirt on your skin, it was so big.

“Respectfully, I would rather get into another car accident than ever sleep with you again.”

It was mean to say, but he let out a faint snort.

“I ain’t too giddy to get in bed with you either darlin’. Was just trying to prevent you from getting hit by a car on your drunk walk home.”

You shrugged and rolled your neck.

“Could have checked off two boxes. Get into an accident inside a car and outside a car.”

He looked down when he realized he was smiling a little. You gave him a quick one up and down while he wasn’t looking. The shirt he was wearing certainly wasn’t big on him. It was fitted just enough that you could see his arms straining the sleeves, and a small tummy pushing against the edge of his jeans. He had some greys coming in his hair, just threaded throughout his curls and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was genetic or stress.

When he looked back up, there was something different on his face, something that almost resembled concern.

“Last night you, um…”

You sighed and shook your head.

“I do not need to hear a lecture about me showing up drunk at your trailer Joel.”

“No, not that,” he sputtered a little. “You…you said that you knew it was me this time. You were glad it was me.”

It took even you a moment to think about what you were talking about. You never told Joel the truth about what happened on Halloween. Your relationship was so bad at that point that your roommates told you that it would have been the final straw. Because, they pointed out, it was cheating. You cheated. And then Joel would have dumped you and you would have lost him forever.

You…you hadn’t told him about that had you? In your drunkenness? It was something that took you years to shove into a tiny glass bottle and store it away, and now you apparently decided to be vulnerable with him in a state where you couldn’t even explain.

“You said something too about Halloween before falling asleep,” Joel explained quickly. “And it’s just - do you remember what you meant?”

You lifted your hand up and rested it against your chest. Your heart was hammers through your palms and radiating out of your fingertips.

Change the conversation. Change it.

“Did you try and get me fired?”

His lips parted and his head tilted.

“Did you blackout? I already told you I didn’t.”

You motioned at how you probably looked. You didn’t need to look in a mirror to know you probably looked a mess, makeup probably smudged all over his pillows.

“I admit I called to try and move Sarah out of your class. But I never ever said that you should be fired. In fact, Karen gave me a long lecture on how you are the brightest teacher to ever walk into that building and if I want my daughter to get help for her reading, you are the only person who can help her.”

“I told you in that closet that I am qualified -”

“- I always believe my daughter first. Your qualifications mean nothing to me if my daughter is still miserable at school and crying any time I try to get her to read. But hell, when I talked to her last night, she told me that she finally understood the words because of some shavin’ cream thing you did?”

“It’s a multisensory learning strategy,” you said quietly.

“I don’t give a shit what it is. My girl is finally happy. And that’s because of you. I may not like you one bit, but I did not try and get you fired.”

He was calling a temporary ceasefire. At least, that’s what you thought it was. Maybe just a ceasefire when it came to anything revolving Sarah, which you wanted the entire time, but he was being too emotional. But fine.

He was staring at your with his big brown eyes, waiting for you to answer.

“So…”

“I was talking about 1995.”

The words slipped out of you before you could stop yourself. It was like in your brain, the only way for you to know Joel Miller was complete love or utter hate, and now that he was trying to be neutral with you, your brain was malfunctioning it’s programming.

His thick eyebrows flew up.

“1995?”

You scratched your chin and averted your eyes.

“Yeah…yeah, um, Halloween 1995. It was when we were, you know. Fighting more.”

You thought he would make a comment about your use of ‘fighting more.’ That was such a miniscule descriptor for that time in your life.

Instead, you watched the lines on his face soften in slow motion, recognition flooding his face. Like that date had significance to him too.

A pit formed in your stomach at how concerned he looked. This wasn’t what you wanted…for him to feel welcome in your life again. To feel like he could open up to you and you could open up to him, because you couldn’t.

You certainly didn’t need his pity. He had no god damn right to pity you when he was the one who left you for dead and didn’t even bother to sit by your bed while you were in a coma.

You cleared your throat and feigned shock.

“I have to get to work,” you paused before your real shock slipped in. “Wait, Sarah’s not here right? Oh my god, I can’t be seen leaving here, I can’t traumatize her -”

“- Relax. She’s at my ma’s.”

Joel’s parents were still in town? Oh you loved them so much. Your parents were very strict and traditional, and you did love them, but they weren’t loving in the way Joel’s were. They always invited you over to dinner, got you presents on holidays - hell, you had your own stocking at their house.

“Andrea still lives near here?”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Yeah, but she’s not going to see you if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t-”

“- you really don’t understand how badly you ruined my families life right? You really just don’t get it.”

“Joel, I told you I didn’t know about the lawsuit.”

“Suits. Plural. And of course you didn’t know, because you’re sheltered. That’s why your parents didn’t tell you, wasn’t it? Because you can’t handle anything that might be difficult to hear. They wanted you to know that all of the attention was on you. That you’re the only person who was hurt because you have no sense of not being the only person in the world. I told you about the suits two days ago, and I doubt you can look me in the eyes and tell me what they sued my family for. Can you? Can you seriously tell me that yesterday before you went and got shit faced drunk, you made an effort to call your mom and ask her why she tried to sue me into homelessness?”

Your heart sunk. Because he was right. You were so blinded by the fear for your own job and your fear for Sarah’s education that you didn’t even to think to ask your brother or parents about the lawsuit. You still could barely believe that, and a part of you truly believed he was lying. Lawsuits were almost always a big deal - if there had been one, certainly you would have noticed lawyers coming in and out of the hospital? And certainly your parents would have told you. You knew your parents. They wouldn’t keep something like that from you, even if they waited until your condition was a bit better, they would have told you at some point.

If it came down to believing your parents or Joel?

Your parents came long before Joel did in your life. They got the point for knowing what you needed the best.

You blinked at him, not wanting to pick a fight this early in the morning anf especially after he let you sleep at his place rather than having you drunk walk home and end up in a bush.

“I should probably walk home to get some clothes before work. Kids are surprisingly aware when you wear the same clothes too much.”

He held his hand out confidently but then quickly dropped it like he was being shy.

“You don’t have to rush out. If you don’t want. I mean, I have some clothes that may fit you.”

You froze midway out of the bed and laughed out loud.

“Joel, I can’t wear your clothes to work!”

He flushed a deep red, like he always did when he was embarrassed. It was impossible for this man to hide his nerves, because no matter how stoic his face looked, he always looked like a tomato.

“T-that’s not what I meant,” he turned toward the closet and walked toward it. He definitely knew you could see the heat on his cheeks. You tilted your head while he rummaged through his clothes, wondering what jeans and plain shirt combo he was going to pull out.

Instead, he came outu holding a pair of black and white checkered pants and a light blue fuzzy sweater.

“This isn’t cute and teacher-y like your shirt yesterday,” he was avoiding eye contact. “But this seems colorful? Don’t teachers try to be colorful?”

You chewed on your lower lip to fight your smile, but it betrayed you, the ends of your lips still curving up.

“So many things are wrong with this. First off. You think I’m cute Miller?”

His eyes flew to yours and they were wide with panic. He turned an even darked red against his sun tanned skin.

“N-no thats not, well, no -”

You giggled at his blubbering.

“Relax, I’m fucking with you. Why do you even have womens clothes anyway?”

“They were my ex-wifes.”

The teasing smile on your face fell instantly. Sarah had mentioned it was just her dad at home, but it was just something you kept in her student file. Now that you knew she was Joel’s daughter, it had a whole different meaning.

You felt something coil inside of your throat at the fact that Joel got married. Maybe it was jealousy, not that he was with someone else, but because he got to date again. There was nothing stopping you from dating per say - you went on a couple of dates in Boston. But any time they noticed your hands shaking and you explained your condition, you never heard from them again.

Because you were too much. Your illness would always make you too much for everyone around you.

The idea of opening yourself up to someone new scared you too much anyway. You spent your formative years dating the same man who turned out to be your downfall. During all of those dates you went on you couldn’t help but ask yourself when they would do something to you. Not if, when. You were fundamentally changed 7 years ago into not trusting anybody, especially potential romantic partners.

And Joel just gets fucking married. After he told you you would be the only girl in the world he would marry. It’s not fair.

You rubbed your lip with your middle finger.

“You’re married?”

“Was,” he said nonchalantly. “We got divorced 4 years ago.”

You tried to do the math in your head without looking too obvious, but he noticed your furrowed, concentrating eyebrows immediately.

“We were together for 3 years. You’re doing that squinty thing.”

“I do not-”

“- yes, you do,” he layed the clothes on the dresser. “And it’s okay you know. Might be good for you to know about her. For Sarah and everything.”

Right. For Sarah.

“Actually, you get dressed first, and I’ll make breakfast. You still like oatmeal in the morning right? I know you don’t drink black coffee, but-”

“Black coffee’s great. Same with the oatmeal.”

He gave a small nod and headed out to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind him.

The fact that he remembered your favorite breakfast made you feel unnervingly warm inside. Unnervingly, because you knew that you and Joel could never truly unlearn each other with your history.

You stood up and put on Joel’s ex-wifes clothes, something you never ever expected yourself to be doing. You looked around for your purse and stuffed your skirt and top from yesterday in it. That’ll do. You could just hide it under your desk so your kids don’t ask why you have a skirt sticking out of your bag.

You used Joel’s brush to get any immediate knots out and then just threw the rest up in a bun. You paused when you realized that there was no makeup on your face at all.

That couldn’t be right. You have a staple of makeup you wear every day - mascara, eyebrow gel and pencil, concealer, and a neutral lipstick or gloss. It’s not much but it almost always mudges over your face when you accidentally sleep in it or it rains.

It did occur to you that Joel may have taken your makeup off, but that thought didn’t last very long. Knowing him, he probably just dumped you into bed to get you off his hands. You likely just forgot to put some on yesterday.

In the bathroom, there wasa boxed toothbrush sitting on the counter, so you assumed Joel left it out for you. As you brushed your teeth you noticed his mirror was slightly ajar and a rush of noseyness surged through you. You don’t know why you felt compelled to see if Joel was on any crazy medications. Maybe if he had some sort of condition like you did, you would feel less angry at him for getting out of the accident scot free.

You glanced to the door incase Joel was coming in and then you opened the mirror. There were 3 bottles inside.

80 mcg of Prozac

50 mg of Hydrochlorothiazide

2,000 mg of Gabapentin.

Now, you didn’t know what Hyrdrochlorothiazide was, but you did know what Prozac and Gabapentin were. You had tried Prozac when you were trying to figure out which anti-depressant worked for you, and Gabapentin was one of your early pain medications.

What the fuck was he taking Gabapentin for?

Your curiosity was halted by a blinding pain through your head. It was so painful that your hands fell from the mirror to the counter and you gripped so tightly you probably could have broken your fingers.

You missed your meds last night.

God, how could you be so stupid? You knew better than to let yourself miss a dose of medication. That’s why you had to stay with your brother, so he could keep an eye on all of your health issues in case you slipped up.

Did you really let Joel Miller cloud your judgement that much? Still? After all of these years?

You waited for the pain wave to pass before turning on the sink, gulping down some water and heading into the kitchen.

Joel looked up almost immediately from the stove, where he was cooking himself eggs. Your oatmeal sat steaming on the kitchen table with a side of blueberries and coffee.

“What’s the matter?” He immediately looked concerned at the sight of you.

You chewed your cheek and went to sit down. You already embarrassed yourself enough last night. You didn’t want to show anymore weakness.

“This looks good. Thank you. For all of this.”

He gave you that little head tilt he always did when he was seeing right through you. It was the same head tilt that always made you tingle a little bit, one of those minute things about him that meant everything to you.

“Are you in pain?”

“No,” you said quietly. Great, you couldn’t even pretend to lie. “A little.”

He turned the stove off and scooped his eggs on a plate before walking over to sit across from you with his coffee.

“Hangover or brain?”

You chuckled weakly and took a bite of oatmeal. He put cinnamon in it, just how you liked it.

“I don’t actually get hangovers very much. I learned that I only get them if I mix liquors, but last night was just whiskey sours. This is just because I didn’t go home last night so I didn’t take any of my evening medication.”

Joel’s face fell mid-sip of coffee.

“Oh god, m’ sorry…if I knew you had to go home I could’ve dropped you off, you were just sayin’ your brother would kill you if you showed up drunk-”

“-no, oh my god, don’t apologize. It’s not yout fault. You actually did the right thing because if Theo saw you walking me into the house drunk, he may have taken advatage of Texas’s lack of gun laws.”

Joel snorted on the other end of the table.

“I take it your brother ain’t a fan of me either? Like your parents?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I mean, he’s the one who told me to get over our…history.”

He smiled and rolled his bottom lip in slightly.

“Knew your brother was the smartest one in your family.”

“Woah, slow your roll Mister, you aren’t blameless here,” you took a sip of your own coffee. “He said that I shouldn’t blame you for not understanding that learning disabilities don’t equal being mentally broken. That everywhere today there’s people saying that kids with these conditions are just lazy and don’t want to do the work, so of course you and a majority of other people think that my saying your daughter probably has dyslexia is an insult. Theo told me to get over myself because you aren’t saying that I’m targeting your daughter because you hate me. You’re saying that because you don’t want to believe your daughter has a condition that is so misunderstood by society.”

He pursed his lips slightly like he was trying to bite back a snarky remark, but he visibly inhaled and bit his eggs.

“If you’re the best like they say you are, I am willing to listen to you and let you change my mind.”

“I’m not the best. I’m good at my job, but the best was my friend Camilla. From Boston. I was just an elementary school teacher, she was the reading interventionist,” you hadn’t spoken to Cami, but she deserved her credit. She was the reason you became so passionate about helping children with learning disabilities. “And I’m not doing it to change your mind. I’m doing it for Sarah. Changing your mind is just an effect of helping her.”

It was so quick that you could have sworn it was a dream - his eyes flickered to your lips and back up. The attention on your lips made them part, but you instantly closed them when you allowed yourself to think logically. He was probably just avoiding eye contact is all.

“M’ surprised you made friends in Boston,” he teased. “You didn’t show them your charming personality?”

You scrunched your nose up and rolled your eyes.

“And you are charming as always. You use that swagger on your ex?”

His throat bobbed prominently as he swallowed like he was trying not to choke, which made you feel a bit guilty. You and him were at a ceasefire for an hour and you already managed to mention his ex wife. Great going.

“What was her name?” you asked gently. Afterall, he had encouraged you to ask questions about her.

He brushed a stray curl out of his eye.

“Isla.”

“That’s…a really pretty name actually.”

“I know. I wanted to name Sarah somethin’ unique like that but Isla said she had a hard enough time as a kid with a different name so she wanted something more basic.”

Another wave of pain raidated through your head, and you closed your eyes until it passed. Joel must have gotten the hint to not fuss over the headaches, but you could also sense that he wanted to reach over and help. There was no way he could help, but he wanted to try.

“She’s um,” you moisented your lips and swallowed, the pain sucking all of the moisture out of your throat. “She’s not in Sarah’s life? She had mentioned to me on the first day that it’s just you and her.”

He stood up at that and your face fell and the thought that you insulted him in some way. But when you watched him walk over to the sink to fill a glass of water, you realize he had noticed your throat was dry. He noticed.

He noticed. And why did something so miniscule make you feel so much?

“She was around. Last year I got a letter from her saying that she had filed all of the documents to give up custody of Sarah.”

You flew your hand to your mouth to stifle your gasp - what monster gives up custody on a little girl as sweet as Sarah Miller?

“Joel-”

“-a truth for a truth,” he handed you the water. “I told you about my wife. Now you can tell me what you meant about Halloween.”

God fucking damn it.

He knew everything. This is why you couldn’t be civil with him. Because he never forgot anything that made you upset, and once he knew that something was wrong, he made it his lifes goal to fix it.

“That’s not how this works.”

“Ah, I see you’re still in the habit of thinking you make the rules.”

“What rules? We’re eating breakfast.”

“Oh don’t be naive,” he groaned. “You always loved to pretend that whatever you decided about the world was how it’s gonna go. You wanted to write your story as literary fiction when you sold it as a romance. So you wrote a lit fic. You wanted me to make Miller Conracting branding orange? We made it orange.”

Your eyes dramatically fell to the Miller Construction Label on his shirt.

That was orange.

“Well…was I wrong?”

He frowned in a way that resembled a sad puppy.

“That was a bad example. You know what I mean. You’re a control freak.”

It was something that he probably would have said to offend you if he didn’t know you. But you knew Joel Miller. You knew he could say a lot meaner.

You ignored the swipe and took an exaggerated scoop of your oatmeal. This morning felt more normal than any day of your life in the last 7 years - you didn’t want to ruin that, even if it meant being normal with the person you hated more than anyone in the entire world.

But maybe telling him will take some of that guilt off your chest. Ever since Halloween, you blamed yourself for the downfall of your relationship with him, and, in correlation, the accident. If he hadn’t grown to resent you, he wouldn’t have picked a fight that night, and you wouldn’t have gotten distracted in the car.

“That Halloween I was referencing…it was right after you snapped at me for “trying to embarrass you or whatever,” you shook your head. “I went to my room and cried. And cried, and cried, and cried. Remember Anna? My roommate that year?”

Joel nodded slowly.

“She followed me into the room and kept telling me to drink it off. Brought me a whole drink and told me if I got drunk I would forget about it and enjoy my night. And I was so naive that I…I listened to her. I drank straight from the bottle in my room for an hour, and when I finally was drunk enough to forget, someone walked into the room.”

You saw the muscles in Joels arms flex, veins popping slightly. His jaw made a horrible shrieking sound from how hard it was pressed together.

“Ah!” The sound startled you so bad you jerked back, your chair scraping. “Joel what the fuck was that?!”

His face was scruched up in pain.

Look at the two of you. Both in excruciating pain. Lovely.

“That would be my jaw.”

“Well you should probably get that looked at, because I don’t think your body is supposed to make sounds like a fork against a plate.”

He chuckled sarcastically and rubbed his jaw.

“It is when my jaw is made out of titanium.”

You froze, your spoon hovering halfway to your mouth as his words hung in the air.

Titanium.

Like the metal? He has a metal jaw?

Now that he mentioned it, your eyes picked up on the slight asymmetry of his jawline that you had failed to notice in your own resentment of him. His stubble covered it well, but now that you were really looking you could see the faint surgical scar tucked just under the curve of his chin.

He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee before letting out a bitter huff.

"Oh, what," he grunted, his tone now oddly reminiscent of when he would get backed into a corner and defensive. "You didn't even bother to think if I had any injuries from the accident?"

You felt your face flush with embarrassment. Your immediate instinct was to snap right back, to throw your hands up and remind him who was the one in a fucking coma.

"I-I, no - Joel, that's not true," you stammered. You didn’t sound confident at all.

Because... it was true. It kind of was.

For 7 long years, your entire universe had revolved around your own body. Your memory loss, your hand tremors, the endless physical therapy, the medical bills, and the fucking resentment of believing Joel had walked away from that crushed truck without a scratch. You had built an entire monument out of your own suffering, convinced you were the sole victim of the accident. It had literally never crossed your mind to ask if he had been hurt. You never had the chance to, because he never came back after that night.

He never made an effort to see if you were okay, so you never made an effort to see if he was okay.

Joel saw the realization wash over your face, but he didn’t gloat. He just looked sad. He gulped down the rest of his coffee and stood up.

"Right," he muttered. He glanced over at your plate, seeing you had finished the last bite of your cinnamon oatmeal. "Well. I gotta get to the construction site early. Need to meet the inspector before the rest of the crew gets there. Let me get you some advil before we leave."

He walked back into his room and rummaged around for a bit before coming back holding 2 advils. You took them with a weak smile and took them with the last of your coffee.

He grabbed his truck keys off the counter and looked back at you.

"If you're good to wait with me there for a bit, I can drive you straight to the elementary school after," he offered, the hurt slowly leaving his voice. "Beats walking, though I guess you seem to like doing that."

"Um... sure. What else am I gonna do?"

His house was too far from the school to walk. You literally were gridlocked.

Whatever bantered was happening between the two of you died out in the car. Neither of you spoke to each other, the radio playing faintly throughout the car.

The strum of an electric guitar through the radio made you lock up.

Joel’s head turned toward you at your obvious movement after several minutes of driving in silence. But you were too focused on the memory your brain was showing in front of you.

The wheels catching on a puddle.

I never wanted to be your weekend lover.

Losing control over the wheel no matter how hard you turned it the other way, just like you were taught.

I only wanted to be some kind of friend.

The car catching on a ditch and flying through the air while you and Joel screamed.

It’s such a shame our friendship had to end.

The feeling of your body being catapulted through the hard glass of the wind shield.

“Hey!”

You blinked a few times before turning your head. The car wasn’t moving anymore, and what was once your favorite song was no loger playing.

There was something warm on your cheek, and it took you a moment to process that it was Joel’s hand, and not the blood on your face from the windsheld tearing your cheek open.

His thumb was gently swiping under your eye.

“You were crying.”

You sat frozen in the passenger seat, just letting yourself feel his thumb wip about the tear falling down your cheek. Knowing that he was finally here, that he finally came back, made your chest feel warm. In its place, you were wrapped in a gooey, terrifyingly comfortable sensation. A comfort that your soul hadn't felt in seven long years. It felt like home. It felt like Joel.

Reality rushed back in through your lungs.

He is not nice to you.

This wasn't the man who loved you; this was the man who had called your boss, who resented your very existence, who blamed your family for his idiocracy.

As if suddenly realizing what he was doing - realizing he was touching the woman he was supposed to hate - Joel’s hand twitched. His eyes widened slightly in shock, and he dropped his arm. The sudden loss of his touch left your skin feeling frigid, like it did in the rain that night.

He cleared his throat, pulling his chin back into his collar and leaning his head toward the driver's side window.

"Don't like Prince anymore?" he teased, attempting to sound lighthearted.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, staring straight ahead at the dashboard.

"No," you muttered. "Just... that song."

Because Purple Rain was the last thing you heard before your life was ruined. It was the background track to the moment your life ended and your coma began.

Joel went completely silent. He didn't make another joke. He didn't offer a snide remark. He just shifted the truck back into drive and pulled onto the main road toward the construction site.

Joel drove with one hand on the top of the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the empty morning road. His truck smelled like saw dust. He must have been driving lumbar around in here.

"Listen," Joel cleared his throat. He didn't turn his head to look at you, keeping his gaze locked on the traffic light. "You can say no. In fact, I fully expect you to say no."

“What?”

He exhaled, his fingers tapping against the leather steering wheel.

"I was thinkin'... would you be willing to tutor Sarah? With her reading? I would pay you. Whatever your hourly rate is, I'll match it. Cash, under the table, whatever you want."

You stared at the profile of his face, the hesitation creeping into your limbs like a sudden frost.

"Joel... I don't know if that's a good idea. Given... everything."

"Please," he finally turned his head to look at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, completely stripped of any ego. "Please. We called a ceasefire for her, right?"

He leaned his forearm against the wheel as the light turned green, accelerating slowly down the road toward the rising sun.

"I don't have the money to get her a formal diagnosis. The private specialists up in Austin want thousands just for the evaluation. The school district's waitlist is 6 months long, and Karen... Karen isn't gonna push it through any faster. I can't afford to wait 6 months while my little girl cries every time she opens a book. You're the only person who's ever made her feel like she isn't stupid. This would be her best bet. You're her best bet."

You sat in silence for a long moment, watching the trees pass by outside the window. You hated him for the past. You hated him for leaving you. But as you thought about Sarah you knew there was only one answer you could give.

You let out defeated sigh, rolling your neck as you turned back to him.

"Fine," you whispered. "I'll tutor her."

A wave of relief washed over Joel's face. The tight lines around his eyes melted away as he smiled.

"Thank you. Thank you, darlin'."

ongoing

taglist (open - message me your username): @happilymagicallady @mystickittytaco @vickie5446 @din-cognito @pascalgold @cuteanimalmama @zeebmaster @eviispunk @somedayheaven @twilightvelour @callmebyyournick-name @onlythehobi @speaktothehandpeasants @laughsandlivia @doblasftcisco @monalicious67 @richierae08-blog

[onlythehobi]

JOEL LET HER FINISH SPEAKING DAMN

okay no seriously each chapter im more convinced karen is a Karen in all the KAREN sense of the karen™️ word,, that woman is a demon sent from hell 😭😭😭

the little touches and pet names that slip in OH IM DEVASTATED 💔 they were made for each other ur honor 💔💔💔💔

purple rain being their song and then the last she heard before it all ended

im loving how we're now seeing reader realize the missing joel parts of the effects the accident had on him but im not loving how he's like mean to her throwing every problem onto her i mean yeah i get it but the lawsuit isn't her fault just not knowing?? BUT STILL LEAVE HER ALONEEEE

NOWWWW forced proximity coming? OU THIS WILL EAT 😛😛😛😛

[mochapuppy]

MDNI // DDNE TW: stalking and obsessive behavior

obsessed loser Titus Danforth who's been stalking you, a pretty young bachelorette from a lesser family, for months now. enraptured by your beautiful looks as much as he is by your haughty, unholier than thou, demeanor.

your ice-queen self won't even look at him beyond forced tight-lipped smiles and condescending glares. because, yes, he's devastatingly handsome and of better rank in your little satanic circle but he's so....annoying. awkward. peculiar even for a cultist. he downright pesters you at every event you two unfortunately meet at, attracted to you like a magnet despite your rudeness as he attempts to make small talk that you inevitably shoot down by ridiculing him.

one time he brought you the sacrifice's still beating heart and presented it like an otter with the perfect pebble, looking adorably confused when you rejected the slimy, bloodied organ with little more than a huff

and maybe he is a bit endearing, hoofing it to your general direction like a loyal hound at every soiree, gala dinner, and satanic mass. giving you his undivided attention any time you're bored and feel like playing with him through less than innocent touches and coy teasing, delighted by the way he stammers broken flirtations back only for you to disappear moments after.

he'd even taken to leaving increasingly expensive and extravagant gifts at your doorstep that you're quickly running out of space for despite your staunch ignoring. endless flowers, jewelry, clothes, a custom crossbow with his name carved in the handle, a new mare topped with a hermes saddle, a hunting dog... quite honestly the list is almost endless.

but it still doesn't make up for him shooing away any other suitable bachelors that have approached you, ones that you were actually interested in no less! to top it all off, the poor souls that were brave enough to keep buzzing around have been mysteriously dropping like flies...though Titus denies any involvement, obviously. bastard.

you'll come around, Titus knows you will. he has high hopes for the both of you after all. ones that include you as the new mrs Danforth and his heir in your belly, Satan willing.

it doesn't bother him that you sneer at him across your own engagement dinner, knife stabbing into your steak as though imagining it was his neck instead. any other in your place would have been perfectly content while you seethed that this oaf outsmarted you.

he'd been nothing short of elated hearing of your father's acceptance of his marriage proposal from Chester. you, on the other hand, had been furious at your darling papa breaking the news of your impending nuptials by telling you that Titus Danforth was your best option. an honor really that he'd personally asked for your hand at all after everyone else mysteriously abandoned you. the sleazeball. the irritating, persistent, handsome cunt had won your little game of cat and mouse from right under your nose.

"You'll make a lovely Danforth wife," Titus heavily breathes out, all triumphant smiles while you glare bloody murder at him over your meal. "I'm sure we can work on our...relationship. in time."

Ursula chokes in her wine next to him. Titus has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed at his own delusions. your eye twitches.

"oh i'm sure we'll be perfectly happy. the perfect couple." you spit out in return, your tone pure venom. your fork stabs the back of his hand, crimson red droplets blooming as Titus gasps. his fucking cheeks redden instead of him recoiling like the normal individual he isn't. Your fiancé lets out a groan of what is surely sexual pleasure before his tongue laps at the bleeding wound.

"I know," Titus sighs, looking more lovesick than ever when you were aiming for horrified. "I can't wait."

Lucifer help you, it was going to be a long, long life married to this freak. at least his looks made up for it.

[onlythehobi]

yesss give me that manfailure NEOW

[bluetimeombre]

BET ON IT !

synopsisyou and Robby had been going steady for a few months now but when a betting board is made on who your mysterious male friend could be, Robby is not happy with the outcome.

warningslanguage, smutish- allusions to smut, jealous Robby, mention of shooting- GSW

author noterobby x reader but platonic frank x reader, can you tell santos is my favourite cause i include her in basically everything i write

Santos had had a day.

More traumas than she could deal with and a young girl who came in with bruises that suspiciously looked like abuse. She’d had just about enough when she realised she’d have to give another two hours to the place to get her charting done.

When she came home she knew Whitaker was at Amy’s and you should have been home. She watched you practically bolt out the place. Santos hoped it’d be a night of crappy food and shitty movies.

So when she ditched her keys at the kitchen counter and listened out the last thing she expected to hear was moaning.

“What the?” she called out for you.

Maybe you were having a self-care night. Charged up a vibrator and such.

Santos chuckled to herself as she made to tiptoe past your room.

There was the unmistakable sound of another.

“Oh fuck.”

Trinity paused.

You and her were close, she could admit that. You were maybe her only friend. So she knew you had been going through a dry patch. Because you were making it everyone's problem.

She listened in.

There was deep groaning from a man and your moans, the soft thudding of a bed against the wall. Trinity thanked the heavens again that the head of your bed was against Denis's wall and not hers.

“Deeper, harder,” she heard you moan.

“Oh, fuck me,” the guy groaned deep. She didn't recognise the voice. Did she?

Curious she tried to listen to the mans voice, wondering what she could tell. He must have been busy as little else was said other than groanings.

Where had you met this guy? Had this been happening longer than she knew? Is this why you hurried out?

Santos thought you weren't one of one night stands. Were you proving her wrong?

She snook into her room and knew she had to tell someone, at least Whitaker.

Robby collapsed next to you on your bed, catching his breath as you pulled the sheets up to cover your slightly sweaty bodies. The bed creaked under his weight as he moved around, getting himself comfortable.

Your bed was a small double, not really built for anyone more than one. Let alone Robby.

“You want some water or something?” you asked.

Robby chuckled, the bed creaking again as he turned on his side to face you. “Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?”

You lifted your shoulders, tucking your hands under your head to admire him. “Well you're the senior citizen with the... bad back?”

His brows lifted. “Oh that's how you want to play it.”

He grabbed your hip and pulled you close.

You were still trying to recover from the multiple orgasms Robby had ripped through your body as soon as you'd stepped through your apartment door. But that didn't stop his hands from crowding around your body, pulling you into him as all his hardness turned soft.

His lips found yours as easy as one found home, kissing you the way he knew you liked to be kissed. Head tilted to reach deeper, nose moving against your cheek.

There was a sudden shriek in your apartment.

You pushed Robby off, sitting up quick in bed.

“What?” he asked, far less alarmed then you as his arm fell around your waist.

“Trinity.”

Robby hummed. “Thought you said she was at Garcia's tonight?”

“I thought she was,” you uttered as if she was in the room.

The dating with Robby had started maybe three months ago when you'd had a disastrous date at the same bar Robby frequented with his buddy Duke. He'd seen the distress you were in with your date when he wouldn't stop talking about why sports people should actually get paid more than health care workers.

From there you had drinks with Robby.

From there he asked to see you again outside of work.

From there you ended up in his bed and he in yours on the occasions you had the place to yourself, which with two room mates didn't happen often.

You'd thought tonight was one of them.

“You should go,” you said, throwing the cover back to find your clothes in the dark.

“What?” Robby laughed, without moving. Instead he got himself comfortable, throwing an arm around the back of his head and tugging the covers down to his waist.

“Yes, do you want Trinity to know?”

“She doesn't sleep in your room though does she?”

Still, you tried to find some clothes.

The word around the PTMC was that Robby was a seven week itch kind of guy, the sort to never tie himself down. So though you'd been on dates with him and though he'd brought you flowers before and held your hands in bars and took you to a fancy dinner, he still fucked you like a guy that could move on the next day.

And you didn't want to scare him away with talk of serious dating. A bit of Robby was better than none of him.

You just didn't want your friends to judge you for that.

“Hey-hey-” Robby moved over on the bed, arm darting out to wrap around your waist and tug you back in.

You couldn't even protest before he was pulling you into him, hooking one of his large legs over yours and trapping you in. Your quilt was pulled up and his head rested next to yours.

At least when you and Robby were done with the sex you never kicked each other out of bed. But you did go into work separately.

“But-”

“-I'll be out of here first thing in the morning.”

With his arms around you and his calming breath you didn't think you could push him off you if you wanted to.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Robby kissed the blade of your shoulder and for the rest of the night that was how you were and when you woke in the morning with two hours to spare before your shift started, Robby was already gone.

“So who's the lucky guy?”

You chocked on your coffee, peering next to you at Trinity. “What?”

She smirked, leaning on the locker next to yours. “Oh come on, I heard you last night.”

The bitter taste of black coffee turned to ash in your stomach. She'd heard. Or worse, she'd been up to see Robby sneak out in the morning.

“What-what do you mean?” play it cool, you could totally starve of the humiliation. Maybe you could persuade her it was a dream, a nightmare, that she was sleepwalking and actually heard/saw/knew nothing.

“I heard you last night,” she said. “Quite the dicking down from what it sounded like.”

You felt the heat in your cheeks. “Oh my god.”

“Hey, I think its good, you deserve it,” said Santos as you hid yourself in your locker, taking great care in peeling off your jacket and finding your stethoscope inside. “So is it someone I know, or...”

She didn't know. You rejoiced silently before realising she still knew there was someone. “That is none of your business.”

“Oh come on, you know Garcia!”

“Because she works here.”

“Does he work here?”

“No!” you close the locker door, not as amused as Trinity was clearly finding this situation. “Please, he's just... a guy.”

She leaned in closer for the gossip. Few things got her as excited as gossip did. “A boyfriend guy or a sleep around guy?”

Wasn't that the golden question.

“Oh my god, you don't know.”

“Santos!” the call of her name should have saved you. Not when it was Robby calling for her as he stood between the two of you. “Pelvic exam in three.”

She groaned but gave a salute. “You got it boss,” she said to him before aiming a finger at you. “This isn't over.”

Santos had turned, leaving and you hardly waited anytime to turn back to the lockers and bash your head into them. Not enough to hurt but enough to erase the terrible fact that Santos had heard you.

Robby liked hearing you moan and you liked Robby so you always moaned loud.

And she'd caught enough of it.

Usually, you wished for Robby to be a bit louder in bed. You were glad he hadn't been.

The cold metal of the locker was replaced on what might have been your twentieth go at hitting yourself with the back of a rough hand.

“Everything okay?” asked Robby, coming to stand next to you, leaning on the lockers. His eyes creased with concern.

“She knows.”

His brows shot up, which didn't indicate a good reaction. “She knows?”

“Not about you, don't worry,” you said with a light scoff. “She knows that I had a good time with a guy last night, she doesn't know who.”

Robby nodded in consideration. “So we're in the clear?”

You screwed your eyes shut. You hadn't realised just how bad you wanted him to shrug it off, tell you he didn't care if Trinity knew, that of everyone in the ward knew, that he only cared about what it meant between the two of you. You only realised when he didn't give you that option.

He wanted to be sure he wasn't affiliated with it.

“Yeah, you're in the clear.”

You left Robby at the lockers before suspicions could grow. Nothing wrong with a resident talking to their attending and so far you and Robby had done a good job at not having any suspicion- not even from Dana.

The least you could do for the guy was keep it that way.

“You had a hot date last night?” Princess slid up to your side before you were even half way across the ward.

You groaned. “Santos told you already.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Say anything about what?” Javadi's voice suddenly came from Doctor McKay's side. The older woman tried to act uninterested but her keen eyes were watching you from over the computer.

“She had a date around hers last night,” said Perhlah, coming up to your other side.

“And she won't tell us who it was,” added Princess.

Javadi's smile grew and her jaw hung open. “Who?”

You shook your head and stared at your shoes. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Okay!” Robby's voiced boomed out. He clapped his hands, gaining everyone's attention. “We have patients, how about we go ask them some riveting questions?”

Mel frowned from somewhere in the crowd that had formed. “We should go ask them if they know who the guy is?”

She realised quickly that wasn't quite what he meant.

Perlah and Princess walked off together, quietly scheming. “Men just don't get it.”

You gulped down, smoothing your hand over your head and where the growing headache was forming. “Thanks.”

Robby said nothing but there was the brief feel of his hands on your shoulders as he squeezed before moving past you.

It was going on lunch, you'd just gotten a trauma through and up to the OR when you spotted bright post-it notes stuck up on the board in Ahmed's office. The betting board, his mini kingdom had been put back together.

Three titles.

Who?

How long?

Casual or dating?

“Oh my god!” your shriek echoed around the Pitt.

“What? What is it? What?” Robby was at your side in an instant, body almost slamming into you with how quick he slid next to you. He steadied himself, holding on.

“That!”

Ahmed had set up a betting board based on your love life.

The who column was spread with names and the name of those that had bet scribbled underneath. In the middle there was how long had it been going on for, some thought it was only a few weeks, others guessed up to six months.

The last column, wondering if it was a casual thing or serious was filled with almost every post it note saying 'casual'.

“Oh,” Robby chuckled.

“It's not funny,” you argued. “Has every body here bet?”

“Not me, I had no idea. Besides I think that's kind of cheating, right?”

“I see you've found my latest and greatest,” said Ahmed, approaching behind the two of you. “We got this up and running two hours ago, you want me to break it down for you?”

“Holy shit,” you uttered, scanning the board. It was a great and easy way to find out what everyone thought about you.

Robby nodded, leaning on the door next to you. “Holy shit.”

“How much money's in the pot?” you asked.

Ahmed grinned like he was just waiting for you to ask. “Five-hundred and five dollars!”

Robby chocked on a breath next to you as your jaw hung open.

Someone was gonna make money of your guys' sex lives and none of that was going to come to you.

“And I'm guessing I can't get in on it?” you asked.

“No," said Ahmed. “Unless, you know, you wanna tell me who it is and I'll split the money between us.”

“And who do you think it is?” asked Robby. He asked casually, still leaning on the doorframe like he couldn't care less. If he was a girl in a rom-com he might have even checked on his nails or twirled his hair. But you'd studied him close the last couple months, you'd worked all his emotions out into your own little Robby dictionary.

There was a hint of jealousy.

“Well, I've gone with the fan favourite,” he said, plucking off his post it note to show you. “Frank. Three months. And serious.”

“Langdon!” Robby announced.

Uh-oh.

“Yeah, man,” he said. “More than half these notes say it's him.”

On further reading you noticed it did. On yellows and pinks and greens Frank's name was written in quick scribbles or thought out curves.

Frank? Sure the two of you were close. You'd worked close together for a year- nearly two. You worked coordinated well in traumas and with patients you always knew what the other was thinking.

Since his divorce with you'd been helping him as much as you could. You had a friend who was a good lawyer and when he had a chance to see the kids you always covered.

You knew, of course, everything that had happened with the benzos.

You knew Robby still wasn't back to being best-buds with the guy.

You didn't know everyone thought you and Frank were together!

Donnie side stepped past you, coming in with his bets. “I got it, I got it-”

Robby snatched them from his hand, scoffing at whatever was written.

“Langdon. Two weeks and serious.”

“Et-tu, Donnie?” you asked.

“I got fifty in the pool, looking to get a new tv, you know.”

Robby stormed off.

Donnie watched. “He got a bet in?”

“Not yet, sorry, you don't mind?” asked Ahamed.

You scoffed. “Do I have a choice?”

You left them to it, finding Robby sitting at the nurses station at a computer. His jaw clenched and fingers worked furiously over the keypads. You evaluated the area before leaning in. “If you put a pool in we could split the money?”

“Should I put a bet in for Langdon?” He didn't look up to you as he slid on his glasses.

It angered you because he seemed annoyed at something he knew not to be true and because he slid on the glasses that made him even hotter than he already was.

“Is there something wrong, Robby?”

“No.”

“You seem-”

“- I'm not,” he snapped.

He was.

Robby wouldn't admit how much he let his emotions rule, especially anger. He used to be terrible for it but for a while he'd been better, lighter on his feet, patient. Since about.... well, since you started seeing each other.

“Hey.” Langdon joined your side.

You noticed a vein in Robby's neck twitch. “Hey.”

“You seen what everyone's saying?” asked Frank. “Apparently we're seeing each other?”

“Yeah,” you said, turning to him. “I had no idea.”

“You think I should buy a ring next?” he teased.

Robby slammed his hands on the counter, pushing himself up and storming off without so much as a glance.

Frank watched. “What's his problem?”

What was his problem? You'd love to know. “He had a bet on someone else,” you excused.

“Oh bummer,” said Frank. “You think he lost a lot of money?”

You didn't have time to come up with another lie as you spotted Santos and Whitaker walking by. Politely, you ditched Frank, promising you'd catch him for lunch.

“Did you start a betting system on my sex life?” you asked Trinity.

She smirked. “That wasn't me, I had nothing to do with that, seriously!”

“It's true,” said Denis. “But she was the first to put down a bet on Frank.”

You looked at her. You knew the history between her and Frank. Why would she want you to sleep with him? “You hate Frank?”

She shrugged. “So I guessed you were sleeping with him and didn't want to tell me because you know I don't like him.”

You shook your head. “I didn't want to tell you because it's none of your business.” You considered Whitaker. “Who'd you bet for?”

“I-I didn't, I-I wouldn't-”

“He bet on Nick from radiology.”

All of this from Robby sleeping with you in your apartment. Next time- if there was even gong to be a next time- you were doing it at his.

By the end of your shift anyone that hadn't placed a bet had.

Franks name had doubled and the pot was up to one thousand dollars (the highest bet in Pitt history). Frank found it funny, cracking jokes about it all day, throwing arms around you and dragging you onto cases saying 'couples that save lives together, stay together.'

Any other time you'd have laughed.

But when Robby was around every corner, glaring yet refusing to talk to you you couldn't find amusement in it.

The night had come and you were catching a break at the ambulance bay, sitting down on the curb. You were home in an hour, Denis had already gone to Amy's to deliver a lamb or something and Santos was supposed to be at Garcia's tonight.

But you highly doubted you'd have company.

“Hey,” Jack greeted, walking over to you in his midnight scrubs and bag slung over his shoulder. “How's my favourite day shift resident?”

You smiled a tired one at him. “How much money do you have in your wallet?”

Without a beat Jack fetched it and offered you what he had. Because that's the kind of guy Jack was.

“No, no,” you chuckled. “I don't need your cash. There's a betting pool on about who I'm sleeping with. I just- I was gonna ask you to not place a bet.”

Jack laughed, setting next to you on the curb, stretching out his prosthetic leg. “Would be a bit unfair seeing's as I'm best pals with the guy you're dating.”

“Not dating,” you corrected. “Probably not even seeing each other after today.”

Jack listened as you explained the distance, the glares, the snapping that returned to Robby. He didn't jump to defend his friend, he listened to you and took notes mentally. “The guys an emotional wreck. You know that. I know that.”

“But I thought he was doing better?”

“He was- is. Since he started dating you,” he said. “You ask me he's dealing with some emotions he doesn't know how to process. Jealousy. Greed. What's the other deadly sin?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Lust?”

“Yeah. That.”

“So I'm supposed to what? Let him be a dick all over again?”

“Oh fuck no,” said Jack firmly. “Put him in his place.”

Admittedly you didn't want to. You wanted to go back to being whatever it was you had with Robby. You wanted to hold hands and share beers in shitty bars at least an hour out of town so it was kept a secret. You wanted the brush of hands between the rush of patients and the discreet meetings at his or yours.

But how far were you willing to bend before you broke?

“So who's everyone putting bets on anyway?” Jack asked.

“Frank.”

Understanding of the situation hit him. “Ah.”

“Yeah. Ah.”

Suddenly the wail of an ambulance cut through the quiet.

The doors burst open, Robby, Santos, King, Jesse all pouring out.

“GSW to the chest, forty-two year old male, weak pulse, un-conscious on the ride over,” said Robby tugging on his gloves as you and Jack jumped up. He spared a glance at the two of you before the ambulance pulled up.

You jumped into it, wheeling the gurney ahead into trauma two. Everyone working around the man.

“Okay we move him on the count of three,” said Jack as you all got a hold of the patient. “One... two... three!”

He was heavier than some, not that it would effect your level of care but it made moving him just that but more difficult. There was a breath of air and struggle from Jack and Robby, the noises you had to drown out.

“Lets get an intubation tray going!” called Robby.

The two of you crossed each other, swapping sides.

“Can we talk later?” he uttered as he paused for only a second.

“Whatever, Robby.”

He sighed heavy.

The rest of you carried on gaging the extent of his injury.

“So do you want me out the apartment tonight so your man friend can come around?” asked Santos at your side.

“I want you out cause I'm annoyed at you.”

“Ouch.”

“Okay we need to turn him to see if it went through, on my say!” yelled Robby.

The team had thinned as orders had been barked, there were two of you on either side of him: Robby and Jack, and you and Santos.

Robby passed a nod. “Okay, roll!”

You and Trinity pulled while the men on the other side pushed but maybe Robby didn't have a good grip or maybe he hadn't expected him to be so heavy.

Robby grunted and groaned. “Ah, urg-”

“Not through,” Jack grunted.

You tried to lower him as slow as you could but it wasn't slow enough as Robby's hand got trapped under.

“Oh! Fuck me!”

You and Jack lifted the body quick and Robby released his hand.

Santos was frozen.

The whole room seemed to pause for a second.

“Oh my god!” Santos cheered, arms thrown wide. “Oh my god, oh my god!”

What was wrong with her?

It took you a second to realise, memory of last night coming to you.

Robby over you, thrusting careful.

Your body moved with his thrusts but you wrapped your legs around him, pushing his pelvis in till you felt the length of him deep. “Deeper, harder,” you'd begged.

Robby had groaned out loud, just the way you liked to hear him. “Oh! Fuck me!”

He'd uttered the words into you as he pressed his weight down, squashing you onto your squeaky bed. He'd wrapped his hands around your neck, squeezing just enough to have your walls fluttering around his cock.

Santos had been home longer than you'd thought.

Now, she was practically jumping up and down, smirking. “Oh my god!”

“Trinity can I talk to you outside please?”

“It's- you- and-” her arms were waving around.

“Outside, please, Trinity!”

Everyone was staring.

“Trinity, outside!” You guided her out and she let you, abandoning the trauma and ripping off her gown. You returned, finding Robby's gaze and Jack's amused grin as he tended to the patient. “Sorry, Doctor Robby, may I talk to Santos outside for a moment?”

Robby must have jumped to the same conclusion as you. “Er yes, yes! Of course, go!”

You rushed out, nudging Trinity into an empty exam room as she laughed. You closed the door and pulled the curtain over the glass.

“It's Doctor Robby!” she said at once. “It's Doctor Robby! You're sleeping with Doctor Robby!”

“Can you keep your voice down?”

Santos laughed again, a full belly laugh. “Oh my god, this whole time I thought it was Frank. Oh, I'm so happy.” She wiped at amused tears.

“Hey!”

“How long have you been sleeping with him?”

You shook your head, tugging off your own hospital gown. “It doesn't matter.”

Finally Trinity considered you. Her laughter died. “What-what do you mean?”

How could you explain that what she'd heard last night was over hardly twenty-four hours later.

The door pushed open and Robby stepped through, gown and gloves already gone.

“Is everything okay in here?” he asked, looking between the two of you.

“You and you?” Trinity confirmed, finger gesturing between the two of you.

Robby ran his hands through the back of his hair.

“I just can't believe it,” she said. “You guys are dating?”

Robby sighed out a “yes” at the same time you shook your head, “no”

Now, Robby looked at you.

Santos folded her arms over her chest, smirking and watching like the two of you were her favourite show. “Oh.”

Robby's hands fell to his hips as he looked at you. “What do you mean, no?”

“What do you mean, yes?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” he chuckled.

Your rubbed at your temples. “I'm so confused.”

“You're confused, I'm confused,” Robby scoffed.

“Wait- I'm confused,” said Santos. “You guys don't know if you're dating or not?”

Robby's eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “Doctor Santos, please. Go make yourself useful.”

Trinity didn't move. She looked at you, waiting for what you wanted. Because yes, Robby was her attending but you were her friend. When she was insecure about Garcia you were there telling her how much better she could do.

In the hospital Santos was guided under Robby.

At home, she was guided by friendship and care for you.

You gave her a nod and she dismissed herself.

You didn't know where to look, didn't know where to touch.

Outside the usual routine of the Pitt carried on.

Robby sighed, hands going into his fleece pocket. “You didn't know we were dating?”

No, you really didn't. “Was I supposed to? You never asked.”

He shook his head, looking down with a chuckle. He started to list things off, counting them off on his fingers. “Flowers, dinners, day trips, was that not enough?”

“But you never said!”

“I thought it was obvious!”

“Obvious to who?”

“To us!” His hands fell to your forearms.

“No to you maybe!”

“So the dinners... the flowers, you thought it was all just, just sex?” he asked.

You'd hoped it was more. You'd dreamt about it when his weight kept you down on his bed after you kissed and made love for hours. Love...

“I... yeah.”

How long had you thought him the bad guy? Were you the one that had been distant, pulling away?

You carried yourself away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed. You never realised how uncomfortable those things were.

Robby laughed to himself, standing for a moment longer. He checked that nobody was around through the curtain before he settled next to you. He shuffled, his bodies attention focused on you. He laid a hand on your knee, tilting his head to try to look at you. “I should have asked, properly.”

“It would've saved confusion,” you admitted.

Robby's hand came up, cradling your face and drawing your attention to him. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over your cheek.

You looked at him, finding nothing but warmth in his gaze. The only thing that had been there for three months. “But today, you... you could hardly look at me.”

He took in a deep breath. “I was...” his jaw ticked.

You smirked. “Jealous?”

His eyes flickered back to yours. “Nobody on that board thought I could be dating you.”

“Till about two seconds ago I didn't even know we were dating,” you joked.

Robby shook his head, wetting his lips. “We are.”

“You're not even going to ask me?”

“I don't need to,” he said. “We're dating, that okay with you?” His face inched closer.

“I don't know, I might have to ask Frank that one,” you teased.

Robby leant back, a dark look to him. The hand caressing you fell to your neck, keeping you looking at him. “You think that's funny?”

“Everyone else thinks so-”

He pulled you in by your neck and kissed you, hard, the imprint of his teeth felt through your lips.

You held onto him, kissing him with a new need. Kissing your boyfriend. Your hands wound around his head and you brought him down on top of you.

Robby climbed atop the bed that was not made for heavy make out sessions. He held the edge with one hand and the other fell down your body till it could crawl up your scrub top, un-tucking it and holding onto your hips.

He bit down on your lip and used the opening of your mouth to slide in his tongue.

“This is un-professional,” you said against his lips.

“I've been wanting to be un-professional for months.”

You were so lost in the feel of each other you didn't notice the curtain being yanked back until you heard.

“We got him stable,” said Jack, casually. “Oh and you've got an audience.”

You looked over Robby's shoulder as he looked back to see nosey nurses and night shifters along with half the day staff all looking at you.

You tapped his shoulder and though resigned to, Robby slowly climbed off you.

“Who put down Robby?” Ahmed called. “Did anyone bet Robby?”

The crowd that had watched you both suddenly rushed to the board, scanning the name.

Eventually you and Robby joined, waiting.

“Oh my god.”

“There he is, Robby, one vote!”

Robby's head perked in confusion.

“Who is it? Who?”

Ahmed collected the money and made his way through the people. To the one who had made a bet on Robby. “Doctor Robby, three months, and serious.”

He delivered the money- to everyone's shock- to Frank.

Your jaw hung open as Frank collected the money.

Everyone looked at him, silent.

You couldn't tell if next to you Robby was okay with it or angered.

Frank looked around at everyone. “C'mon, nobody else saw it? He's been happier for three months and can't take his eyes off her.”

Clealry, nobody had.

“I thought you didn't bet?” you asked him.

Frank shrugged, bashful. “Yeah well, couldn't help myself. Here-” Langdon held out the wad of cash to Robby's hand, practically forcing it in. “Take her somewhere nice.”

You wished you had a camera to capture Robby's shock.

“Okay folks! Show's over!” called out Dana. “Day shift let's pass on to night so we can get out of here to have some fun!” she winked your way.

Slowly the crowd dissipated, shaking their heads in disappointment.

Ahmed was already pulling off the notes and rubbing away at the board.

Robby waved the cash in front of you. “What do you say, you gonna let your boyfriend treat you tonight?”

“Well I think we worked hard for it, don't you?”

[onlythehobi]

ugshshdjdjs that ending was PERFECT

[yearsarewatchingyou]

Making insecure season 1 Sammy feel better! 18+ NSFW

Tags: mentions of weight insecurity, sappy, husband!Sammy Bryant, unprotected piv, oral sex (m! recieving), grinding on his stomach and dick, encouraging, affirming sex?, reader is lwk skinny like Tammy (it's briefly mentioned)

˖ ࣪⭑

Sammy has been in the bathroom too long. You know this for a fact. After a long day at work he takes a quick shower and cuddles up in the bed with you—sometimes he even skips the shower. So, 20 minutes is concerning. What the hell is he doing in there?

"Sammy, you alright in there?" You call from the bedroom. You sit at your vanity doing your night routine in your dainty nightgown.

"Yep, coming out soon!" He replies, voice muffled by the door.

He doesn't come out.

You take the initiative to open the door yourself and investigate to see him setting up some elaborate...weight scale? With a WeightWatchers pamphlet sat on the bathroom counter beside him. He froze when you walked in.

Your brows furrow "What the hell is that?"

"A scale" he states plainly, playing dumb.

"No not that— the weight watchers? Why'd you join that? To pay for an extra subscription?"

"I thought it would be good for me..." he begins to explain, putting down the screw driver and scale plate, "to loose some weight"

"Why? Your doctor said you're fine" you fold your arms.

"Yeah, I know but—"

You cut him off, "but what?"

"But...y'know, look at me, baby. I'm fat. I'm almost 200 pounds"

He pinches the rolls on his stomach, the little pudge poking through the white buttons of his dress shirt. He eyes longingly at the weight watchers pamphlet, picking it up and flipping it to the front and back, looking at the men who had become fit and strong who were just like him once.

"You're not fat, Sammy. You're a little chubby, not morbidly obese." You straddle his lap as he sits on the closed lid of the toilet seat, "besides that just means that i'm taking care of my man"

His hands instinctively wrap around your waist to pull you closer, "you're just saying that to make me feel better. Plus, you're little. Been skinny all your life...you don't know what it's like to be 'Chubby'. To be the one fat guy all the time at the station"

You cock your head to side "Are they bullying you?"

"Well— no. But I notice it. I mean, you didn't sign up to be with fat cop. Paul Blart?" He chuckles, " they're supposed to be fit and capable, not this"

He pats his stomach again. You roll your eyes and huff out a laugh.

"First of all, you don't look like the damn mall cop" you poke his chest, "Second, I didn't sign up to be with a cop. I married you because I wanted to be with you. What's the real reason you want this?"

You hold the WeightWatcher sheet in your hand. He pouts, looking at your body and back to the floor. You hold his chin, bringing his eyes back to yours.

He sighs, "i don't know...it's embarrassing"

"It's okay, baby. You can tell me" you coo.

"I just feel ugly, I guess" he mumbles, running his chubby fingers through his hair.

"Aw, Sammy baby, you're not ugly. You're perfect"

He rests his forehead against your chest and sniffs, "you believe that, huh?"

"You want me prove it to you so you can too?" You card your nails through his cropped brown locks and press a kiss to the crown of his head, "come on"

You get off his lap and take his hand to lead him back into your shared bedroom. His knees hit the bed and he sits down, his arms propped behind him. You unbutton his dress shirt and pull his t-shirt over his head to reveal the speckled hair on his chest and the roll of his tummy. His belt clicks as it hits the floor. Red blush sprawls from his chest to his ears.

"We're tired...we probably shouldn't—we should just go to sleep" he stutters as he watches you get down on your knees.

"Has being tired ever stopped us before?" You giggle.

He shakes his head quickly when your rub your hand over his thick thighs up to the bulge in his boxers. It strained against the fabric, throbbing when your fingers wrapped around the girthy base.

You kiss the inside of his thighs and nuzzle your face into soft part of his lower tummy, your nose running down the happy trail. Sammy's breath hitches when you pull down his boxers. His cock springs free and slaps his stomach, the slit leaking pre down the vein on the underside.

He groans when you take him down to to the base. You give enthusiastic head: slurping, gagging, drool dripping down your chin. His fingers grab your hair in a rough grip, almost painful, when your throat constricted around the head of his cock, swallowing him down. You didn't care about his little muffin top or how his thighs jiggled when he got close.

"F-fuck, stop. I'm gonna cum," he whined, his grip tightening with each bob of your head.

You double your efforts, dragging your tongue up and down his length and stroking what you couldn't fit in your mouth. You grope his thighs as he shoots his hot load down his throat. You swallow it greedily, letting the salty fluid slide down your throat. He grunts out a string of expletives as you continue suck him dry. He pries your mouth from his overstimulated dick.

"Jesus, are you trying to kill me, sweetheart?" He tries catch his breath.

You stand and slip off your panties, "if that's what it takes to get you to believe me. Lie back"

He lies back against the headboard, his cock chubbing back up against his thigh. You straddle him again, hands braced against his thick chest, grinding your pussy against his length.

"You think I'd be fucking you like this if I thought you were ugly, baby?"

His answer is caught in a groan as you slipped him inside your dripping wet pussy. You roll your hips in circles as you grab at his arms and tummy. You lick a stripe from his chest to his neck and kiss along his jaw.

"I love you. I love all of you" you breathe in his ear.

He nods stupidly, too preoccupied with the feeling of your walls tightening around his girthy cock. He grips your hips to guide you up and down. One hand caresses your tits under the silk nightgown, running his hand against your flatter abdomen. He was enamored by you. His thumb finds you clit and rubs circles around it.

He pants as you speed up, eyes squeezed shut, "yeahhh, baby-mmm- i l-love you too"

His hips thrust up into you, his pace becoming a little sloppy. He moans your name as releases his load inside of you. You follow suit quickly after, making a creamy mess on his cock. You grind your clit against his stomach when his hands move to grope your hips and heavy chest. He bites back a whimper when you pull out, watching his spend drip out your fluttering pussy back on his stomach

You plop down beside him. Lying on your side with your night dress riding up your thighs. You run a finger down his chest and through the mess made on his tummy, and bring it to your mouth. Sammy watches breathlessly, and you take the opportunity to pull him to a lazy kiss.

"You believe me now, baby?" You my murmur against his lips.

"Uh huh," he nuzzles his face in your neck, sniffing the mingling scent of your perfume and sweat.

"Tomorrow are you gonna throw away that WeightWatchers shit?"

Sammy groans,"You're the only woman that wants her husband to be fat"

"Chubby, hot, handsome, sexy." you correct, "and are you?"

"If throwing it away gets me more nights like this, then yeah."

"Good. Cus' I want alll of this" you run your hand across the front plane of his body. You grab his chin and pull him into another soft kiss. "You're perfect"

He throws a heavy arm around you and pulls you closer. He pulls his head away from the crook of your neck to look over your face. A tiny smile graces his lips.

"No, you're perfect. What did I do to deserve you, hm?" ♡

[onlythehobi]

ugh i loved it :( so sweet :( my sammy baby

[thatcorporategirlie]

you got me all twisted up

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Rating: E

Summary: Jack was no better than Robby when it came to relationships. He moved through life after his divorce using intimacy as a distraction rather than a connection. And then… he met you.

Warning: (MDNI 18+) acquaintances to lovers, wealth advisor reader (girl boss and very successful), starts off slightly angsty (jacks deployment and leg), mentions of infidelity, emotionally constipated jack, he fucks an original character (not descriptive at all, allusions of smut only), fuckboy/commitment phobe jack? language, competency kink (jack is very turned on by your intelligence), flirting, sexual tension, jacks intense eye contact, alcohol, feelings, mutual pining, reader has a dog, mentions of men threatened by success, pet names, making out like teenagers, dirty thots, mentions of sexy time, fluff alert, domesticity, I think that’s it

A/N: There’s totally a joke/interaction in this fic that I saw on this post, and I want to emphasize how funny this is. I did not come up with this. Full credit to @tanely GIF by @pittgifs found HERE.

For 5 years, Jack had been a husband. He wore the ring, paid the bills, and was building a life with his wife.

His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.

He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.

That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.

The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.

She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.

"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."

He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"

She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."

The words hung in the air.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."

Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. She admitted that she should have told him how she was feeling sooner, but she didn't know how since he was saving lives. Anyways, the point was, he was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.

The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.

He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.

But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.

Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.

Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.

He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.

And then… he met you.

The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.

Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.

On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.

"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.

"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.

She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.

"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."

"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"

"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."

He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.

The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.

"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."

Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.

"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.

"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."

"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."

"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."

Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.

"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."

"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.

Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.  

"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.

Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.

"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."

Ellis groaned.

"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.

"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."

Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."

As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"

Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them

"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."

He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.

He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.

Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"

Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.

 "…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.

You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.

Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"

Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.

"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."

People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.

What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.

Ellis smirked.

The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.

"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."

Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.

"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"

A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.

"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."

The room laughed again.

"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."

Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.

"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."

The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.

"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"

You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.  

"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."

A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.

"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"

"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.

The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.

You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.

"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.

MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+

AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000

The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.

"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.

"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.

You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."

Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.

The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.

"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."

"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."

You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.

"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."

You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"

Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.

"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.

You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.

"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."

"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?

He decided to change topics.

"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."

"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."

"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.

"Incredible, thanks for asking."

He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.

"Who was the nurse?"

"Dana Evans."

At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.

"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."

The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.

"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"

"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.

"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.

"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."

"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."

Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.

"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."

"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."

"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."

Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.

"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:

Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management

"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."

He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.

"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."

"It's on the house."

He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."

"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.

You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.

You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.

You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.

And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.

You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."

He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.

"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."

When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.

Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.

Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.

"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.

You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."

He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Sure."

"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.

Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.

"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. "What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."

You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."

"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.

You leaned back in your chair.

"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.

He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love iced caramel latte's—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—enjoy playing pickleball with your friends, and are a dog mom to your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."

You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.

"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.

"I-I was hoping that I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.

"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Good. That's... really good."

You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.

"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."

You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"

"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"

You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right? 

She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."

"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."

You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."

"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."

"I guess," you muttered.  

The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.

The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.

"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."

"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."

"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."

You snorted.

"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."

"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.

You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it

"Come home," she would say.

The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.

You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.

Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself

"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.

"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."

You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.

She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."

Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.

You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."

Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."

You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.

"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."

Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"

"You just what?" you pressed.

Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."

You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."

He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"

"Yeah," you shrugged.  "I guess I do."

He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.

"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."

Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.

In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with a guy until he hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.

"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."

You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.

He heard you.

Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.

Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.

"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.

Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.

"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."

Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.

"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."

Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.

"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.

Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.

The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.

The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.

"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.

"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."

Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.

High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.

But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.

Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.

Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.

Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.

There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.

His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.

Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.

You had changed.

The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.

You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.

"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."

"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"

"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.

So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finishing talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.

"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."

He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."

Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?

Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.

"Bottom's up."

You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."

"What happened with your ex?"

You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."

He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."

The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."

"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I however had gotten a great offer from a reputable firm after a million interviews. It was a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."

You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.

"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.

"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. Jack could believe this guy had made you feel like you had to dim your light so he could feel big. What happened to real men being proud as hell watching their girl shine?

"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they are drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.

Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."

You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.

"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."

"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."

You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."

Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.

"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."

He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."

"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.

"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."

He blinked slowly.

"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to try and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."

You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.

"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"

"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."

You snickered.

"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."

Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.  

You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.

Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.

"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.

"No I definitely have. Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.

You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.

"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.

His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"

After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.

But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.

He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.

"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.

He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."

Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.

"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”

"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.

"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."

You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."

Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.

The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.

"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.

Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.

Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.

"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.

Remmy barked in agreement.

Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.

Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.

You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.

"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.

Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.

After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.

It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.

You hadn't seen Jack in a couple of days because of conflicting schedules. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.

"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.

"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."

"I wasn't talking about the food."

You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."

"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."

Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.

"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.

"I'm being honest about my intentions."

"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"

A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.

So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?

"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."

Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"

You were adorable.

"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."

"You weren't boring the other day when you—"

"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."

"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"

"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."

"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"

You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."

"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."

He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.

"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.

"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."

Girlfriend?

You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.

"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."

He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.

"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.

This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)

He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.

After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let the food settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.

Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.

I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.

That said, this absolutely works as a standalone if you prefer to read it that way!

[capuccinodoll]

—TASTE BACK — PART THREE: "Do it, Cowboy" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (ex!husband joel miller x f!reader) MDNI!!

fic masterlist | read on ao3 | capuccinodollupdates

summary: Extremely nervous, you get ready to break the news of your pregnancy to your ex husband, Joel. You can't guess how the night might end. Final part of Taste Back. wc: 17,3k

TW: graphic violence

A/N: Nothing to say, just... I want Joel to be my yearning ex-hubby. Enjoy this last part!

If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment and reblog! I really appreciate feedback<3

With a bad shoulder, you weren't much help with the heavy lifting. But that didn't mean you had to stay home.

Nora had brought her brother to work; Giuliano was a tall, stocky guy who curiously had way too much free time since quitting his job. He was, in his own words, "drifting." And since you needed to rest and avoid lifting anything heavy for a couple more days, he took over the physical labor; hoisting, moving, and handling the heavy tools. Nora took care of the rest.

Frustrated by how little you could contribute, you kept yourself busy with light tasks, serving them coffee, and constantly asking if anyone needed anything. Their answer was usually no.

Two days had passed since your hospital visit. Your frustration probably didn't just stem from not being able to give your all at work, but from the total lack of distractions.

Dean was about to head back to Austin, and you still hadn't figured out how to break the news to him. Cheating on him was one thing, and you could have sidestepped that detail during the breakup; maybe Kat was right, and you could spare him the painful details, even if it wasn't the most honest or respectable route. But things had changed. Monumentally.

He was sensing it, you could tell. Lately, he had started calling and texting more often, likely picking up on something off in your tone. But what could you tell him? Nothing's wrong, really. And that was a flat-out lie.

Meanwhile, Joel kept texting you every day. He could read you a bit better, even over text. When your replies started taking a bit longer than usual, he called you.

"What's wrong? You okay? Is Dean back?"

You did your best to assure him nothing was wrong, that you were just a bit tired. He probably didn't buy it, but didn't ask.

Since yesterday, he hadn't asked about it either. But as you listened to Nora and Giuliano laughing over a tik tok they'd just watched while drinking the coffee you'd poured them, you stared at your phone screen, knowing you had to do it now.

The last message in your chat with Joel was from him. You hadn't replied yet.

[J]: Outlander

[J]: it’s on netflix, have you seen it?

[J]: if you haven't you should

[J]: I only watched the first two eps but i know you’ll like it because it has time travel, it's historical and it has muscular men in kilts

You bit the inside of your cheek. You had read the text two hours ago and had almost replied no, I haven’t seen Outlander. But every message you sent him made you feel more sick to your stomach because of what you weren't telling him.

It wasn't his reaction that scared you; you could already picture exactly how he'd take it. What terrified you was how fragile everything would become the moment you said the words. Because this changed absolutely everything. This was no longer just about the two of you; it was about something far more vulnerable and precious, something you couldn't afford to ruin. And at the same time, a suffocating fear crept in, making you wonder: What if it's like last time? What if your body can't handle it, if you aren't strong enough?

You were scared. Terrified. You couldn't imagine going through that kind of pain again; you couldn't imagine surviving it. But you clung to the hope that everything happened for a reason, and that if this pregnancy had come right now, in the middle of this chapter of your life, it was meant to stay.

Nora and Giuliano didn't notice when you slipped away from the main workshop area and headed toward the tiny kitchenette in the back. Or maybe they did, but they didn't think much of it. Either way, you shut the door behind you and leaned against the counter, unlocking your phone as your chat with Joel appeared on the screen.

Alright. You can do this. It’s Joel.

Quickly, you tapped the phone icon and brought the receiver to your ear, nervously tapping your chin with your other hand.

Suddenly, your overalls felt incredibly suffocating. The denim was too thick, and it was smudged with paint and—oh, you couldn't be breathing in too much paint, or varnish, or any of that. What were you going to do with all the work you—

"Hey."

Your mouth flew open. "Joel, hi."

"Hey. Was just thinkin' about you."

"Thinking about me?" Your eyebrows shot up, pushing past your nerves to muster a bit of playfulness. "Did you watch Kramer vs. Kramer again?"

A soft, low chuckle rumbled through the receiver. "Nah. Just finished off a blueberry muffin."

Any urge to throw back a witty retort vanished; you just smiled with your cheeks tight.

"You at work?"

"Yeah, in my office. Folks think I'm workin', but I'm mostly just hidin' from a real pushy architect. My assistant told him I was in a meetin'."

"And you're really just in there eating muffins. Uh, that's unfair."

Joel clicked his tongue. "Only for a couple more minutes. I'll get back to bein' a responsible boss once my fictional meetin' wraps up. Won't be long now. What about you? How's work goin'?"

You crossed one foot over the other. "Good. Everything's good. Wasn't really doing anything. Actually, I was calling because I thought... I was thinking, if you're up for it, maybe we could meet up to talk?"

On the other end of the line, there was a brief pause.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, when were you thinkin'?"

Your stomach suddenly fluttered, and you took a quiet breath to steady it.

"I know it seems quick, but does today work? Can you do today? Dean gets back tomorrow and I have to talk to him, and I need to talk to you about a few things before—"

"Everything alright?"

"Yes," you said quickly. "Everything's fine, don't worry. Just... I'd really like to talk to you today. If you can."

"Course I can. I'm off around five, maybe five-thirty. But I can head out early."

You nodded. "Yeah, that's perfect. How does six sound?"

"Sounds good."

"At my place. I'll text you the address."

"Alright. I'll be there."

"Okay," you said, straightening up from the counter. "I'll see you then. I'll leave you to your fictional meeting now. You know I could totally expose you, right? I bet your employees would love to know how you're spending your time."

He laughed. "Hey, I just gave 'em some pretty nice bonuses not too long ago. I'm a real good boss. I think I can pick my battles every now and then."

"I'll let you off the hook, then," you said, resting your palm against your cheek, smiling so hard it hurt. "But only until six."

"Until six." From the way his voice sounded, you knew he was smiling.

Before either of you could say another word, you pulled the phone away and ended the call. An overwhelming wave washed over you, rising through your chest until it finally escaped your lips as a long sigh.

"Okay," you muttered to yourself, running a hand over the back of your neck to steady your nerves.

Slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your hand to your flat stomach, resting your palm right over it.

"What a time to show up, baby."

When Joel heard the line go dead, it took him a few seconds to pull the phone away from his ear. He held it out in front of him, staring at the screen for a moment longer.

On the outside, he looked relaxed. He was kicked back in his chair with his legs stretched out under the desk, crossed at the ankles. In front of him sat a coffee mug and a plate littered with blueberry muffin crumbs. There were crumbs on his black t-shirt, too, and a few caught in his beard.

Suddenly, he felt hyper-aware of it. He brushed a hand down his chin and across his chest, shaking off every last trace of his little feast. He straightened up, pulling his chair closer to the desk.

He checked his watch. It was barely eleven in the morning.

He could handle this today. Say the right words, give you the right silences. Above all, he just couldn't ruin things.

Joel knew your relationship with Dean wasn't officially over yet, and that he would need to keep his distance until you gave him the green light. He didn't have any guarantees with you either; just a fresh chance to get close again, and he couldn't afford to screw it up.

But to be completely honest, he didn't give a damn about Dean. He didn't care if the guy was good, or ideal, or any of the things he'd heard over the last few months. He probably wasn't anyway, and Joel knew it. Even if he was, it didn't change a thing. He didn't care.

After tonight, if things changed, Joel had everything ready to offer when the time was right. He knew you too well to think this would be a quick fix, and he knew himself well enough to know that, if it were up to him, he’d be putting a ring back on your finger the second the nearest church opened tomorrow morning.

Two years he’d spent without you. Two years of waking up lonely and miserable in a king-sized bed, in an apartment that felt way too big and entirely useless. Every single day since the last time he’d seen you had been pure torture, a constant reminder that he’d lost the most important person in his life.

He didn’t blame you—he truly didn’t. And he knew that no matter how much he’d hurt right alongside you, no matter how much he wanted to understand, he’d never truly know what it was like to be in your shoes. He’d watched your body suffer, watched you nearly slip away, and saw the raw pain in your eyes every single day afterward as you tried to piece yourself back together. That memory had chased him all this time, a brutal reminder that he’d been completely helpless to stop it.

But when he saw you in Maui, he knew instantly: it wasn’t over. Your eyes had always been dead giveaways, and Joel knew that even with another man in your life, there was still hope for him.

You weren’t the same person you were two years ago, and neither was he. The grief was still there, just as heavy and close to the surface as ever if you dared to reach out and touch it. But things were different now; he hadn't doubted for a second that he was ready to try and win you back. And if luck was on his side, you’d look at him again with those eyes that told him everything with just one glance.

Tonight. He just had to wait until tonight.

Three sharp knocks on the door made him look up startled.

"Yeah? Maggie?"

The door swung open immediately. Maggie poked her head in, tilting her chin down to peer at him over her glasses. It reminded Joel of the silent, scolding looks his mom used to give him.

"Di Palma just left."

He nodded. "Alright."

"Can I officially wrap up your fictional meeting, then?"

"Please do," he said, tilting his head.

Maggie shook her head, but he caught the brief smile she tried to hide before she turned and walked out.

No matter how many times you scrubbed, it still didn’t feel right. And you thought of it as a feeling rather than a sight because, logically, you could see the place was spotless, but it just didn’t feel clean.

Your apartment wasn’t too big, nor was it too small. It fell right into that average comfortable sweet spot. In your living room, you had a cozy, nice navy blue sofa and walls lined with frames full of photos of the people you loved. The television across from the coffee table was on, the evening news murmuring in the background entirely ignored. The place smelled clean; actually, the whole apartment did, mixed with the sweet scent of the vanilla candle you’d lit ten minutes ago.

Joel would be here any second now. You knew he was punctual, and it was already twenty to six. It was only a matter of time before the buzzer went off and he was standing right there with you.

That was when you realized you had to be quick.

He could read you so well. He always had. If he showed up and looked you in the eyes for even a second, he’d know something was up.

It was a childish idea, but you wanted to beat him to the punch, to catch him off guard before he could do the same to you. You wanted to see just how long it would take him to figure it out.

You deserved to have a little fun with this, didn't you?

Okay, you gave up. You had officially polished every single surface in the place, and you were well aware that your nerves were making you act a little irrational. If you scrubbed the floor one more time, you’d be able to see your own reflection right where you stood.

With a sigh, you sat down on the sofa, cradling a warm mug of tea, and checked your phone. 5:48 PM.

Oh, God, please just let him get here.

You’d sent him your address a few hours ago, and he hadn't texted back—he’d just reacted to the message. You weren’t sure if that was his way of trying to play it cool or what, but it definitely wasn't helping your anxiety.

You were being incredibly restless today.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. And then, your phone buzzed in your lap.

You snatched it up and stared at the screen.

It was Dean.

Your eyes traced the letters of his name two, three times, debating whether or not to pick up. But before you could make up your mind, the call cut out.

[Dean]: heyy, you there?

The text popped up a few seconds later. You decided the best move, at least for now, was to ignore it.

Tomorrow you’d have to face him anyway, with no way out.

At exactly 5:55 PM, the buzzer rang. Punctual as usual.

You quickly got up from the sofa and stood frozen for a second, catching your breath before you could actually open the door.

This was it. The first time you were going to see each other since Maui.

You pulled the door open, and there he was.

Your eyes lingered on his face, unable to look away and silently acknowledging how handsome he looked. Tall and broad-shouldered, Joel stood in your doorway, his curls looking neatly styled but perfectly messy at the same time. He was wearing a black cotton t-shirt with a small company logo on the chest, paired with black dress pants and his black boots. It was a strange outfit on anyone else, but on him, it looked fucking good.

The look in his eyes said only one thing. He was mirroring your own thoughts.

But Joel didn't say a word about it. Instead, he just smiled softly, tilting his head slightly. "You don't live too far from me."

You smiled back. "Oh, really?"

He shook his head. "No. And I've never run into you once. Where've you been hidin'?"

You laughed and stepped aside, letting him into the apartment before shutting the door behind him.

"Want something to drink?"

"Uh..." He hesitated, and you immediately caught the quiet wave of nervousness rolling off him. "Sure. Whatever you're havin' is fine."

"Alright," you said, leading the way into the living room.

Joel sat down on the sofa, his eyes wandering curiously around the space. You noticed him clasping his hands together, his fingers fidgeting; a nervous habit he'd always had.

Stepping away, you headed into the kitchen.

"Coffee?" you called out from there.

"Yeah, sure," he replied.

You didn't ask how he took it; you already knew. You poured him a mug of the hot, black coffee that had been ready on the counter for the last ten minutes, and prepared a cup of tea for yourself. You dropped three small spoonfuls of sugar into your mug, stirring for a few seconds as your stomach tightened, your nerves winding tighter and tighter with every swirl of the spoon.

You pressed your lips together. Dozens of ways to break the news flashed through your mind, but unable to pick just one, you picked up both mugs and walked back into the living room.

Joel was sitting very straight, but he squared his shoulders even more the moment he saw you walk in. You set his coffee down on the coffee table, placed your tea right beside it, and sat down next to him.

"How've you been?" he asked. "How's your shoulder? You feelin' any better?"

You nodded. "I think so, yeah."

"Don't go doin' anything you shouldn't be doin' in the meantime. I've been there, and the healing takes a whole lot longer if you push it."

You hummed and smiled, completely unable to find your voice, even for some light silly reply.

Joel picked up his mug and brought it to his lips.

You watched his profile; his nose, his soft lips resting against the warm porcelain, the curve of his eyelashes, and the stray curls partially hiding his ear.

You licked your lips. "Joel, thank you so much for coming today. I know it was really sudden."

He looked at you immediately, shaking his head. "Not at all. You don't have to thank me for anything. You know I wanted to see you."

You swallowed hard and nodded, lowering your eyes to your hands resting in your lap. "Well, I wanted to see you too. A lot," you confessed, lifting your gaze back to his. "I've been thinking so much, though there wasn't really all that much to think about, to be honest."

He offered a soft lopsided smile. "No?"

You shook your head slowly. Your eyes locked with his, and for a long, heavy moment, neither of you looked away. The quiet space between you felt intense; there was no wall anymore, nothing to stop yourself from spilling everything you hadn't said over the last two years.

Joel set his mug back down on the coffee table. He paused for a split second before turning fully toward you, shifting a little closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, reaching out and bringing his hand close to yours where they rested in your lap, but he stopped just short of touching you, as if he were afraid to break the spell. "What are you thinkin'?"

You took a slow, deep breath and let it out. Your heart was drumming so hard against your ribs, and every nerve in your body ached to close the distance and just… touch him.

"I'm thinking... I'm thinking that I want you. I want you back," you let the words rush out. "Because I need you, and... and because I can't help it, and I don't want to help it either." You shook your head slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his. "But most of all, Joel, because I love you."

It felt so good to finally get those words out of your chest. And looking at Joel, the way his eyes grew glassed over, his expression seemingly shattering and piecing itself back together all at once; you knew he felt the weight of them too.

He sat completely still, frozen by the sudden rush of it all.

You swallowed hard, waiting.

"I want you back, too," he said, as he nodded slowly. "I've never wanted anything else. My feelings are the exact same as they were in Maui, and the same as they were years ago. I'm always gonna regret a lot of things, mostly not fightin' harder for us back then, but I'll never regret choosin' us over and over again. Because I love you, I'll always love you."

Your throat tightened just as a sudden ache bloomed in your chest as the urge to cry threatened to spill over. You swallowed past the lump, trying to hold it in. Words failed you completely, so you didn't even try to speak.

Instead, your body just leaned forward, your hands reaching up to wrap around his broad shoulders.

The second you moved, Joel was already matching you, his large arms locking around you and pulling you flush against his chest; his mouth found yours in a desperate, breathless kiss, one that tasted of salt as the tears you'd tried so hard to hold back finally slipped down your cheeks.

This wasn't like Maui. This wasn't desperate and built on need; now Joel kissed you with tenderness, with all the time in the world in his hands while they traced your back and kept you close to him.

As he held you steady, you slid your hand up to his face, cradling his cheek. Your thumb swept over his damp skin, and only then did you notice the few warm tears trailing down his face.

You had to tell him now.

Softly, you pulled your mouth away from his; he sought it again.

"Joel, wait."

He barely nodded, his nose brushed yours. "Yeah."

"I need to talk to you about one more thing."

"That about Dean?"

You licked your lips and shook your head, his hands still tracing quiet patterns along your spine. "No. It's not about Dean."

"Oh."

Your hand slid down his neck, resting on his shoulder. "Wait here."

Carefully, you pulled away and stood up from the couch. His hand lingered until the very last second, his fingertips brushing yours right before you stepped out of reach.

You walked to your bedroom and straight to the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer to retrieve the white envelope you'd hidden there two days ago. You gripped it tight, your fingertips pinching the paper as if it might slip away, and headed back to the living room. Joel was waiting exactly where you'd left him, sitting in the same spot.

Sitting back down beside him, you instinctively shielded the envelope under your palm.

Joel's eyes caught it instantly. He looked at the white paper, then at your trembling hands resting over it, before his gaze drifted back up to meet yours.

"I didn't tell you everything the other day," you started, and his brow furrowed right away. "When I went to the hospital, it wasn't just 'cause I got hurt working. Actually, for the last couple of weeks, I've been gettin' dizzy. That's how I got hurt. I fell—"

"You alright?"

He sat really still.

You nodded quickly to reassure him. "Yeah, I'm okay. Don't worry about that. The doctor told me everything was fine; my bloodwork, the X-ray, absolutely everything. I'm healthy."

Joel let out a long breath of relief, his gaze dropping to your feet.

You were doing this so terribly.

You took a breath. "I'm okay. And I'm..."

He raised his eyes back to yours.

"I'm… I'm pregnant."

Instantly, the worry on Joel's face shifted into complete, silent shock. His brows lifted slightly, and his mouth pulled into that soft frown he made whenever something was just too much to take in.

Without a word, you reached out and offered him the paper envelope. He took it automatically, quietly, his breathing picking up noticeably even as he kept his composure. His fingers opened the unsealed flap, and he pulled the paper out. He unfolded it, held it up, and read.

Meanwhile, you read every single micro-expression on his face.

His eyes welled up, and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth, trying to steady himself. A muscle twitched in his brow as his eyes traced every single word printed on the paper.

"Is it…" He looked up at you, his gaze completely melting you. "Is it… mine?"

"It's yours," you nodded, tears blurring your vision. "It's ours. Dean… Dean can't. And we use protection anyway."

Joel nodded, and whatever was keeping him together shattered right then. A smile broke across his face, wide and radiant, contrasting with the fresh tears spilling over his lashes. He reached out and grabbed you by the waist, and you immediately crawled into his lap, burying yourself in an embrace you'd been starving for.

You hid your face in the crook of his neck, finally feeling the reality of it sink in.

"I love you so much," he breathed, his warm breath brushing against your shoulder. "You make me so happy."

"I love you too, Joel, so much," you wept.

With your eyes closed, all you could feel was his warm body against yours; his hands, one of them moving up your back to the nape of your neck, where he tangled his fingers gently into the hair there; his arms holding you firmly by your sides; his scent, which you had longed for so much and that now completely invaded you as you buried your nose in his neck.

It felt so good to have told him, to finally have lifted from your chest the small secret that had been with you for just two days.

"I promise you, baby, I'm gonna make it up to you. Everything."

A sob escaped you. "I missed you so much. I'm so sorry I pushed you away. I never wanted to do that."

"I know, is okay. You don't have to say sorry," he murmured, his thumb pressing softly against your neck. "I should have done things different."

"No," you lifted your head and looked straight at him, shaking your head; your hand took his chin. "You did what you could. I know you were scared, and how much it hurt you. It was your baby too. You deserved support too, Joel, and I couldn't give it to you."

He shook his head gently. "Was not your fault, none of it."

Suddenly, a very subtle pain appeared on his face. To anyone else, it might be almost imperceptible, but it pierced right through your chest.

"We are gonna do better this time," he added, his lips curving into a smile that still held a trace of sadness.

Nodding, you brushed your thumb against his lower lip, pulling it down slightly as you leaned in to kiss him.

Softly, at first; a strange sensation washed over you. A sudden mix of lingering pain, relief, and an aching desire. The different emotions blurred together until they became just one thing: pure necessity.

The softness melted away as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate. When you parted your lips and slid your tongue into his mouth, Joel let out a low breath, tightening his grip around your waist. His hand slid back up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling firmly into your hair. He pulled back just enough to tilt your head, changing the angle to take your mouth exactly the way he wanted.

A small, breathless moan escaped the back of your throat, and that single sound broke whatever restraint he had left.

His pace turned urgent, his mouth devouring yours as if he were trying to make up for every second you've been apart. You couldn't get close enough; your hands gripped his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to pull him even closer.

"Need you," he muttered against your lips. "I need you right now."

"Bedroom," you managed to breathe out between kisses.

Holding you tightly by the hips, Joel stood up from the sofa with you still wrapped around his waist. Your feet touched the floor as your hands kept searching, tracking the lines of his back and shoulders, while his arms remained locked around you, lifting you slightly off your feet whenever the distance became too much.

Every step toward the door was a messy rush of breathless gasps. Joel pressed your back against the corridor wall for a fleeting second, his mouth dropping down to bruise your jawline and the soft skin of your neck, making you arch into him with a gasp.

Look at him. His body was so warm and solid, a mountain of need and beauty. And before you could even catch your breath, he caught your lips again, carrying you forward until you finally crossed the threshold into the bedroom.

Once inside, you finally broke the kiss, but the desperation took over completely. You scrambled backward a step, your hands tearing at the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head and tossing it blindly aside.

Joel was already mirroring you; his thick fingers gripped the edge of his shirt and ripped it down his arms, exposing his broad chest to the dim warm light in your room. Your heart started beating so fast at the sight, you felt your cheeks boiling hot.

You kicked off your shoes and pushed your jeans down your legs, stepping out of them until you were left only in your underwear. Joel’s shirt hit the floor, and his hands immediately went to his belt, unbuckling it. But the need inside you was too loud to wait.

Dropping to your knees right there in front of him, you reached out and gripped his hips, pulling him firmly toward you. Joel let out a ragged breath, his hands coming down to rest on your shoulders for balance as you reached for his trousers. You undid the button, slid the zipper down, and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down together.

His length freed itself, heavy and fully aroused, standing thick and rigid right before your face. The sight of him, so ready for you, made your mouth water.

You leaned in, breathing your warm air against the sensitive skin of his tip before you ever touched him. Joel’s thighs flexed, and a quiet hiss escaped through his teeth.

Slowly, you extended your tongue, licking from the base all the way up to the crown.

"Ah... god," Joel groaned, his head tilting back as his fingers tangled into your hair. His grip wasn't harsh, but it was firm enough as you swirled your tongue around the ridge.

A moment later, you parted your lips and took him inside.

You started slow, letting your lips coat him as you drew him into the wet heat of your mouth, moving your head in a steady, rhythmic slide, using your hands on his thighs to pull him deeper, and deeper, and tasting him fully.

Joel's groans grew thicker; he began to budge his hips forward, a desperate instinct taking over, but he caught himself, his hands gently framing your face instead.

"Baby... look at me," he strained out.

You looked up, your eyes watering slightly as you swallowed him deeper, taking the full length of him until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his groin.

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, his blown out dark eyes filled with a profound feeling that went far beyond just physical release.

"I missed you so much," he breathed, trembling a confession. "Every single day. Was tearing me apart."

The emotion in his voice, mixed with the friction of your throat around him, sent a wave of heat straight to your core. You gave him a few more deep sucking strokes, swirling your tongue over the sensitive underside of his shaft until he whimpered.

But it wasn't enough. The ache between your own thighs was turning into an unbearable demanding throb.

You pulled back, letting him slip from your lips with a gasp.

"No more," you whispered, your voice trembling as you stood up, hands immediately sliding up his bare chest to his neck. "I need you."

"C'mere."

His skin was so incredibly soft under your palms, a total contrast to how rough and heavy the rest of him felt as you dragged your hands all over his chest.

Joel leaned into you, his mouth capturing yours in a consuming kiss that blurred everything together. And lips locked to yours, he slowly crowded you backward until the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees.

You let yourself fall back onto the sheets, watching him while he stripped out of his trousers and boxers. And there, standing fully bare at the edge of the bed, his dick was thick, rigid, and glistening in the dim light from your saliva, pointing directly at you.

Your breath hitched. Reaching behind your back, you unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, baring your chest to him.

Joel climbed onto the bed. He crawled over you, his body settling perfectly between your thighs. And with steady hands, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your underwear and slid them down your legs, discarding them completely.

Like a good man, he didn't make you wait. Shifting his weight down, his hands slid under your thighs to open you up, and buried his face between your legs.

The first stroke of his tongue against your aching pussy made your eyes roll back, your eyelids fluttering shut as an intense wave of pleasure tore through you, instantly relieving that desperate need. He ate you out with ravenous hunger, deep and slow as he lapped up your slick heat.

Feelin you, Joel let out a muffled groan against your skin, tasting you like a dying man finally drinking water after a long moment of thirst; he thoroughly enjoyed it, his thumbs pressing into your inner thighs to steady you while your hips twitched helplessly against his mouth.

"Oh, Joel, yes, yes, yes…" Your hand gripped his hair. "You do it so good."

Joel and you had so many beautiful, special things in your relationship. And one of them had always been… this.

It went way beyond the simple act of sex; Joel made you feel a way no one else ever could match. His hands knew exactly how to touch you, his mouth how to taste you, his teeth when to bite. The weight of his body was just what yours needed on top of you and inside you, fitting together so perfectly there was no way you weren't made for each other.

No man could compete with that.

As he kept pushing into you, the tension tightened until you couldn't take it anymore: arching your back, your fingers tangled into his hair and gave it a hard tug, your breath hitching as your body completely gave in.

Your hips twitched helplessly against his mouth as the waves crashed over you, your vision blurring as you squeezed your eyes shut. Every muscle in your body tightened so hard it hurt, and a broken moan escaped your lips while your fingers dug tightly into his hair, pulling him closer, and closer, and closer.

It felt like a total release of all the tension you’d been carrying for days, for weeks. A throbbing ache that melted away into unbearable pleasure as Joel kept his tongue pressed firmly against you, drinking you in and riding out the storm until your body finally went soft.

Your fingers tangled, clumsy and heavy, in the hair just above his ear as your eyelids grew too weighted to keep open. Joel started to move up, pressing one last kiss against your center before trailing his lips over your hip and stopping just above, right against the flat of your lower stomach.

He kissed you right there, and let out a long, shaky breath, his forehead resting against your belly for a beat before he looked up at you.

"Please," he choked out. "Please tell me this means I get to come home. Don't make me leave you again."

A shaky exhale left your lips as you tangled your fingers tighter in his hair.

"Then come up here," you murmured. "Don't just stay down there. Come back to me."

He didn’t need to be told twice. Joel moved up the length of your body, and when his lips met yours, it wasn't frantic or rough; it was a deep kiss full of a soft, sweet desperate hunger.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down against you, your fingers anchoring into the short hairs at the nape of his neck just as you were feeling him right at your entrance.

He groaned low in his throat as his large hands slid up to frame your face, holding you there as if you might vanish if he let go. Every bit of the grief and the distance between you seemed to bleed out into the press of his mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, Joel tilted his hips and pushed forward, sliding smoothly and completely inside you.

He didn't rush; he felt massive, a blunt and crowding heat that stretched you open so easily, filling the empty spaces that had belonged to him all along.

He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting his weight settle completely as your body adjusted to the size of him.

His mouth left yours, breaking the kiss just enough so he could look down at you.

When your eyes met, the emotion in your chest felt almost suffocating, swelling so large and heavy it hurt. You loved him so much it felt like your ribs could barely hold it all in.

Holding your gaze, his dark eyes burning into yours, Joel began to move.

The first few strokes were deep and soft as he slid out and sank back in, testing your limits. But the restraint didn't last. The friction caught, and the pace began to shift, his thrusts gaining a hard, commanding speed that had your hips tilting up to meet him.

A soft gasp broke from your throat, your entire body bathed in electric pleasure that made your eyelids flutter shut.

"Keep 'em open. Look at me," Joel growled.

Your eyes snapped open instantly, locking onto his.

He kept up the pace, driving into you with a force that felt agonizing; a deep ache that hit every single right spot until you were completely breathless. You couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything else but feel it. And the intensity of it combined with the unwavering stare he pinned you with, had tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

Another choked moan escaped your lips, your head tossing back against the pillows as the overwhelming pleasure threatened to pull you under completely.

The heat between your skin and his became unbearable, filling the room with nothing but the sound of hitched breaths and the constant clash of his skin against yours; a rhythmic tap tap tap that kept picking up speed.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him against you, searching for him as deep as physically possible. And every time he bottomed out completely, your entire body shook; it was too much, and it felt so good.

As you squeezed him tighter, your shoulder flared with pain, reminding you of the fall from just two days ago. Carefully, you lowered your arm to his waist, digging your fingers into his hip instead.

Joel let out a groan against your jaw, losing track of his own strength. He stopped holding your gaze and buried his face straight into the crook of your neck; his breath burned your skin and his beard scraped your collarbone as he let himself go, hitting the exact center of your pleasure with every single thrust, firmer and harder, while his hands slid down to grip your hips, squeezing your thighs to pin you against the mattress and take everything you had to give.

You couldn't help it; your eyes closed again, completely overwhelmed by the sensation rushing up your stomach. You arched your back against the bed, letting out a loud, broken moan that caught in your throat as you clung to him, feeling your walls squeeze tightly around his cock.

"... Joel, please," you begged in a whisper, not really knowing what you were asking for, just needing more of him, needing him not to stop.

"I got you, baby. Right here," he growled against your neck.

He didn't let you go. He pressed you a bit deeper into the pillows, pinning his chest to yours as he kept moving, gaining speed and force, driven by the need to make you completely his again.

And then, the feeling broke you completely for the second time; your hips trembled and your legs opened even wider as Joel crashed into you faster and faster. His rhythm turned broken, hips driving against yours with an unraveled speed that had you clinging to him for dear life. You were completely coming undone beneath him, your pussy gripping him so hard it finally pushed him over the edge.

He lost his rhythm completely, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and a deep low groan tore from his chest as he came inside you.

Hearing him like that made your heart race; you absolutely loved his groans, loved the way his usual control completely shattered whenever he was inside you. And he didn't pull away; he collapsed his weight over you, and you could hear his shaky uneven breathing right against your ear as the aftershocks kept running through both of you.

It was heaven.

After a few minutes, feeling a fierce need to touch him more, you slid your hands up to his head, burying your fingers deep in his messy hair. His cheek brushed against yours, and you pressed your lips right against it.

You kissed the skin there. "I missed you so much since Maui."

Drunk on you, he raised his head and looked down with a spellbound gaze. "Why didn't you tell me? I’d have come right away. You don't know how bad I wanted to see you."

Your hand caressed his temple. "I wanted to do things right. Wait until I broke it off with Dean..." You shook your head. "I guess it doesn't matter now."

He pressed his lips together. "You ain't a bad person."

"Oh, no?" You tilted your head a bit, raising your eyebrows. "My current boyfriend is away on a business trip and I just made love to my ex-husband, who I'm secretly pregnant by."

Joel rolled his eyes and kissed the corner of your mouth. He was still inside you, soft now, but he didn't seem uncomfortable or in any rush to move.

"I'm sorry for the guy. But this is us." He frowned just a bit. "Don't go callin' him your boyfriend."

The sad edge in his voice when he said that made you smile.

"And what should I call him, then?"

Joel shook his head, and carefully moved his hips back, sliding out of you.

He got up from the bed completely naked, and you watched him move across your bedroom, a space entirely foreign to him, until he found the bathroom door and disappeared inside for a few seconds.

"We can talk about that tomorrow," he said after a moment, stepping back out with a damp towel in his hand. "While I make you some breakfast, how's that sound?" He sat on the edge of the mattress beside you, his fingers brushing against your leg.

"Sounds good," you smiled, reaching out to stroke his bare thigh.

Joel gently wiped you down with the damp towel, cleaning you carefully, and a moment later, you got up to use the bathroom yourself.

In the mirror, your eyes looked different. You couldn't quite explain it; it wasn't a physical change, not exactly, but your entire expression just seemed brighter. You tried to ignore how big this felt. Too much for a night.

Once you finished washing up, you wrapped yourself in a robe and walked back out. Joel was sitting on the bed in just his boxers, checking something on his phone. The deep look of concentration on his face reminded you of your own phone, left behind somewhere in the living room.

You hurried out, flipping on the lights as you went. The night had completely swallowed the house, leaving only a dim glimmer of moonlight through the windows. The living room lamp was still burning, though, illuminating your phone right where you left it on the side table by the couch.

Four missed calls from Dean and three text messages stared back at you from the lock screen.

Your heart stopped for a second.

At six-thirty, he had written:

[Dean]: Baby is everything okay? I've been calling you

[Dean]: you home?

[Dean]: you asleep? how's your shoulder doing?

Now, it was already almost eight o'clock. Jesus.

If you already felt like a bad person, reading his worried messages only made it worse. You were going to pay for this somehow, you were sure of it.

[You]: Sorry, I was asleep

You had never lied so fast in your life.

[You]: Everything's fine, my shoulder doesn't hurt that much. Nora didn't let me work too hard today.

[You]: u getting ready to come back tomorrow?

"You want somethin' to eat? You hungry?" Joel's voice startled you.

You looked back; he was walking down the hall, still in just his boxers.

"Yeah, what do you feel like?"

He stepped up to you, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while pressing his lips together.

"Right now, I'm cravin' a steak."

A laugh escaped your mouth. "Check the fridge."

Joel gave a sideways smile and followed the nod of your chin toward the kitchen. As he walked away, you watched him go with a foolish grin plastered across your face.

He opened the refrigerator, leaning down to scan the shelves.

You loved to cook. You were always making lunch and dinner for your friends, and you especially loved Sundays, which was when your mom would come up from San Antonio every other weekend. Nora almost always joined in too, and you would spend the entire morning getting everything ready. Vegetables, fruits, different meats; you kept a well-stocked fridge.

Joel whistled. "Baby, I'm gonna make ya dinner."

It was as if no time had passed at all. As if there had never been any pain between you. Nothing awkward to hold a grudge over, nothing painful to hide.

Joel made steaks with well-seasoned vegetables, showing off by preparing two different sauces. The man was starving, that much was clear, and his appetite only pushed him to cook dinner with a level of care you could taste in the very first bite.

While he cooked, you set the table and kept him company in the kitchen. You had a few bottles of wine you would have loved to open, and this was the perfect occasion, but given the new guest living inside you, you limited yourself to pouring a glass of soda. Joel drank the same out of solidarity.

During dinner, you realized just how much had happened for each of you since you stopped seeing each other. Joel told you about the progress he had made at work; how a major deal last year had allowed them to grow immensely and secure big, long term clients. He told you how much Tommy had improved on the job; he wasn't getting into trouble anymore and had even stopped going out to bars and all that, since he was trying to be a better man. You really missed him too. He told you about his place, an apartment not too far from yours that he'd been renting for a few months, though it was just temporary since he wanted to buy a place of his own. But not once did he pressure you with questions or demands about what you were going to do now.

Tomorrow at breakfast, he had said. And you both respected that, avoiding any complicated topics.

You wanted to get back together with him, and he wanted to get back together with you. That much was clear. But it wasn't as simple as pretending nothing had happened, getting remarried, and moving back in together right away. You had your own independent life and he had his, and you were going to have to find a way to work together to share them again.

But that was a conversation for tomorrow.

After dinner, Joel cleared the table and you washed the dishes. He stayed in the kitchen the whole time, venting his frustration and telling you about Di Palma, the architect he had been avoiding all week. Apparently, the man had zero work ethic. But Joel didn't waste time on long or boring explanations; he just wanted you to understand why he had decided to fake a meeting.

"And I don't normally do things like that," he said, defending his stance as a good boss. "You know how I am."

You believed every word, of course, because you knew him well enough to know that if there was one thing Joel hated, it was people who didn't respect other people's work.

After half an hour of talking, and with no more missed calls or text messages from Dean, sleep caught up with both of you and you decided to head to bed.

Joel wrapped his arms around you the moment you lay down beside him, and you settled your cheek against his bare chest the exact same way you always used to. His hand caressed your back, and the steady sound of his breathing calmed you down. Nothing could really be that bad if it meant having this.

Looking up, you noticed his eyes wide open and shining in the darkness.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked, sliding your hand up his chest.

He sighed. "I'm thinkin' I need to get fit."

"What?" you laughed.

"I'm gonna be a daddy. Need to be in good shape to play and do all kinds of stuff with the baby."

"Mm. I think you're fine. You've always been strong and tough, I'm sure you'll be able to do whatever you want with the baby. I don't think a little kid demands that much."

"And when they turn into a toddler?"

You smiled. "Maybe. Could be."

"Mm. That's what I thought."

In silence, you kept watching him for a few seconds. He frowned slightly.

"You're doin' alright, aren't you?" When he asked, his voice sounded firm, but the worry underneath it was hard to hide. "I mean, this baby… this baby ain't gonna put you at risk? They tell you anything at the hospital?"

"They told me everything was fine. But I have to go get an ultrasound next Monday. Are you coming with me?"

"Course I am. What time?"

"At ten."

"Good, I'll be here early."

Turning toward you, Joel kissed your forehead and wrapped you tight in his arms.

You kissed his chest. "Everything is going to turn out fine, you'll see."

In the dead of night, a harsh thud ripped you from sleep.

THUMP.

A dull, heavy impact echoed through the floorboards.

It took a second for your mind to claw its way out of the fog. The bedroom was drowned in thick shadows, the door left half-ajar, spilling a faint yellow sliver of hallway light across the floor.

Reaching out blindly for warmth beside you, your hand met only cold sheets. Joel was gone.

"Joel?" you rasped.

You sat up, straining your eyes against the dark as a cold prickle of dread crept up your arms. Then, the muffled rumblings in the hall sharpened, turning distinct, and vicious.

"Where the fuck is she?"

"Hey, take it easy—"

"Don't you fucking tell me to take it easy!"

In a single heartbeat, the blood drained straight to your toes. Your stomach dropped so fast it made you sick.

That voice.

No, no, no, no, no, no…

He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow evening. You were supposed to have time. You were supposed to…

Harsh panic hit you like a live wire. Reason vanished. Completely reckless of how incriminating you looked wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear, you scrambled out of bed.

Your bare feet slapped against the ice cold floor as you hurried toward the doorway, chest tight, breath coming in ragged uneven gasps. Rounding the corner into the hall, you dug your heels in and froze.

"Dean."

The name slipped through your lips as a shattered whisper, carrying all the guilt you couldn't put into words.

Right there, under the dim overhead light, the nightmare was laid bare.

Dean stood near the front door, his keys still clutched in a white-knuckled fist and his bag dropped awkwardly onto the floor. His jacket was damp from the midnight rain, and his jaw was set so tight the muscle twitched. But what truly stole the air from your lungs was the figure blocking his path.

Joel.

Joel had his back to you, broad and towering, wearing nothing but his boxers. The faint shadow of old scars traced across his bare chest, and his dark hair was rumpled from hours of pressing against your pillow.

At the sound of your voice, the muscles along Joel’s spine went rigid. He didn't break eye contact with Dean, but he shifted back a fraction of an inch, subtly interposing his frame to shield you.

"What the hell is this?" Dean spat, his voice raspy and trembling with fury. "What the fuck is this guy doing here? Is this why you didn't answer a single damn call yesterday?"

Dean’s eyes darted from Joel’s bare chest down to your exposed legs, the wrinkled t-shirt, and the stark lack of any explanation. Every single detail was a piece of damning evidence, tearing down any lie or excuse before you could even frame the words.

"Dean, please, just let me explain..." You tried to step forward, hands rising slightly, but your knees shook so badly you felt on the verge of collapsing.

"What the fuck do you have to explain?" He took an aggressive step toward you. "I go away for a little while and that's all it takes for you to throw everything we have in the trash? If I hadn't walked in right now, what was gonna happen tomorrow? Were you just gonna pretend everything was fine?"

"No," you shook your head, firm despite the panic. "No, that's not how it is. I was gonna tell you—"

"Bullshit."

"I was gonna tell you before your trip but you left—"

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me—"

"Dean, please, just listen to me," you took a step forward, knowing full well you had no right to demand his attention, let alone expect him to give it. "I know you don't deserve this and I didn't plan for it to happen like this—"

His face was flushed red with fury. "You didn't? You've been cheating on me since before I left for Oslo, and now you wanna play me for a fool?"

"I know but—"

He surged toward you, jabbing a finger in your face. "You're a fuckin' b—"

"Step back," Joel cut in, shoving him back with a single hand. His voice was no longer the soft rumble that had been whispering in your ear all night. "You don't talk to her like that, and you ain't takin' another step into this house."

"She's my girlfriend, asshole!" Dean exploded, taking an aggressive step forward. "Who the fuck do you think you are? Get the fuck out of my way!"

Joel didn't even blink. He adjusted his stance, planting his feet firmly like an unmovable wall.

"I don't give a damn who you are," Joel replied, a terrifying calmness settling over him as the vein in his neck bulged. "You take one more step toward her with that attitude, and I promise you this conversation ends right here."

"Joel," you whimpered, your voice shaking and soaked in tears as you reached out, resting a trembling hand against his back to calm him down. Your eyes spilled over, your face burning hot.

At the sound of the name on your lips, Dean snapped his gaze to you, his glare so intense it felt like it could bore right through your skull.

"Joel?" he repeated. "This is Joel?"

Dean's face shifted drastically; the initial confusion mutated into a cold, sickening contempt as the pieces clicked into place.

In nearly a year together, you had never shown him a photo of Joel, never dug deeper than absolute necessity. You had guarded the ghost of your divorce with a painful secrecy, keeping the past hidden like an open wound. You'd told him about him, of course, about the relationship and the agonizing divorce, but for some reason, you had shielded his face, his identity.

And now, the myth was standing right in front of him, bare-chested in your hallway.

"Ah... you gotta be fucking shittin' me," Dean let out a bitter, humorless laugh. His eyes flicked between Joel and you, shredding you with a single look. "Joel? Joel Miller? The grand tragic love you cried about for so damn long?"

"Dean, please..."

"Shut your mouth!" Dean roared, taking a rabid step forward. He pointed a finger at Joel, his whole hand trembling with rage. "This is the goddamn prick who left you broken? You used me! You used me for months just to fill this asshole's shoes!"

"I told you to calm down," Joel's voice rumbled through the hallway, much lower than Dean’s shouting, but somehow carrying twice the weight. He stepped all the way forward, completely blocking you from view. "Ain't gonna tell you again. Grab your shit and get outta here. Now."

"You're telling me to leave?" Dean let out a scoff of sheer disbelief, closing the distance until he was mere inches from Joel's bare chest. "This is my girlfriend's place, you idiot. What the fuck are you even doing here? Came back to play the dutiful husband again? Or'd you just pop in to collect your pity lay?"

"Dean, shut up, please..." Panic was suffocating you, your face burning with tears as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you.

"No, I ain't shutting up," Dean spat, glaring up at him. "Why don't you tell her what you really are? You're a manipulative piece of trash! You know damn well she's sick over you, and you just take advantage of it to come fuck her whenever you feel like it!"

In a flash of instinct, Joel’s hand shot out and clamped around the collar of Dean's jacket, dragging him back half a meter in one violent jerk.

Dean's body slammed against the hallway wall, rattling a picture frame against the plaster.

"Joel, no!" you screamed, lunging blindly to grab his arm.

"Don't you ever speak about her like you know her," Joel hissed. "You ain't got a damn clue what you're talkin' about, or who the hell I am, or what's gone down between us. You walk out that door this exact second or I swear on whatever memory you hold dear in this life, I will drag you out myself."

Dean shoved against Joel’s bare chest, trying desperately to break free, but it was like trying to shift solid stone. The sheer disparity in strength was overwhelming.

"You're crazy," Dean spat at him, but his eyes locked onto yours over Joel's broad shoulder. "You're fucking out of your mind. Go back to him if you want, you're a piece of shit. Every damn bit of you is a fucking lie."

Joel tightened his grip, lifting Dean an inch or two off the floor. "I warned you."

"Joel, no. Please, let him go!" Your trembling hands clawed desperately at his bare arm, feeling the rock-hard tension in his muscle. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

The words tumbled out of you in a frantic spill, smothered by sobs as tears completely blurred your sight. You felt miserable, small, utterly hollowed out by guilt.

Seeing you break down like that snapped whatever restraint Dean had left, turning his rage into desperation. Eyes bloodshot, he swung a blind fist straight toward Joel's face.

Joel didn't even blink. With clean instinct, he ducked the clumsy punch, caught Dean's wrist mid-air, and instead of throwing a hit back, used Dean's own momentum to drive him brute force into the adjacent wall. The impact rattled straight through the hallway.

"It's fuckin' enough," Joel warned, raising his voice for the first time, pinning Dean against the plaster with a heavy forearm locked across his chest; no intent to hurt him, just keeping him dead in his tracks. "Settle the hell down and think about what you're doin'."

"Let go of me, you fuckin' bastard! Let me go!"

Joel dug his forearm in deeper.

"Joel, please, just leave it... please," you begged, slipping up beside him, resting your hands against Joel's bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum.

Dean stopped fighting for a fraction of a second. Pinned against the wall, he locked eyes with you. The rage on his face had cracked, revealing a deep, hollow sadness; the bitter grief of someone who just had their heart smashed into a thousand pieces. His bottom lip quivered.

"Nearly a year..." he muttered. "I gave you everything for almost a year. You let me into your life, into your bed... and I was never even there, was I? It was always him. You're a piece of shit, you make me sick."

You stumbled back a step, stifling a pained groan as you covered your mouth.

Joel's face darkened instantly as he saw the words shatter you. He ground his teeth but forced himself to hold back, and eased the pressure of his arm and stepped back, letting Dean go.

"You said your piece," Joel said. "Grab your stuff and get out."

For a split second, it looked like Dean was going to give in. He straightened his jacket, breathing heavily, eyes fixed blindly on the floor. But it was too much. The wounded ego, the humiliation, and the sheer heartbreak clouded his judgment entirely.

Without warning, Dean let out a roar of fury and threw his entire weight straight into Joel.

"You son of a bitch!"

The charge caught Joel off guard just as he turned back toward you, and the impact threw him off balance, both men crashing hard to one side.

Driven by desperate strength, Dean tackled him into the wall, slamming Joel's back violently against the plaster. A framed picture tumbled off the hook, shattering into a thousand pieces with an unbearable crash against the floorboards.

Dean started pounding on Joel with unhinged violence; a solid right caught Joel flush on the cheekbone, followed by another hard blow to the jaw. Joel tried to throw his arms up to guard, but Dean’s weight in the cramped hallway broke his balance, sending him heavily down to his knees.

"No! Dean, no!" you screamed, out of your mind with terror.

Panic wiped out any trace of logic. You lunged toward them, reaching out to grab Dean by the shoulders, desperate to yank him off, to pull him away from Joel. But the second Dean felt your hands on him, jacked up on adrenaline, he spun around on instinct and swung a blind fist backward.

The full force of his knuckles caught you right in the face.

The pain was dull and blinding; it sent you flying backward, completely stealing your balance until you hit the floor hard on your side, and the heavy impact against the wood knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

And in that hallway, a deafening, sickening silence fell for one terrible second.

Joel saw it all from the floor. He saw your body collapse, saw the terror in your eyes, and saw the blood begin to spill.

Every ounce of restraint, every bit of composure he had been desperately holding onto just to protect you and keep things from spiraling, vanished in a single microsecond.

"She's pregnant, you fucking idiot!" Joel roared.

Before Dean could even process the words, Joel launched himself forward with every bit of his two hundred pounds of muscle and built-up fury. He seized Dean by the throat with a single hand, hauling him nearly off his feet, and slammed him flat against the floor with terrifying force. Dean let out a strangled gasp as the wind was knocked clean out of his lungs.

Joel gave him no room to breathe; he pinned him down and unleashed all the brutal strength he’d been holding back. He drove a vicious fist straight into Dean's face, then another, and another, and another. The sickening crunch of bone against flesh echoed through the space, and within seconds, Dean's face was a bloody mess, utterly crushed under Joel's relentless force.

He was gonna kill him. He was one hit away from beating him to death.

But then, Joel froze his fist mid-air. He was breathing through his mouth, his bare chest heaving violently, slick with sweat and splatters of blood. He stared down at the wrecked man beneath him, released his hold on his throat, and spat in a deadpan, deadly voice:

"You better watch real fuckin' close what you do next."

Joel sprang to his feet, abandoning Dean completely, and rushed straight over to you.

You were trying to push yourself up off the floor, your hands shaking against the wood. Your shoulder hurt like hell, your face felt like it was on fire, your nose was bleeding heavily, and your mouth tasted like copper from a split lip.

"Look at me, look at me..." Joel's voice shifted instantly, turning frantic and soft as his hands gently took you by the arms to help you up. His gaze darted frantically from your bloodied face to your stomach, then back to the door, keeping a sharp eye out in case Dean tried anything. "Let me see you, baby, let me look at you."

"I'm okay... I'm okay..." you managed to choke out between sobs, trying to wipe the blood with the sleeve of your shirt while Joel's face crumpled with raw guilt and agony, his thumb tracing your cheek with tenderness.

A few feet away, a agonizing groan sliced through the air.

Dean, bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth, one eye swelling shut at a terrifying speed, dragged himself up off the floor against the wall.

He was beaten to a pulp, battered and humiliated, but his bloodshot, tear filled eyes weren't locked on Joel. They were fixed on you. On Joel's hands wrapped around you. On the confession he heard minutes ago.

"Are you... are you pregnant?"

Unable to hold his gaze for more than a second, you simply nodded, letting your head drop as a fresh wave of tears burned down your cheeks.

"When?" he demanded to know.

You swallowed hard, feeling your throat close up.

"Maui," you confessed. "It was just one time. I was planning on tellin' you when you picked me up at the airport... but you were so happy about Oslo. I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Dean nodded. A broken laugh escaped his chest as tears cut clean tracks through the blood on his cheeks.

"I didn't tell anyone yet, just Nora," you continued, pleading in a choked whisper. "I only found out three days ago. And Joel found out last night. Before that, we hadn't seen each other, Dean... I mean it. I wanted to tell you."

"But you couldn't wait just one day for me to get home, could you?" he scoffed, shaking his head as he took in the scene: you half bare, Joel standing over you like a protective shield, his skin flushed, his cheek bruised from the fight, and his lip bleeding. The picture-perfect image of a family piecing itself back together over the ruins of his own heart.

"I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head once more, turning away with a defeated sigh.

"You know what? Save it."

He winced as he crouched down, letting out a groan of pain as he scooped his bag off the floor. He grabbed the handle and yanked the front door wide open, letting the cold air from the hallway rush in.

Right before stepping over the threshold, he froze.

He didn't turn around, but his voice sounded hauntingly hollow, worn down to nothing:

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. Please forgive me for that."

He cast one last look at Joel, then let his eyes rest on you for a fleeting second before stepping out and slamming the door shut.

The silence that followed the slam of the door was deafening, so intense it hurt your ears.

Joel looked at you immediately, and the moment his eyes met yours, the air left your lungs completely and you broke down, crying so hard your whole chest heaved with gut-wrenching sobs. He didn't hesitate for a single second; he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his bare chest.

"It's okay... it's over now, it's okay," he murmured against your hair.

You wept uncontrollably, but why?

It wasn't the end of your time with Dean that was tearing you apart inside. You didn't feel the loss of that relationship; what suffocated you was that it had gone down in this... this way. So violent, so unfair, so grotesque and aggressive. Because Dean didn't deserve this; nobody deserved that kind of surprise. Every blow Joel and Dean had traded burned in your mind, the sound of flesh against bone echoing in the memory of your ears, and your own body ached from the hit you'd taken in the crossfire.

Joel loosened his hold just enough to frame your face in his large hands. His thumbs gently wiped away the thin trails of blood running down your skin.

"He hit you real hard. We gotta go to the hospital."

"No, Joel, I'm okay," you shook your head quickly, though the motion sent a spike of pain through your temple. "Seriously, it was just... it was just one hit."

"You took a hard fall. And you're pregnant. Best we make sure you're alright. I ain't takin' any chances."

"And what're we supposed to tell them there?"

"The truth. What else?"

Your eyes drifted across Joel's face: the split brow, the nasty scrape across his cheek, and his bleeding lip.

"You need a doctor way more than I do," you whispered, carefully reaching up to touch near his split lip.

"Well, then let's go for me, and we'll get you checked out while we're at it, if that works as an excuse for ya," he replied, raising his brows, though he winced right after; the movement agitated the eye that was already turning dark purple. "I ain't takin' no for an answer. You're still bleedin'."

The firmness in his voice was the exact anchor you needed to keep from completely falling apart. Without another word, you threw yourself against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist with every ounce of strength you had left.

You felt Joel's hand glide up into your hair, tangling his fingers in your strands and stroking it softly, keeping you safe from the world amid the ruins of that night.

The harsh stench of antiseptic and the glaring fluorescent lights made everything feel far too cold. You had hated places like this for as long as you could remember. But after spending so much time wandering their halls, after collecting so many horrible painful memories in every hospital and clinic across Austin, being here now felt infinitely worse.

Yet Joel, sitting right beside you, made it bearable.

Over two hours had slipped by in the middle of a storm of paperwork, signatures, and suspicious stares. Arriving in the dead of night with battered faces and split skin meant the hospital’s safety protocols kicked in immediately. The nursing staff and the ER physician asked probing questions, pulling each of you aside to rule out domestic abuse or immediate danger. You both had to tread carefully, repeating time and again that it had just been a blowout at your place with your ex, that you didn't want any trouble, desperate to keep the paperwork from turning into a full police report that would only complicate things further.

They cleaned Joel's cuts, closed the split above his brow with a few neat stitches, and handed him a heavy-duty prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories; 800 mg ibuprofen and tramadol for the throbbing ache in his bruised ribs. His left eye was now angry purple, swollen and almost completely shut.

From the gurney where they kept you under observation, you couldn't take your eyes off him. And as you traced every bruise on his face, it was impossible to keep your mind from drifting to Dean.

No matter how guilty you felt, no matter how certain you were that what you had with Joel was forever, you couldn't just switch off your empathy overnight. You had shared nearly a year of your life with Dean. He had been good to you—attentive, patient... and knowing the state he was left in, after taking blows three times more brutal than Joel's, made your stomach churn.

You felt like utter trash for how everything had played out, but right now, that mountain of guilt had to be set aside.

There was something far more urgent to worry about.

Even though the general physical exam showed that the hit to your face and the fall hadn't caused any serious trauma, Joel remained completely unyielding. Driven by that protective stubbornness of his, he didn't rest until the ER doctor authorized an ultrasound just to be safe.

They had you lie back on the gurney and exposed your stomach. The cold gel hitting your skin made you shiver, but your entire focus locked onto the dark monitor beside you.

At one month along, the risks after a fall are small but still very real due to the raw impact and severe stress, even if the embryo is no larger than a tiny seed protected inside the gestational sac.

You knew all about loss; you knew every single risk that came with each gestational month. You had studied them relentlessly years ago, and neither the knowledge nor the terror ever truly left your mind.

The doctor glided the transducer over your abdomen and flipped on the monitor. You squeezed your eyes shut right then, completely unable to look. Joel squeezed your hand back tight.

"It's alright, baby."

The sonographer moved the device across your belly for a moment.

"There it is," he said after a few seconds, and your eyes snapped open instantly. He pointed toward the screen. "The gestational sac is fully intact and well implanted. No signs of detachment or hemorrhaging. Everything is right where it should be."

On the black and white screen, nestled among shadows and soft gray tones, a small dark cavity appeared, and inside it, a tiny white dot.

A ragged gasp escaped your chest as an entire mountain of weight lifted off your shoulders.

Turning your head, you looked up at Joel. He stood beside the gurney, his good eye fixed on the screen, his mouth parted slightly.

Despite the blackened eye, the neat row of stitches over his brow, and the faint smears of dried blood still staining his neck, his face transformed entirely. All the harshness, the fury, and thetension of the night melted away in an instant, replaced by a deep almost childlike wonder.

Joel took a step closer, unable to tear his eyes away from that tiny dot on the monitor. He raised a trembling hand, tracing the screen with his fingertips as if trying to touch the image itself.

"It's... it's so small," he murmured. For the first time all night, a single clean tear slipped down his cheek, cutting a path through the scrapes on his face. "Look at 'em... they're alright. Right there."

Seeing him like that, the crushing weight in your chest finally broke. A soft smile touched your lips, shattering the last remnants of the night’s horror, and you tightened your grip on his hand, weaving your fingers through his.

At your touch, Joel pulled his gaze from the screen and turned to you. His features, battered and worn thin by exhaustion, softened completely. He leaned over the gurney with tender care, closing the space between you, and found your lips.

He kissed you softly, a sweet, unhurried press of his mouth. Then came another kiss at the corner of your lips, and another against your cheek; a succession of tender pecks that pulled an airy, honest laugh from your chest despite how tired you were.

Joel smiled, and that grin lit up his entire face. His eyes shone with an overwhelming brightness; filled with hope, with a devotion that left no room for regret.

"Worst of it's over now," he whispered against your lips.

And looking at him right there, with his hand wrapped firmly in yours and the tiny yet monumental presence of the baby resting on the monitor, you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was right.

The worst was finally behind you.

4 months later.

"Mmm. A little more to the left, looks a bit crooked from here."

Nora shifted the frame a few millimeters against the exposed brick wall and immediately glanced back over her shoulder at you. "Like this?"

"Yeah, yeah," you raised a thumb with a smile. "Perfect."

She grinned, pleased with her work, and tilted her chin up. "Always a pleasure, ma'am."

In the frame, a woman from the Old West was looking forward with her hand raised, dressed as an outlaw, while holding a water gun. Beside her, a speech bubble said, 'Do it, cowboy!'

You watched her step down nimbly from the wooden stool she’d been perched on.

"By the way," Nora said, dusting off her hands against her work apron, "Crane called early. Giuliano’s swingin' by at two this afternoon to pick up the bookshelf for the delivery."

You nodded. Giuliano had joined the workshop full-time two months back to help out with logistics and the heavier hauls; an addition that had lifted an enormous weight off both your shoulders.

"Awesome. It’s all wrapped up and ready in the back," you said, leaning back against the workbench. "So... you gonna spill the tea on how last night went, or are you gonna keep playin' mysterious?"

Nora let out a choked laugh, a bright flush instantly staining her cheeks.

The whole thing with Mr. Harrison had started in the most unexpected way: two weeks ago, he’d ordered a custom desk purely as an excuse to get close to her, confessing the truth the second it was delivered. Sure, he’d actually needed the furniture at first, but he’d fallen for Nora, too.

Ha, told ya!

Even though Nora had been "caught off guard" at first and hesitated to say yes, she had finally caved and agreed to a first date.

"It was... incredible," Nora confessed, sinking into one of the shop chairs with a dramatic sigh and a bright sparkle in her eyes. "Honest to God. He took me to that Italian place by the lake I've been dyin' to try, but the food wasn't even the best part. He's charming, attentive, funny as hell... We talked for four straight hours without stoppin'. Swear I haven't felt this good about someone in years. It ain't weird, is it?"

You laughed out loud, loving how giddy she looked. "Why on earth would it be weird? It's awesome."

"Ehh, I don't know, you know... he's older, and I just—"

"Doesn't matter one bit," you waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, works out great for us if things go well between you two. That way he'll keep buyin' furniture from us."

Nora cracked up. "Look at you, such an opportunist! You're right, though."

Before you could say anything else, the shop door chime chimed, announcing a visitor.

Spring had rolled into Austin a month ago, painting the city green, flooding the streets with warm breezes and golden sunlight. Everything looked infinitely prettier this season... and your boyfriend was no exception.

Joel pushed the door open and stepped inside the workshop, looking ridiculously handsome.

He wore a soft white button-down tailored neatly at the shoulders with the top few buttons undone, paired with black trousers and black shoes. His hair had grown out a bit more over these past few months, just enough for a few unruly strands to tuck loosely behind his ears.

"Afternoon, ladies," Joel greeted, stepping up to Nora first and planting a warm kiss on her cheek. "Nora."

"Joel. Look at you, right on time," she teased with a grin.

"Am I? How's Mr. Harrison treatin' you?"

Nora let out a theatrical sigh. "I'm tellin' you all about it later!"

Laughing, Joel walked straight to you.

Without a second thought, he slid a hand gently around your waist, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips that stole your breath for a beat.

"Look at you, darlin'," he murmured, pulling back just an inch or two. His palm slid down right away to rest against your stomach, seeking the warmth of your skin.

At five months along, your bump was still small but undeniably visible, highlighted by your outfit: a skirt sweeping down from your hips to your ankles with a slight slit on the side, and a white crop top that left just a small glimpse of your belly bare and uncovered.

Joel traced the curve of your bump with his thumb, his face softening with that tender warmth that was all yours now.

"You ready?" he asked.

"More than ready," you smiled, giving his hand one last squeeze.

You turned back to your partner, who was watching the two of you with a sweet expression.

"I'm outta here, Nor. See you tomorrow."

"Go on, have fun," Nora waved you off. "I'll lock up."

You laced your fingers through Joel's, letting him lead you toward the exit you knew by heart.

It had become a ritual. Every Friday for months, Joel would pick you up at the shop just before closing for date night. There was no need for elaborate planning; the routine you had built was perfect, centered around a few favorite local spots.

Some nights, you managed to snag a table in a quiet corner of Genoveva's for a delicious meal. Other times, you would stroll leisurely down South Congress, enjoying the glow of the streetlights, sharing ice cream, browsing through antique shops, and grabbing a bite from the food trucks along the avenue. On simpler evenings, you would just pick up takeout tacos and sit near the lake, watching the evening fade over the Austin water.

It was the perfect way to close out the week and ease into the weekend, which almost always found you both at home, cooking together and setting the table to host Sunday dinners, as though no time had passed at all.

That you and Joel had gotten back together didn't surprise anyone because it was outrageous, but rather because of how sudden it had all been. The change in him was immediate, and the person most thrilled by the news was, without a doubt, Tommy.

To him, his brother had spent years living as a shadow of himself, and he never missed an opportunity to remind you, or anyone else willing to listen.

"I told him, didn't I?" Tommy said one afternoon, popping the cap off an ice-cold beer as you hung out in his sunny backyard. "I kept tellin' him to quit messin' around and go get you back once and for all."

Tommy was a completely different man from the boy you had first met. You had watched him grow over fifteen, almost sixteen years; from a rebellious teenager into the man he was today.

You were family, plain and simple. Tommy had always been there to witness every major chapter of your life, and this new stage was no exception: he was right by your side when you finally reached the three-month pregnancy mark.

The pregnancy was proving to be a strangely beautiful experience. You barely had any symptoms; nausea was minimal, and against all odds, your body felt stronger, healthier, and more full of life than ever.

Even so, with all the good news on your side, you and Joel had decided to keep the secret and wait patiently to hit the first-trimester mark before sharing the news with family.

During the last ultrasound, the obstetrician confirmed that the baby was perfectly healthy and growing strong. When she asked if you wanted to know the gender, you decided to wait until the birth.

Time to tell everyone; when you finally told them, it felt as though the world around you settled right into place.

Tommy was overjoyed. But your mom's reaction was no less intense: the very day after learning you were back with Joel, she had caught a bus from San Antonio to Austin just to wrap her arms around you. And the moment she found out a grandkid was on the way, she didn't hesitate for a second and began packing up her life to move to the city for good.

"I ain't gonna make the mistake of bein' far away, not like last time. I'd never forgive myself," she told you, her voice breaking as she squeezed your hands tight.

You knew all too well the weight she carried in her chest for not having been there the night everything crumbled. But you had never blamed her. How could she have known? Nobody knew.

Life, however, seemed ready to offer everyone a fresh start, and this new beginning with Joel felt warmer, brighter, and more hopeful than anything you could have imagined.

A healthy baby on the way, a peaceful pregnancy, and the man you had loved since you were nothing more than a girl, back by your side.

The car glided smoothly through the streets as Billy Joel played softly over the speakers. You had the window rolled down, letting the warm spring air rush in, carrying the delicious scent from this time of year: a sweet blend of damp earth, oak trees, and the first blossoms of the season opening under the sun.

Joel kept one hand on the wheel while the other rested comfortably near the gear shift. You had asked him at least three times where you were going, but all you got in return was a sly smirk and the exact same evasive answer.

According to him, it was a surprise, and he had no intention of spilling the beans no matter how much you begged. He knew your curiosity was bottomless, and he seemed to enjoy every second of your mild frustration.

As you drove further, the city landscape began to blur away. The massive downtown structures, heavy traffic, and towering buildings faded into the distance, giving way to broader streets lined with one-story homes, lush lawns, and a far more tranquil suburban stretch.

"Where are you takin' me?" you asked again, letting out a soft laugh and leaning slightly toward his side to try and read his face.

Joel clicked his tongue without taking his eyes off the road, though the corner of his lips tugged upward.

"You'll find out soon enough, don't be impatient," he murmured, reaching out with his free hand just to give your knee an affectionate squeeze before settling back into place.

You turned back to look out the window, crossing your arms as you scrutinized every passing corner. You tried to get your bearings, guessing the name of some hidden restaurant, a park, or any familiar spot. The route felt vaguely recognizable; you knew you’d been around this area years ago. Yet no matter how much you mapped it out in your head, you couldn't quite connect the dots on what Joel might have planned this time.

The car kept rolling for a few more minutes, heading down a street shaded by a massive canopy of trees, until Joel flipped on the blinker and came to a smooth stop by the curb.

The moment the engine cut off, you looked up.

Standing before you was a warm fronted café and resto-bar, complete with string lights glowing on the porch and a handful of small tables scattered outside. The original structure was still there, but the place looked completely different from how you remembered it. Even so, muscle memory kicked in, and you recognized the corner in a heartbeat.

You froze for a second. Then you turned to look at him, your heart doing a sudden flip in your chest as an inevitable smile spread across your face.

Fifteen years ago.

The memory rushed back instantly. You remembered a younger version of yourself, lying in bed, exhausted and crushed under a cloud of bad mood after a miserable week at a dead-end job that drained your life away and kept you from focusing on your studies. One of your best friends back then, and still today (your precious Kat) had practically forced you to get dressed and leave the house to clear your head.

She had brought you right to this very place: a simple, noisy, cozy neighborhood bar that was always packed with college students.

You remembered sitting at a low table, drinking cheap beer and eating bacon fries, trying to drown out your frustration while your friends talked. But the beer wasn't enough; you needed something stronger to turn off the noise in your head.

You got up, walked to the wooden bar, ordered a stiff drink, and stood there waiting; staring into space with a furrowed brow, wondering what the hell you were supposed to do with your life. You weren't feeling particularly optimistic.

That was when he showed up.

You saw him first: a young stranger with a gentle face, a slightly lanky posture, and the most intense, expressive eyes you had ever seen. He walked right up beside you and, without pretense or hesitation, looked you dead in the eye.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you replied, dropping your head with an awkward slightly embarrassed smile for being so transparent in your misery.

But Joel, even as little more than a boy, had that innate ability to read you like an open book, even without knowing you. He hadn't bought your answer for a single second.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

And just like that, without you even realizing it, the entire night slipped through your fingers. What began as a cautious conversation with a total stranger turned into hours of laughter, whispers, and knowing glances across the bar.

By the time the sun started peeking over the horizon, that stranger had already claimed a piece of your life.

Today, the noisy weathered bar of your youth was gone; in its place stood this warm, renovated restaurant. But the corner was the exact same.

Joel got out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened the door, extending a hand to you. He helped you out gently and, without letting go, guided you toward the entrance.

As he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the faint chime above the entrance announced your arrival, but the Friday evening bustle you expected was nowhere to be found. The space was completely empty, just for the two of you.

A peaceful quiet enveloped the space, where the only sound was soft music drifting from small speakers hidden somewhere out of sight. There were no patrons at the bar, no murmur of background chatter; it was just the two of you, along with two impeccably dressed servers standing in a welcoming posture beside a small table prepared in the middle of the room.

The lighting throughout the space was gorgeous: dozens of tiny warm lights, strung together like delicate garland alongside exposed filament bulbs, hung from dark wooden beams, bathing everything in a golden glow. The tables shimmered beneath that radiance, and at the exact center of the room, the table set for you was covered in a linen cloth, two crystal glasses catching the light, a simple floral arrangement, and a single candle whose flame flickered softly.

You turned completely toward him, a smile spreading across your face as a deep warmth filled your chest.

"Joel, what is all this?"

Without waiting for an answer, you raised your hands to cup his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard against your palms, and leaned in to kiss him. Joel didn't hesitate for a second: his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you in gently as he deepened the kiss.

"This is where we met," you murmured against his lips, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, feeling his warm breath mingling with yours.

"Bar's gone," he said, gesturing with a slight nod toward a corner of the room where a row of tall windows now stood, "but it was right there. You remember?"

"Of course I remember. How could I ever forget?"

You looked around once more, taking in every single detail. Meeting the eyes of the servers, you offered them a grateful smile; they returned the gesture with polite nods and, sensing the intimacy of the moment, quietly slipped into an adjoining room.

Then Joel took both of your hands in his, lacing his fingers through yours, and guided you toward the center of the room, right beside the candlelit table.

He stopped in front of you, looking down at your joined hands for a moment before lifting his eyes back to yours. A faintly shy smile curved his lips as he shook his head.

"I was gonna wait till we finished dinner," he confessed, letting out a small, nervous chuckle. "But I can't. I truly can't wait no longer."

You said nothing; you simply met his gaze, letting the smile spreading across your lips speak for you.

Joel’s expression shifted. His face turned serious for a fleeting moment, weighted with a almost childish nervousness that sparked a swell of tenderness in your chest. It instantly brought back the Joel from your first dates; the jovial yet clumsy man who adjusted his shirt every few seconds and weighed every single word because he was terrified of messing up. Of course you noticed.

"These past few months with you... baby, you got no idea how happy I've been," he broke the silence. "Just as happy as I was before, maybe even more so. I know I say it all the time, but you truly ain't got a clue how much I love you."

Your smile widened as you raised a hand, tracing your fingertips along the warm skin of his cheek.

"I love you so much too, Joel. More than you know."

He caught your hand in his, tilting his head to press a soft, lingering kiss right in the middle of your palm.

"You're the love of my life. And being without you all that time... it was a nightmare, you know that?"

Of course you knew.

Joel’s words brought a wave of unearthed memories crashing over you; you remembered the endless nights when your subconscious betrayed you, bringing dreams of the warmth of his embrace, the sound of his laughter, or the familiar weight of his arm over your waist, only to wake in the dead of night to the icy emptiness of a lonely bed. You remembered that bitter ache, the heavy tightness in your chest upon realizing you were no longer together, that the "us" had broken.

Above all, you remembered the painstaking discipline it had taken not to pick up the phone and dial his number at three in the morning.

"I ain't ever gonna be able to erase what happened," he continued, lowering his voice. "Gonna carry the fact that I let you go once like a fool. But I think I'm the luckiest man alive, 'cause despite my mistakes, life went ahead and brought you right back to me."

He took another step closer, closing the tiny distance remaining between you.

"And I know it was messy, troublesome, and downright questionable dependin' on who you ask... but I'd do it a thousand times over if I had to. Do things a hundred times worse, just to keep you right here with me," Joel raised his brows. "And I know that makes me sound a little bit crazy."

You let out a soft laugh, keeping your eyes locked on his.

"It's the honest truth, though," he added.

Still smiling, you slid your hands up the fabric of his shirt, moving up his firm chest until your fingers laced together behind his neck.

You tilted your head. "Yeah... truth is, you do sound a little crazy sometimes."

Joel offered a lopsided smile his that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I know, what're you gonna do about it?"

You shrugged lightly. "I don't know, Miller... what are you gonna do about it?"

Bringing his face close enough to steal the air between you, Joel rested his forehead against yours.

"I'm gonna get my Mrs. Miller back."

With his eyes locked on yours, Joel began to step back. His hands glided down your arms until he let go, and with a measured movement, he bent one leg and rested a knee upon the floor.

A lighthearted laugh escaped your lips. You immediately brought your fingers to your mouth to muffle it, feeling a warm moisture pooling in your eyes that threatened to overflow at any second.

Joel spoke your name. From his pocket, he pulled out a small pink velvet box, opening it on the palm of his hand as he held it out to you. In the center, set against the pale cushion, a breathtaking ring caught every ray of light in the room: a gorgeous, big, elegant oval-cut center diamond, flanked by a delicate band paved from end to end with tiny sparkling crystals that shimmered at the slightest tilt.

Joel looked up at you. A faint twitch flitted across his brow, betraying the nerves that the solid strength of his words tried to hide.

"Baby, you've been makin' me the happiest man alive since the very first night we met, right here, fifteen years ago. I couldn't ask for a single thing more from life than what it's already given me. But you... you..." He swallowed hard, seeking your gaze behind the veil of tears clouding your eyes. "Will you marry me?" He paused briefly, a flash of mischief peeking through the vulnerability on his face. "... Again?"

You began nodding frantically, a breathless laugh wiping away any other expression as tears finally spilled down your cheeks.

"Yes. Yes, Joel, of course I'll marry you... again!"

Before he could react or even push himself up, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping your hands tightly around his neck.

Joel reacted with his usual reflexes: he caught you mid air, gripping your hips and back firmly to cushion the impact and make sure you didn't get hurt in the slightest.

With a shaky sigh of relief that rumbled in his chest, he pressed you close against his body and, using the strength of his legs, stood up while holding you in his arms.

The moment his feet planted on the floor, you gave him no quarter. You kissed him; desperate, hungry kisses overflowing with a happiness so pure it set your skin ablaze. Your right hand buried itself in the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the soft texture of his hair, while the other stroked his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw and moving down toward the warmth of his neck.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and with your foreheads still pressed together, you offered your left hand to him, your fingers trembling slightly.

Taking your hand, he began sliding the sparkling oval diamond down your finger. But right before settling it completely in place, he paused;

"Got somethin' that belongs to you."

With his free hand, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out another small box. He opened it carefully and held it out for you to see.

Your smile softened into a look of absolute awe.

"My rings..."

There, resting against the velvet, was that first delicate ring with the tiny diamond in the center. Your absolute favorite. The very first ring he’d ever given you; the one he’d used to propose in the middle of the living room of his cramped apartment on a rainy night thirteen years ago, back when neither of you had anything to offer but promises. And right behind it lay the second one: larger, more striking, the piece he’d gifted you three years later, born from years of hard work and sacrifice.

"You had them this whole time?"

Joel let out a shaky breath. "They're yours. Always been yours."

Your lips trembled into an inevitable pout. You threw yourself into his arms once more, smothering a sob against his mouth, kissing him, and framed his face with both hands, pressing desperate kisses to his lips, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, his chin. You kissed him again and again, feeling as though no amount of kisses would ever be enough.

Smiling through the blur of your tears, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Joel took your hand again and, with a playful glint in his eyes, began sliding the other two rings onto your finger, fitting them right alongside the gleaming new diamond.

You burst into a laugh at the sight of the stack of jewelry piled up against your knuckle.

"I don't think this looks very good."

Joel huffed, shrugging with a smirk. "Well, you get to choose. They say third time's the charm, don't they?"

You let out a laugh and leaned in to kiss him again, but right as your lips brushed his—

"Oh."

Your head snapped down. Your left hand flew instinctively to your stomach, pressing gently against the fabric of your clothes. You felt a small flutter right there.

"What? What is it?" Joel’s face shifted instantly, alertness flaring in his eyes.

You looked up at him, and the smile that broke across your face was so radiant it lit up Joel’s entire expression.

"The baby just kicked... They just kicked, Joel! Look."

You took his broad warm hand and pressed it firmly against your belly.

Silence fell over the two of you. Joel didn't even breathe; his eyes were glued to the exact spot where his palm touched your skin, his jaw set with anticipation.

And then... Bump!

A small but firm little nudge hit from within, pressing right against Joel’s hand.

"There it is. Did you feel that?" you asked, smothering a giggle.

Joel let out a soft laugh, his eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears.

"Yeah... yeah, I felt it. Good Lord... what're the odds?"

"I don't know," you covered his hand with yours.

Joel kept his palm pinned to your stomach, unmoving, waiting patiently for another little kick, another quiet sign that the baby was not only awake, but completely on board with this latest family decision.

"Think they're tellin' us we gotta go buy a house as soon as possible," he said, breaking the spell with a lopsided smile.

You chuckled softly. "With a big yard."

"And a pool."

"And big windows."

Joel huffed. "Course with big windows."

You fell quiet, watching his face illuminated by the lights of the room, tracing every line on his face, taking in every detail of the man standing right in front of you. Yes. Seeing his hand resting over your belly and feeling the weight of all three rings on your finger, you knew there was no doubt left in your mind.

You would do it all over again, too.

The end!

I might add an epilogue if you guys want, may be nice to know how Joel and reader are doing after a while. Hope you enjoyed this <3

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[onlythehobi]

oh she's joelver 😭 damn that breakup telenovela messy as hell

i loved this story, ex-hubby joel with a yearning on the side RULES

yes to the epilogue amen