Just an almost 30 something, Lady in love with fictional men. Mostly reblogs but may post in the future but life is in the way. Sometimes will rant about teacher/education stuff cause its hard out here y'all!
*Sometimes the sun isn’t a destination, but the person walking right beside you*
A slow…slow-burn journey of two sensitive souls learning to navigate a complex world.
Olivia was a shadow of her former self. A dancer from Italy who had lost her passion.. Teaching others how to move while her own life was standing still.
Across the world, Hyunjin was a light that belonged to anyone but himself. Beneath the fame was a boy who felt himself slipping away.
Their paths cross first in the digital world.. Two strangers looking for a way back to themselves. Eventually a new job will lead Olivia straight into his orbit.
Michael Robinavitch x Chronic Pain!Reader x Jack Abbot
synopsis: Your boyfriends are drowning in an understaffed ED while you drown in a pain flare
warnings/Notes: discussions of chronic pain and migraines as well as treatment. everyone's journey with chronic pain is their own. Flangst, my favorite. This is much longer than i intended.
wc: 5.4k
You hadn’t seen your boyfriend in three days, which was a feat really when you considered you had two of them and you all lived in the same house.
Flu season was a bitch for patients and doctors alike. You knew that. They were covering shifts for sick colleagues so you tried not to complain, tried not to add to their burden. But sometimes, just sometimes, you felt like you could disappear and they wouldn’t even notice. They hadn’t even sought you out to say hello or goodbye or thanks for the food. It was hard not to take it personally. Especially when you’d been in a pain flare for days and hadn’t felt like doing half of things you had been.
You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.
All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.
The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”
So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.
So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.
Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.
He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.
As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.
When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.
“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.
Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”
“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”
Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.
Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.
She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”
“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”
He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”
Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”
Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”
Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”
Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”
“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.
Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”
Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”
“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”
Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.
Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”
She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”
Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.
“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.
Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”
“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”
“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”
Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.
Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.
I’m fine, came not even a minute later.
He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.
You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?
God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.
I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.
Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.
I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.
Okay. Goodnight Michael.
No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?
Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.
The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.
Please talk to me.
Please don’t leave us.
I love you.
Just give us a chance
All four messages were left on read.
Jack tried next.
Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.
He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.
Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.
He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.
I love you. I miss you.
He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.
What’s that?
Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.
Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?
Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.
Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.
I don’t want normal.
What?
When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.
Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.
You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.
Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.
I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.
I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.
He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?
Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.
Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.
“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.
Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”
Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.
She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”
“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”
“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.
She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”
Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”
“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.
“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.
“Five is all yours.”
Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.
As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”
They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”
Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.
Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”
Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”
“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.
Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”
“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.
Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.
“Well?” Jack asked.
Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”
“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”
Another tear ran down your face in answer.
Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”
Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.
Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”
“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.
You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”
The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”
“Go!” you yelled then winced.
Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”
When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”
“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.
“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.
“Yeah.”
You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.
But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.
You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.
It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.
Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.
You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.
Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.
Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”
“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”
She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”
“Yeah, I know.”
She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”
“Another icepack?”
“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”
You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”
“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”
“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”
She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”
“That’s not their fault.”
“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”
Another tear ran down your cheek.
“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.
“Yes, please.”
She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.
Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”
“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.
He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”
“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”
Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.
“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.
“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.
You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”
You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.
“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.
You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.
A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”
You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.
“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”
“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.
You cracked your eyes to look at him.
“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”
Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.
Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”
“It started before I even left the house.”
“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.
“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.
“Yes.”
You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”
“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.
Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.
You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”
She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”
“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.
She gave you a nod and left.
“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.
“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”
“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”
“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”
Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.
“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.
You blinked at him.
“This round working? Can we take you home?”
“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”
You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”
You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”
“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.
He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”
“Better. Much better.”
“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”
“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”
He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.
You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”
Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”
“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.
Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.
You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”
Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”
“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.
You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.
“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.
You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”
“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.
“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”
“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”
You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”
“I am.”
His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.
“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.
Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”
You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”
“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”
You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.
And the next time you had a flare that lasted for longer than a couple of days, they took turns taking care of you the way you always did for them. They loved you, and they never let you doubt that again.
Standing there in the light of the window
Wearing that same smile
Man, it's been a while
But I knew it, I knew you
When your former childhood best friend climbs through your bedroom window with a bruised and battered face, you take care of him but you aren't quite sure if you can forgive him.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 6.4k
contains: eventual fluff, angst, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, description of physical injuries from canon level violence, steve being a dick, elements of king!steve, mild bullying, mention of sex, unrequited (but not really unrequited) love, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: this was meant to be a blurb but i got into the story too much to keep it that way!
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You met Steve Harrington at five years old—the day that your family had moved to Hawkins. Elizabeth Harrington had knocked on your door with a plate full of freshly made brownies and a young boy with his arms wrapped tightly around his mother’s leg.
It took barely any time at all for you to be introduced to each other. Before you knew it—your mom and his mom were letting you guys run riot while sipping on homemade lemonade in your backyard. His dad and your dad later became business partners. And you and Steve Harrington? Your lives intertwined and you became inseparable. He chased after the boys who pulled your pigtails in the park and you held his hand after the first time his dad had ever properly yelled at him. He was your best friend and you were his.
And somewhere along the way, you had fallen in love with him. You hadn’t planned on it, in fact, you had actively tried to stop yourself from developing any sort of feelings for your best friend. But it just sort of—happened. You constantly thought of excuses to go over to his house just to see him, you spent way too much time on baking his birthday cake and you had cried yourself to sleep after he had told you his first kiss had been Lucy Hayes behind the bike sheds.
You told yourself you’d get over it. That being best friends was enough.
But then high school happened. High school—where Steve had slipped into the popular crowd with ease while you remained in the shadows. Where Steve went to parties while you stayed home to do extra credit.
You slowly felt him slipping away from you. He stopped sneaking in through your bedroom window to watch R rated horror movies that he had stolen from his parents VHS collection, he stopped knocking on your door in the morning to take you to school and he didn’t come to the annual trip to the lake house the summer after freshman year, opting to stay home and throw a massive party instead.
You told yourself it was fine—that you were just growing apart but you’d eventually find your way back to each other.
But then in your sophomore year, he invited you to one of his parties and your friendship came crashing down over a game of truth or dare.
You had never seen the Harrington house look so messy.
The front yard was littered with beer bottles and red solo cups, there were several smashed glasses in the kitchen and you swore you even saw a couple rolls of toilet paper hanging from the chandelier in the foyer.
All you could think as you sat on the couch in the basement, squeezed between Steve and a very intoxicated Carol was that you hoped for Steve’s sake that Elizabeth and Danny Harrington never saw their house in this state. You were pretty sure Steve would be grounded for life if they did.
You felt Steve shift beside you as he leaned back to take a long swig from his beer, eyes flickering over to you briefly before he looked away.
You weren’t entirely sure why Steve had invited you to his party, he had hardly said a word to you all evening and you felt like some pathetic lost puppy waiting for him to come back to you. You had a feeling that he had only invited you to alleviate some of the guilt he may have felt for ditching you last week to hang out with Tommy but you were beginning to wish that he hadn’t asked you at all. Parities were not at all your thing but you had wanted to try because it was Steve and your feelings for him made you do things you didn’t want to do sometimes. Especially when he looked so stupidly handsome in that green shirt of his.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Steve asks you with a gentle nudge of your arm. The subtle contact sends a jolt through you and you have to force yourself to act natural as you turn to look at him.
“No, thank you, I’m—”
“—of course she doesn’t want a drink,” Carol slurs from beside you, leaning over you to talk to Steve. You shrink backwards against the couch, mostly to put a little distance between you and Carol and the smell of vodka coming from her that was almost overwhelming. “She hasn’t—” she hiccuped. “She hasn’t drank all—” she hiccuped again. “All night. She’s such a square.”
You don’t say anything but you feel your face grow hot in embarrassment as Carol talks about you like you weren’t sitting right next to her. The worst part was that Steve didn’t even stick up for you. You hate the fact you weren’t surprised by that.
Your leg begins to bounce, you were trying to quickly think of an excuse to leave. Not that you really needed one, Steve didn’t seem particularly bothered by your presence.
“Steve, I need to—”
The sound of jeering cuts you off and the words quickly die on tongue as Tommy and a few more of Steve’s friends stumble down the basement stairs.
All you wanted to do was leave but Tommy was already squeezing himself between you and Carol and you had no choice but to move closer to Steve, your thigh pressed against his and his arm flush against yours.
The uncomfortableness you felt was churning horribly in your gut, your leg was still bouncing nervously and yet, Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask if you were okay, despite his legs lingering on your knee as it bounced anxiously.
“Who’s up for a game of truth or dare?” Tommy asks, one arm slung around Carol while the other nudges you with a gleeful smile. “Maybe it’ll get Little Miss Goody Two Shoes over here to loosen up a little.”
“Tommy, let’s not—” Steve begins but the laughter around the room cuts him off. He glances at you, as though he was trying to reassure himself that you were fine—that this was fine.
You watched as Steve’s friends dared each other to take a shot of hot sauce, to strip off their clothes and jump naked into Steve’s pool. Your stomach turned as you heard them ask each other the most intrusive questions about each other's sex life and at parts, even Steve laughed.
And then, it was your turn.
You shifted uncomfortably, Tommy’s elbow digging into your ribs as you looked to Steve for help. But he was too busy smiling over at one of the cheerleaders to even register your discomfort.
“Truth,” you say finally, figuring that it was the safest option. At least then they couldn’t dare you to skinny dip in the pool.
“Are you a virgin?” Carol asks you bluntly.
Your face warms, the answer is written on your face and all you wanted was for Steve to notice your discomfort, for him to help—
“I take that as a yes,” Carol mutters audibly as some of Steve’s friends laugh, making your face feel as though it was burning from shame. “Not surprised by that—”
“—Carol,” Steve says in a half arsed attempt to rein his friend in as you shift in your seat once again, your eyes flickering down to your lap as you avoid eye contact with everyone in the room.
“What?” Carol asks Steve as Tommy struggles to keep in his laughter beside you. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“—could you just—”
“—oh c’mon, Steve. We just wanna get to know her. S’only fair. You lost your v card last month so we were just curious about hers.”
Your entire body turns cold. Everything around you blurs, you feel a strange mix of feeling both too hot and too cold as you turn to look at Steve—who you find was already looking at you. Of course you were jealous, of course you were upset about Steve losing his virginity to someone who wasn’t you and of course it felt as though someone had twisted a knife in your gut at the mere thought of it. But it wasn’t just that—it was also the fact he hadn’t told you about it. It made that distance you had felt between you and Steve feel too loud to ignore.
“Oh, are you jealous?” Tommy asks, nudging you as he takes note of the look on your face with glee. “You see that, Stevie? She’s jealous she didn’t get there first—”
“—dude,” Steve interrupts, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks away from you. “Don’t be a dick.”
Despite the fact that Steve had finally stood up for you, you couldn’t help but feel it was half hearted. Almost as though Steve’s heart wasn’t really in it, as though he was more concerned about what his friends would think of him than whether or not they were making you uncomfortable.
Tommy shrugs, the slight smirk tugging on his lips that told you he was absolutely not done being a dick.
“Fine. Whatever,” Tommy mutters with a quick glance your way that Steve doesn’t catch. “Your turn then, Steve.”
There was a brief pause where Steve didn’t say anything. You could feel his eyes on you and for a moment, you wondered if he was about to ask you if you wanted to leave, if he was finally going to put you before his stupid friends. But then Steve shifted beside and you knew that he had looked away.
“Dare,” he says.
You knew almost instantly that Tommy or Carol was going to give him a dare that would somehow upset you. Perhaps he’d dare Steve to make a move on that cheerleader right in front of you, maybe they’d even go upstairs and—
“I dare you to kiss the person sitting to your right,” Tommy says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watches Steve’s expression shift. Because the person sitting to Steve’s right—was you.
The first thing that you registered in response to Tommy’s dare was the laughter from his and Steve’s friends, it was Carol’s small glance towards you and the way Steve had gone completely still beside you.
“No,” Steve says simply without even so much as a glance towards you. “Not her. No way.”
The way he said, the finality in his voice made something stir in your gut. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation—you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was a sick connotation of all three that was stirring in your stomach.
Not her, he had said. Like you were the very last person he would ever want to kiss, as though kissing you was in some way repulsive, even. The laughing didn’t help, Steve’s friends muttering to each other about your inexperience made it worse and all the while—Steve Harrington, your best friend since you were five years old, didn't say a damn thing.
And that was your breaking point.
You stand up from the couch, your legs feeling wobbly despite the fact you had only drank lemonade all evening. Your entire body felt hot from embarrassment but now also from the anger that was beginning to rear its ugly head. The anger you had felt towards Steve that you had quietly buried after months of him letting you down, months of cancelled plans, months of him putting his desire to be liked over his friendship with you. You suddenly felt so angry that your hands shook slightly and you knew you had to leave because you were seconds away from bursting into tears.
“Oh, look how upset she is Steve,” Carol cooes cruelly, gleefully watching you as Tommy tries (and fails) not to laugh. “She looks like she’s going to—”
“—fuck you, Carol,” you spat, white hot anger burning through you now as you turn to look at Steve a final time. You see the panic settle in his eyes as he half rises to his feet—before you walk away from him—walk away from him and his stupid friends, his stupid hair and his stupid handsome face.
You push through the sea of bodies that had congregated in Steve’s living room, not caring that someone had smashed one of Elizabeth’s priceless vases or the fact that there was a large stain in one of the rugs. All you cared about was getting out of Steve’s house and as far away from him as possible.
You were almost successful. You were halfway down his driveway when the sound of Steve calling out your name as he stumbled after you reached your ears.
“Wait—” he calls out, almost frantic as he manages to catch up with you, his fingers slipping around your wrist in an effort to stop you from leaving. “Let me just—”
“—just what, Steve?” You snap, unable to keep the anger and hurt out of your voice as you turn to face him fully. You almost wish you hadn’t because the look on his face was so desperate that the thought of pulling away from him almost hurt.
“I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve says quickly, his chest heaving as he looks back at you. In all the years he had known you, of all the years of friendship he had only seen you angry once before. That time you had spent all day making cupcakes for a bake sale just for Steve to accidentally drop an entire batch of the perfectly iced cakes. You had been so annoyed at him you didn’t talk to him for almost two days.
But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the look on your face as you stare at Steve and wait for him to explain himself.
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, I just—”
“—oh my god, do you seriously think I’m pissed off about the dare?” You ask, unable to keep the anger out of your voice as you wrench your arm away from him.
Steve looks slightly hurt at the loss of contact and opens his mouth to respond but you’re quick to cut him off. “I don’t give a fuck about the dare, Steve. If the thought of kissing me grosses you out then it—it’s whatever.”
“But I—”
“—I’m pissed because—because you let your ‘friends’ treat me like shit and you didn’t say a damn thing about it!”
Steve looks stunned and that only makes the anger coursing through you grow hotter.
“I tried but they—”
“—well, you didn’t fucking try hard enough!” you exclaim angrily, your voice breaking as the first of your tears started to fall. You felt pathetic, humiliated as tears spilled down your cheeks but most of all—you were heartbroken that your best friend and the guy you were head over heels in love had become a stranger to you.
Something in Steve’s expression shifts at the sight of your tears. His face softens as he says your name and takes a tentative step closer but you step back. The dejected look on his face when he realises you had stepped away from him seemed to break something in you.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he tried to explain and you could almost feel his panic—the way he was looking at you, the way his fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for you. “I didn’t think they’d go that far—”
“—but they did and you didn’t s-stop them,” you say, your bottom lip quivering slightly as you harshly wipe away your tears with the sleeve of your cardigan.
“I’m so—”
You knew he was about to say sorry—you knew it by the look on his face and you knew that if he did, that you would want to forgive him. The way you had forgiven him for every other transgression over the past few months because he was your best friend and you loved him.
And so, you had to stop him before you forgave him once more.
“—you’re a coward, Steve,” you say in a voice laced with anger, hurt and every emotion you had been bottling for the past few months while Steve Harrington quietly forgot about you. “You’re a coward and I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”
The silence that greeted your words was one of the loudest you had ever heard.
You weren’t even sure if you meant it but you couldn’t take it back now.
Steve looked as though his entire world had come crumbling down around him, as though your words had been a dagger that you had driven directly through his chest. You knew it would hurt him, you knew it would upset him and perhaps that was exactly why you had said it.
“Oh,” Steve says thickly, swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat as he looked back at you, his big, puppy dog-like eyes almost pleading with you to take back the words that had just left your lips. “I—I see.”
I see. That was all he had to say. After well over a decade of friendship, after years and years of always having your back, years of ‘I’ll always be here’ and seeing each other's worst and best days—it would all end over two little words.
You waited. You waited for Steve to argue with you, for him to beg for your forgiveness like he had the last time you were mad at him. But he didn’t say a damn thing.
“See you around, Harrington,” you mutter, his surname feeling foreign on your tongue as turn around and walk away from him before you could burst into tears.
And the days that followed, Steve didn’t even try to talk to you.
And so, from a distance you watched as Steve Harrington morphed into King Steve. You watched him be a completely different person, watched as he continued to surround himself with people like Tommy and Carol. You heard the parties he threw next door when his parents were out of town that carried on until the early hours or had to be shut down by cops, you heard the way girls he slept with spoke about him and eventually you heard all about him and Nancy Wheeler.
You couldn’t deny that hearing about Steve’s life through rumours hurt. Nor could you deny that the ending of your friendship had devastated you in a way that you hadn’t been expecting and that watching Steve carry on as normal, seemingly completely unaffected by the end of a decade-long friendship, hurt just as much.
You had almost knocked on his door on his birthday but had stopped yourself. You told yourself not to dwell on the past, told yourself that things changed despite the fact your feelings for Steve never seemed to waver and the fact that you still loved him despite everything.
But that all changed one night in your senior year.
You were drifting in and out of sleep, the rain hammering down outside, smacking loud against your window kept rousing you. But it wasn’t until a particularly loud smack against the glass that you finally jolted awake.
You blink, rubbing your eyes sleepily as you glance towards the window to see if it was hailing.
But you nearly scream at the sight of a shadowy figure standing on the garage roof just outside your window.
You open your mouth to yell for your mom but when you realise it was Steve Harrington—drenched to the bone, rapping his knuckles harshly against the glass—all thoughts of yelling out leave you.
Instead, you don’t move. You barely even breathe. You were in some sort of state of shock at the sight of him at your bedroom window after all these years.
You manage to stand on legs that feel wobbly and unsure of themselves, walking cautiously over your carpet and towards the window.
And when you finally see his face clearly through the window pane—at the dark bruise covering his eye, the blood spatter over his face and look of quiet desperation in his eyes, you unlock your bedroom window without much thought.
Steve stumbles into your room, water dripping down from his hair and his clothes onto your carpet. But you’re too busy gasping at the state of his face to worry about that right now.
“H-hi,” he stammers out, his teeth chattering and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold.
Hi? Was that all he had to say after years of silence? After forgetting about you like it was easy? After he didn’t fight for you?
You had the urge to yell, to scream at him but the sight of his beaten face stops you.
“Steve, your face—”
“—that bad, huh?” Steve asks, trying to smile but instead wincing in pain.
“Sit down,” you tell him, watching as Steve’s eyes flicker around your room, taking in everything that had changed over the past almost two years—the colour of your walls, the posters you had hung up, the polaroids of you and Steve you had taken down. “I um, I’ll get something for your face.”
Steve nods, wincing again as he sits down carefully on the edge of your bed, trying not to completely soak your sheets with rain water as he does so.
You take a deep breath before you turn and leave your bedroom to grab the first aid kit from your family bathroom. You’re careful to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake your parents who would certainly have a few questions about why your former best friend is sitting on your bed with a bruised and battered face.
You walk quietly back into your bedroom with the first aid kit in your hand to find Steve hadn’t moved from the edge of your bed. But he was holding your stuffed teddy bear in his hands—the one he had won for you at Hawkins Fair when you were twelve years old, the one he had called ‘Little Stevie’ before handing it to you with a bright smile on his face.
You close the door softly behind you and Steve glances up, carefully placing Little Stevie back down onto your bed.
“You still have him,” Steve murmurs quietly as you sink down onto the bed beside him.
Your face warms and you hope it isn’t noticeable as you open up the first aid kit.
Truthfully, you hadn’t thrown out anything that was connected to Steve Harrington. The polaroids were tucked away safely in your jewellery box and even that shell necklace he had made you when he was seven was in a memory box in your closet. You just couldn’t bring yourself to throw anything away after the end of your friendship but you also couldn’t look at them anymore without something inside of you breaking every time you looked around your room. Little Stevie was the only thing you hadn’t put away—because truthfully, you couldn’t sleep without it.
But you don’t tell Steve that.
Instead, you let the silence surround the two of you as you pull out several small gauze pads and antiseptic. Steve lets you work silently as outside, the rain continues to fall, the wind howls and there’s a distant rumble of thunder.
You start first by pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a gauze pad before you gently dab it over the small gash on his cheek. He winces and hisses in pain but he doesn’t pull away.
“What happened?” You ask him quietly a few minutes later, the cuts and blood wiped from his face as you carefully inspect the bruise around his eye.
The sight makes something tighten in your chest. Though you hadn’t talked to Steve in two years, of course you heard the arguments that happened next door. Usually after one of Steve’s parties had left the Harrington home in a state. Steve had never had the best relationship with his father as Danny Harrington expected only the best from his son and Steve had never been able to live up to that, even from a young age. But though they argued, you had never thought it would escalate to something physical.
“It—it wasn’t your dad, was it?”
“No,” Steve says quickly, too quickly which makes you look at him carefully, wondering whether or not he was lying for your sake. “Really. It wasn’t my dad. I swear. It—it was Billy Hargrove."
You blink. You hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, ever since Billy Hagrove had strolled into Hawkins High like had already owned the place he and Steve had sort of rivalry going on but you weren’t aware it was bad enough for Billy to do something like this.
“But why—”
“—it’s a long story,” Steve says, jaw tight and looking away from you briefly.
“That’s it?” You ask him, pulling away from him as you look from his face to the bloody gauzes that sat in your lap. “You come into my room after two years of ignoring me—”
Steve’s expression falters and he says your name but you shake your head, getting to your feet and causing the first aid kit to fall to the floor at your feet.
“—no Steve, it—it’s bullshit! Okay? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to watch you slowly decide to just not give a shit about me anymore?”
Steve swallows at the sound of anger in your voice. He knew it had been coming and he knew he deserved it but he didn’t know what to say. Because there was no excuse, he knew that he had hurt you in immeasurable ways and he knew he most likely did not deserve your forgiveness. But he wanted—needed—to try anyway.
“I know I—”
“—and now you show up years later with a busted face and expect me to—”
“—I thought Billy was going to kill me tonight.”
That shuts you up. Your eyes widen and you look at Steve with a horrified expression and in your stunned silence, Steve decides to keep talking.
“I had a moment where he was landing hit after hit after hit I thought—I thought ‘this is it’ and all I could—all I could think about was—it was you.”
You’re completely taken aback, you were so stunned that you almost forgot to be angry. Almost.
“All I could think about was how—how I never got to make things right with you and how much time I wasted caring about stupid shit like being popular. Caring too much about what other people thought of me when it really didn’t matter. When I already had someone who liked me for me. And instead I—I treated you terribly, I strung you along and I should never have done that. Not to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
Your eyes stung and you had to look away, not wanting Steve to see how close to tears you were. Because the truth was that you missed him. You missed so much that it was almost a physical ache in your chest. You missed the way Steve could make you laugh even when you really didn’t want to, the way he used to sometimes snort a little when he laughed really hard and the way you could be completely yourself around him.
Steve says your name again but you don’t look at him, instead you sniffle and look down at the first aid kit you had dropped, at the various medical supplies that were now scattered over your floor.
But before you could even think about picking them up, Steve is already doing it for you. You swallow, taking the opportunity to wipe your eyes as Steve bends down, carefully putting the gauze, the bandages and antiseptic bottle back into the box.
He snaps it shut, placing the kit onto bed beside him before he finally looks back at you.
“I’m really fucking sorry,” he tells you, the sincerity in his face making your throat tighten. “For everything. For being an idiot, for trying to be someone I’m not. For letting you down, for making you feel like I didn’t give a shit about you. I’m sorry for not standing up for you that night. I’m sorry I didn’t try and fix things after and I—I’m sorry for not saying all this sooner.”
You nod, your bottom lip trembling slightly as you look back at him, slowly sinking back down onto the bed beside him. “You really hurt me, Steve.”
Steve swallows at that, his eyes turning glassy as he looks back at you. “I know. I was—a colossal idiot. There’s no excuse for it. I hurt you and I wish I could take it all back but I can’t. All I’ve wanted to do these past few years is make things right with you but—but you were right, I was a coward. I was scared—terrifed—that you hated me or—”
“—I could never hate you,” you tell him.
Steve’s eyes soften and he looks back at you with a hopeful expression.
“Really?”
You nod, flexing your fingers against your bedsheet nervously as you look at him. “Really. I was hurt, upset and I was angry but I never hated you. I don’t think I could ever hate you. Not even for a second. I just—I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to become like Tommy or whoever else you were hanging out with because I know that’s not really you.”
“I was still an asshole,” Steve says thickly, the shame evident on his face as he looks down at his lap. “I still did things and said things that hurt people and I can’t take any of it back.”
“No,” you agree quietly. “You can’t.”
It’s quiet then between the two of you—the only sound is that of the thunder rumbling outside. There’s a flash of lightning outside your window but still, neither of you say anything.
“I’m sorry too,” you tell him quietly as you look down at your lap. “For saying I didn’t want to be your friend anymore. That—that wasn’t true I just—I knew I would forgive you straight away if I didn’t.”
Steve shakes his head, corners of his mouth twitching as he hesitantly lifts a hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch alone sends something hot and electric coursing through your body. “Please don’t be sorry,” he tells you. “I should have grovelled for forgiveness and I didn’t. I was—fuck—I was such an idiot that night. I didn’t have your back the way I should have done and I’ll never forgive myself for that. For upsetting you, for making you cry, for letting people talk about you like that.”
“You have no idea how much I think about that night and hate myself for what I did and what I didn’t do. How fucking stupid I feel for letting the best thing that has ever happened to me walk away without a fight.”
You turn to look at him, your expression softening slightly. “Steve—”
“—no, I mean it,” Steve insists, turning to face you fully now as he grabs one of your hands and squeezes it gently. Water drips down from his hair and onto your skin but you couldn’t care less as his touch warms something in you. “You are and I’m sorry it took me losing you and almost dying to realise that. I was just—I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was stupid. So stupid. And I think—I think I was scared to be honest with myself.”
Your brows furrow at that while your heart pounds against your chest. “Honest about what?” You ask him quietly.
Steve looks at you for a long moment before he reaches for your other hand. You let him take it as the look in his eyes keeps you rooted to the spot.
“That I was starting to fall in love with you and I got scared.”
All the air leaves your lungs at that admission. Out of all the things you had expected Steve to say when he climbed in through your bedroom window, you had never in your wildest dreams expected him to say that.
“I was—shit—it’s so fucking stupid now that I think about it but I just—those feelings scared the shit out of me. I mean—you were my best friend and yet, I was always fucking thinking about you. And so, I did all stupid shit to try and forget about you and it never worked. I partied, I listened to Tommy when I fucking shouldn’t have, I messed around because I thought I’d get over you.”
“I even lost my fucking virginity while wishing it was you beneath me the entire time. Nothing worked—nothing ever worked and so I—I thought distance would help but it didn’t and I let you down. I made promises and didn’t keep them. I made you think you were unimportant to me when you were the most important person in my life.”
“Steve—”
“—and that night—the night when Tommy gave me that dare—I didn’t kiss you because I was grossed out by you. God no, far from it—of course I wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t wanna do it if it was just a dare.”
“Steve—”
“—I just—I wanted it to be real and not at a party, not in front of Tommy and Carol or any one of those other assholes and—”
“Steve!”
Steve shuts up almost instantly. His eyes were wide and his hands were still holding yours tightly as though he was trying to ground himself.
You look back at him—at the guy you had loved for longer than you could remember—and you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore.
“You know—I never threw anything away,” you tell him quietly. “I just—I couldn’t bear to look at things that reminded me of you because it hurt too much. Because missing you was like—it was like a constant physical pain. Something I couldn’t get rid.”
“Really?” Steve asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you say. “I even kept the shell necklace.”
Steve blinks once, twice before he laughs and the sound brings you the sort of warmth that even fire couldn’t ever bring you. You felt it in every pore, every nerve, every cell in your body. It made you feel lighter, made the storm outside feel insignificant.
“Why would you keep that?” Steve asks, still laughing quietly to himself. “It was so heavy and—”
“—because you made it for me,” you say simply with a small smile. “And that—that meant it was important to me.”
Steve blinks. He looks back at you with an unreadable expression as his thumb drags itself across the skin of your hand and seems to steal the air from your lungs.
“I made you it because the shells reminded me of you,” Steve murmurs fondly, eyes seeming to shine as he looks back at you. “I thought the shells were pretty and—I thought you were pretty too. Prettier than the shells, obviously.”
Your face feels hot and it was near impossible to fight back the smile on your face now.
“You told me you were practising for art class,” you say quietly, head tilting to the side as you look back at him.
Steve smiles a little before shaking his head. “I lied. I was trying really hard to impress you but seven year old me had no game.”
You laugh then and you see the way Steve’s eyes light up, the way he can’t help but smile when he hears your laugh, when he was finally the reason behind it again.
“You didn’t have to do anything to impress me Steve,” you tell him after a moment with a soft smile. “You already did.”
There was silence again and then—
“Do you mean—”
“—yeah,” you breathe out, unable to look away from him as you squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I—I’ve been in love with you for a really long fucking time, Steve.”
The moment that follows felt as though it lasted for a lifetime. Steve was looking at you, seeming to forget how to breathe and you begin to wonder if you had been too forward when one of Steve’s hands slips out of yours to gently cup your face.
“The feeling’s pretty fucking mututal,” he murmurs before his lips seal over yours in a kiss that took your breath away.
Everything seems to slow down around you. You were vaguely aware of the first aid kit clattering to the floor as you kiss him back with no hesitation. your fingers sliding into his still damp hair while his hands gently cradle the back of your head.
You’re already breathless, unable to think of the world that existed out of Steve Harrington’s lips against yours—no thoughts about the rain splattering against the window or of the lightning that flashed across the sky outside. Because everything seems so dull in comparison to Steve’s lips moving against yours, against his hands that you were holding you like you were something sacred.
He was the first to pull away—catching his breath as his eyes couldn’t help but flicker down to your lips that were wet, swollen and so inviting that he already wanted to dive back in again.
But he also knew he had to earn your forgiveness first and that wouldn’t involve being twisted in the sheets together.
“Let me take you out tomorrow night,” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently wiping away a smear of his saliva from your lips and trying not to give in. “Make up for lost time, yeah?”
You smile a little as you consider his offer, your eyes flickering over the bruise on his face. “Let’s wait until the bruise fades first, yeah?”
“Oh,” Steve says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face as he looks back at you. “Yeah um, totally I—”
“—but I wouldn’t be opposed to a movie night,” you say with a small smile. “If you were to come up to my bedroom window again with a few movies I probably wouldn’t say no.”
Steve blinks but then—he smiles and he looked so devastatingly handsome that it was difficult to not pull him in for another kiss.
“It’s a date,” he tells you, leaning in to press a gentle but firm kiss to your forehead. “Little Stevie can join us too.”
You laugh and Steve can’t help but join you—thanking his lucky stars that you had opened your window for him.
Summary: After the morning at your apartment, Jack brings you back to his house, where the quiet feels almost impossible. Between police updates, hospital footage, protective order paperwork, and Robby making it very clear that you are not coming into work, the day keeps asking you to be brave. Jack keeps asking you to take it one thing at a time. And somewhere in the middle of all the calls and forms and cold coffee, something good becomes real. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Yours.
Author’s Note: This chapter is softer, but Trent is still very much part of the situation. I really wanted this one to sit in the aftermath — the exhaustion, the paperwork, the calls, the way relief can feel heavy too. But more than anything, I wanted Jack and Reader to get a few moments where the good thing is allowed to matter. They are taking care of each other now. One thing at a time.
The kind of slow where your body came back before your mind did, one piece at a time. Warm sheets. A solid weight behind you. An arm around your waist.
Quiet.
For one strange second, you did not know where you were. The ceiling was wrong. The light was wrong. The room smelled like clean laundry and coffee and Jack, not your apartment, not your sheets, not the flowers still sitting on your kitchen counter like the morning had not split open around them. Your body went tight before your mind caught up.
Jack’s arm did not tighten. He did not pull you closer. He did not say your name too fast or ask you what was wrong, like fear needed explaining before it was allowed to exist.
He just stayed there, warm and steady behind you.
Then his voice came low near your ear, rough with sleep. “You’re at my place.”
Your breath caught. His thumb moved once against your side.
“Door’s locked,” Jack said. “I’m here.”
You closed your eyes. The panic did not disappear all at once. It loosened.
A little.
Enough that you could feel the mattress underneath you again. The pillow beneath your cheek. Jack’s chest against your back. His breathing was slow and even, like he was giving you something to follow.
You swallowed. “What time is it?”
Jack shifted just enough to glance past you toward the nightstand. “A little after three.”
Your eyes opened. “In the afternoon?”
His mouth brushed faintly against your shoulder. Not a kiss. Almost not even on purpose.
“Yeah,” he said.
You stared at the soft light on the wall. “I slept that long?”
“You needed it,” Jack said.
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “That feels suspiciously like something a doctor would say.”
Jack’s voice warmed. “Could be worse.”
You turned your head slightly toward him. “How?”
“I could start talking about hydration,” Jack replied.
A tiny sound left you. Not quite a laugh. Close enough that Jack’s hand stilled at your waist for half a second, like he had heard it and wanted to keep it.
You rolled carefully onto your back.
Jack lifted his arm enough to let you move, then settled it loosely over your stomach once you were facing him. Still careful. Still giving you space.
He looked tired. That was the first thing you noticed. His hair was mussed from sleep, his eyes heavy, one side of his face faintly creased from the pillow. He looked softer like this. Less controlled. Less like the man who had stood between you and the door with his body squared toward danger.
More like the man who had stayed.
Your throat tightened as tears gathered in the corners of your eyes.
Jack noticed immediately. “Hey.”
You shook your head. “I’m okay.”
His brows lifted slightly.
You sighed. “I’m getting there.”
“That one, I believe,” Jack said.
Your mouth twitched. Jack’s thumb moved once over your stomach, slow through the fabric of your shirt. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The room held quiet around you. Afternoon light softened the edges of his dresser, the chair in the corner, and your still-packed bag at the foot of his bed. Your phone sat on the nightstand beside a glass of water you did not remember him putting there.
Nothing was demanding anything from you. Not for one second. No report number. No statement. No dispatcher asking you to repeat your address.
Just Jack looking at you like you were allowed to take your time coming back to yourself.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Long enough for your stomach to dip with something that was not fear. Then his gaze came back to yours.
“Can I kiss you?” Jack murmured.
The question moved through you slowly. Soft. Careful. Not because he was unsure of himself. Because he wanted you to be sure.
Your breath shook. “Yes.”
Jack’s expression changed. Just slightly.
Then he leaned in.
The kiss was soft. So soft it almost hurt. There was no urgency in it. No pressure. No attempt to turn the moment into something bigger than you were ready for. Just Jack’s mouth against yours, warm and careful, his hand staying exactly where it was over your stomach.
You lifted your hand to his face. Your fingers brushed the rough edge of his jaw.
Jack made a quiet sound into the kiss. Not hungry. Not restrained.
Relieved.
Like this mattered too. Like gentleness counted. Like your body wanting him, even softly, even carefully, was something worth protecting.
When he pulled back, he did not go far. His forehead rested against yours. You kept your eyes closed.
“Hi,” Jack said quietly.
A small laugh slipped out of you, fragile but real. “Hi.”
His thumb moved once over your stomach. “You okay?”
You opened your eyes. Jack was watching you. Not searching for the answer he wanted. Waiting for the one that was true. You thought about it. Your body still felt heavy. Your mind still felt fogged at the edges. Somewhere beneath your ribs, the morning sat like a bruise.
But Jack’s room was quiet. His door was locked. His mouth had just been on yours. And for the first time since the knock, Trent was not the loudest thing in your head.
“Right now?” you asked.
Jack nodded once. “Right now.”
You swallowed. “Yeah. I think so.”
His face softened. You looked down at where his hand rested over you, then back up at him.
“I like this,” you said quietly.
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “This?”
You nodded. “Waking up here. With you.”
Something in his expression shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. But enough. Enough to make your chest ache.
“I like this,” you said again, softer.
Jack was quiet for a second. Then his hand moved from your stomach to your side, warm and careful.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
You believed him. That might have been what got you. Not the words. Not even the kiss. The fact that you believed him without having to talk yourself into it.
Your eyes burned, and you rolled toward him before the tears could fully gather. Jack opened his arm immediately. You tucked yourself against his chest, your forehead pressing to the soft, worn fabric of his shirt.
He held you loosely at first. Then, when you did not pull away, he held you a little closer. You breathed him in. Soap. Sleep. Jack.
After a while, you felt his mouth brush the top of your head.
“You hungry?” Jack asked.
You made a face against his shirt. Jack huffed softly. “That’s a no.”
“It’s a complicated no,” you said.
“Mm,” Jack hummed.
You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Don’t do doctor voice.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.
You raised a brow. “You thought it.”
His mouth curved. “I did think it.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Rude.”
“Accurate,” Jack said.
You groaned and dropped your face back against his chest.
Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, once, then again. “Coffee first?”
That was easier. Coffee was not a meal. Coffee did not require your stomach to know what to do with itself yet.
“Yeah,” you said. “Coffee first.”
Jack pressed one more kiss to your hair, then started to shift. You tightened your fingers lightly in his shirt before you realized you had done it. He stopped immediately.
You closed your eyes. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jack said.
“I know we have to get up,” you murmured, embarrassed.
Jack shook his head. “We don’t have to do anything that feels like too much.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack settled back enough to look at you. “We’ll get up. We’ll make coffee. We’ll check your phone. We’ll deal with whatever needs dealing with.”
You nodded once. His eyes stayed on yours.
“One thing at a time,” Jack said.
You let the words settle. One thing at a time. Not the whole day. Not the whole mess. Not Trent, and the truck, and the police report, and the hospital, and the protective order, and the part of your brain that still kept listening for sounds that were not there.
Just one thing. Coffee. Jack. Afternoon light.
You took a breath. Then another.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Okay.”
He kissed you again before he got up. Quick this time. Soft. Like punctuation. Then he pulled away, and you watched him sit up on the edge of the bed, running one hand over his face before reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
His shoulders looked tired. His back looked tired. Even his silence looked tired. Something in your chest twisted. Not guilt this time. Not exactly.
Awareness.
He had stayed awake longer than you had. You knew it without asking. He had listened for sounds, checked messages, handled calls, made sure there was water by the bed, and probably watched the door even after he had locked it. Jack looked back and caught you watching him.
“What?” he asked.
You shook your head. This time, it was almost true.
“Nothing,” you said.
His brows lifted. You gave him a tired look. “Coffee, Jack.”
His mouth curved, small and warm.
“Coffee,” Jack agreed.
He stood, then paused beside the bed and held out his hand. Not to pull you up. Not to hurry you. Just there.
Waiting.
You looked at it for a second. Then you slid your hand into his. Jack’s fingers closed around yours. Firm and steady.
And when you got out of bed, it was not because Trent was in jail, or because paperwork was waiting, or because the world outside Jack’s room had become simple.
It was because Jack was making coffee. Because his hand was around yours.
Because, for one more quiet second, that was allowed to matter most.
Downstairs, Jack’s house looked different in the afternoon.
Quieter, maybe.
Or maybe you were quieter inside it.
The kitchen was warm with late-day light, the counters clean except for a mug by the sink and a towel folded over the oven handle. Jack moved through the space like he knew exactly where every small thing belonged, pulling two mugs from the cabinet, opening the fridge, reaching for the coffee without asking where anything was because, of course, it was his kitchen.
You stood near the island and watched him. For a second, it felt strange to be upright. Strange to be in a room with sunlight in it. Strange to have slept through hours of a day that had apparently kept going without you.
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You want to sit?”
You shook your head. “I’m okay.”
Jack gave you a look. You sighed. “I’m okay standing.”
“That’s more specific,” Jack said.
You leaned your hip against the island. “Do not start with me this early.”
Jack turned back to the coffee maker. “It’s three in the afternoon.”
“Emotionally, it’s early,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Fair.”
The tiny joke settled between you. Small. Easy. Almost normal. You held onto it longer than you probably needed to. Jack set a mug in front of you a minute later, made exactly the way you liked it. He did not ask. You did not comment. It should not have mattered, the quiet ease of it. The way he knew without making a show of knowing. The way your coffee simply appeared in front of you, warm and familiar and right.
It mattered anyway.
You wrapped both hands around the mug. The warmth helped.
Jack leaned against the counter across from you, his own mug in one hand. “Food?”
You made a face before you could stop yourself. His brow lifted slightly. You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your mug. “Do not use doctor voice.”
“I said one word,” Jack said.
“You thought it in doctor voice,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m asking if you can eat something.”
You looked pointedly at his mug. “Have you eaten?”
Jack paused. That was answer enough.
“Jack,” you said.
His expression stayed carefully neutral. “I had coffee.”
“That is not food,” you said.
“Neither is emotional deflection,” Jack said.
You stared at him. He stared back. For one second, the two of you stood on opposite sides of the island, tired and stubborn and pretending this was a normal argument about food instead of the first thing either of you had almost eaten since that morning.
Then your mouth twitched. Jack saw it, and his did too.
You set your mug down. “Fine. Something small.”
“Something small,” Jack agreed.
You pointed at him. “You too.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Bossy.”
“You love it,” you said.
The words left your mouth before you could think better of them. Not love. Not like that. Not yet. Just a phrase. A joke.
Except it hung there for half a second longer than it should have.
Jack’s face changed. Barely. Enough to make your pulse trip.
Then his mouth curved, soft and careful. “I don’t hate it.”
Your face warmed, and you looked away first. Jack let you.
He moved to the fruit bowl on the counter like it required great concentration. “Apple or banana?”
You glanced over. “That’s the menu?”
“For now,” Jack said. “I’ll make something real later.”
“You say that like you’re in charge of all future meals,” you said.
Jack picked up an apple. “I’m in charge of making sure you don’t survive on coffee and spite.”
You reached for a banana. “Spite has nutrients.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Jack said.
You lifted your brows. “You don’t know that.”
“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.
“You’re very annoying,” you told him.
Jack rinsed the apple at the sink, his mouth curved. “Also true.”
You peeled the banana slowly, leaning against the island while Jack dried the apple with a paper towel. It was ridiculous, how much the smallness of it helped. Standing in his kitchen. Coffee on the counter. Fruit in your hand. Jack across from you, taking a bite of an apple because you had told him to eat too.
You took a bite. Your stomach did not love it. But it did not reject it either. Jack noticed, because Jack noticed everything, but he did not make a big deal out of it.
He just took another bite of his apple and nodded toward your phone on the counter. “Your screen lit up.”
Your stomach tightened. The almost-normal moment thinned. You followed his gaze. Three missed calls. Two voicemails. A text from Robby. A text from an unknown number that, based on the preview, looked official.
Jack watched your face. “One thing at a time.”
You nodded, but the banana suddenly felt heavy in your hand.
Jack set his apple down, reached toward your phone, then stopped. “Can I?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Jack turned the screen toward you instead of picking it up first. “Looks like the officer left a voicemail. Robby texted too.”
You swallowed. “What did Robby say?”
Jack glanced at the screen. “Just checking in. Says no need to answer right away.”
Your throat tightened. “That sounds like him trying very hard not to sound like he’s worried.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That is exactly what that is.”
You took a breath. “Officer first?”
“I think so,” Jack said.
You picked up your phone. Your hand shook, but not as badly as that morning. That felt worth noticing. The voicemail was short. Professional. The officer from your apartment said she had an update: Trent remained in custody for the time being, and she wanted to talk through next steps when you were ready.
When you lowered the phone, the kitchen felt too quiet again.
Jack watched your face. “You want me to call with you?”
You nodded immediately. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Jack said.
He came around the island, but he did not crowd you. He stood beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, close enough that you could lean if you needed to. You called the number back. The officer answered on the second ring. You put her on speaker because holding the phone to your ear suddenly felt too much like the 911 call.
“This is Officer Ramirez,” she said.
You cleared your throat. “Hi. This is—”
She said your name before you could finish. “Hi. I’m glad you called back. Are you somewhere safe right now?”
Your eyes moved to Jack. He was watching you. Not speaking for you. Waiting.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m at Jack’s house.”
Jack’s hand settled lightly at the back of your chair. Not heavy. Not possessive. Just there.
“Good,” Officer Ramirez said. “I wanted to update you on a few things from this morning.”
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Okay.”
“Trent is still in custody right now,” Officer Ramirez said. “He’ll have a bond hearing, but for the moment, he has not been released.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s hand did not move.
“The property damage to Mr. Abbot’s truck was witnessed by responding officers,” Officer Ramirez continued, “so that portion is documented clearly. We also have your 911 call, your statement, Mr. Abbot’s statement, and the notes you provided.”
You stared down at your coffee. The notes. The door. Jack’s truck. All of it sounded different in her voice. More official. Less like a nightmare you had dragged into someone else’s day.
“We’re also requesting any available footage from your apartment building,” Officer Ramirez said. “Hallway cameras, exterior cameras, anything that may show him at your door or near the vehicle.”
Jack’s thumb moved once at the back of your chair. You swallowed. “Okay.”
“That will help establish the timeline,” Officer Ramirez said. “Given what happened this morning and the prior contact you described, I would recommend starting the protective order paperwork as soon as possible, ideally while he’s still in custody.”
Your stomach dipped. There it was.
The next thing.
Jack’s voice stayed quiet beside you. “What does she need to do?”
Officer Ramirez answered him, but her tone stayed directed toward you. “I can connect you with a victim advocate who can walk you through the forms. You can start some of it electronically, and depending on the county process, you may need to appear in person or by video for a temporary order. The advocate can explain that part.”
You looked at Jack. His eyes stayed on yours. Still not deciding for you. Still waiting.
You pulled in a breath. “I want to start it.”
The words came out quieter than you meant them to. But they came out. Jack’s hand stilled against the chair.
Officer Ramirez’s voice softened. “Okay. I’ll send you the contact information and the case number again. I’ll also note that you’re requesting assistance with filing.”
You nodded, then remembered she could not see you. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Officer Ramirez said. “And I know this is a lot, but you did the right thing calling.”
Your throat tightened. Jack looked down at the counter. You could tell he heard it too. Not because he needed to hear it. Because part of you still did.
“Thank you,” you said again.
Officer Ramirez paused for half a second. “One more thing. He is still in custody, but if that changes, do not respond to any contact from him or anyone connected to him. Screenshot it, save it, and call us. If he appears at your apartment, your workplace, or anywhere you are, call immediately.”
Your fingers tightened around the counter. “Okay.”
“Is Mr. Abbot still with you?” Officer Ramirez asked.
You looked at Jack. “Yes.”
“Good,” Officer Ramirez said. “I’ll send the information shortly. You can call me back if you need anything clarified.”
The call ended a minute later. For a while, neither of you said anything. The kitchen went quiet around the soft hum of the refrigerator. Your coffee sat untouched on the counter. The half-eaten banana rested beside it. Jack’s hand remained at the back of your chair. Trent was still in custody. There was footage to request. Evidence to gather. A protective order to file.
All good things.
All things that should have made you feel better. Maybe they did. A little. But mostly, you felt tired in a new way. Like relief had weight too.
Jack finally spoke. “What are you thinking?”
You stared at the surface of your coffee. “I thought I’d feel better.”
Jack was quiet for a second. Then he said, “You might later.”
You looked at him. His face was steady. Not dismissive. Not disappointed that the news had not fixed you. Just honest.
“You think?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth softened. “Yeah.”
Your eyes burned a little. You blinked it back because you were tired of crying. Jack seemed to see that too, because he did not touch your face or ask if you were okay. He just reached for his mug and took a sip. Then he made a face.
You frowned. “What?”
“Cold,” Jack said.
The laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Rusty. Real. Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug.
You narrowed your eyes. “Did you do that on purpose?”
He set the mug down. “Let my coffee get cold for emotional support?”
“You would,” you said.
“I would not,” Jack said.
“You absolutely would,” you said, smiling.
Jack’s mouth curved. “I’m making a fresh pot.”
“Convenient,” you said.
“Necessary,” Jack replied.
You watched him turn back toward the coffee maker. Officer Ramirez’s words were still there. Custody. Bond hearing. Protective order. Footage.
But Jack was there too. Barefoot in his kitchen, making more coffee because both mugs had gone cold while the world tried to become manageable.
And somehow, for the moment, that mattered more.
The fresh pot helped. Not because coffee fixed anything. It did not. But the motions helped. Jack rinsing the mugs. You tossing the banana peel into the trash. The machine sputtering to life again. The smell of coffee filling the kitchen like the day could still have normal parts if you gave it enough time.
Jack poured both mugs again.
This time, you both drank before they could go cold. You were halfway through yours when his phone buzzed on the counter. Your eyes went to it before you could stop yourself. Jack noticed.
“Robby,” he said.
You nodded, but your fingers tightened around your mug.
Jack looked from the phone to you. “I can call him back later.”
You shook your head. “No. It’s okay.”
Jack did not move. “You sure?”
You took a breath. “Yeah.”
He still waited. You looked up at him. “It’s okay if he knows.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I know.”
You looked down into your coffee. “And if this is about work or the hospital, I probably need to know.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
He picked up the phone and answered it, keeping his voice even. “Hey.”
Robby’s voice came through low and concerned, not loud enough for you to catch every word. Jack listened for a second. Then his eyes flicked to you. Your stomach tightened.
“What?” you asked.
Jack lowered the phone slightly. “He has an update from the hospital.”
You set your mug down. “Put it on speaker.”
Jack studied your face for half a second. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you said.
Jack tapped the screen and set the phone on the counter between you. “You’re on speaker.”
“Hey,” Robby said, his voice gentler now. There was a brief pause. Then Robby said your name, careful and warm. “How are you doing?”
You let out a small breath. “I don’t really know how to answer that.”
“That’s fair,” Robby said.
Jack leaned his hip against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours.
Robby continued, “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to let you both know security pulled the footage from the day Trent showed up at the ER.”
Your whole body went still. Jack’s arm brushed yours again, deliberate this time.
You swallowed. “They have footage?”
“They do,” Robby said. “Parking lot, entrance, part of the hallway. Enough to show he came onto hospital property and confronted you after he had no reason to be there.”
You stared at the phone. The kitchen seemed to narrow around it.
Robby’s voice stayed steady. “Administration is filing a trespass complaint and issuing a formal ban from hospital property. If he comes back, security calls the police immediately.”
Your throat tightened. For a second, you could not speak. Jack’s hand settled lightly at the back of your chair. Robby waited. He did not fill the silence.
Finally, you managed, “They’re doing that?”
“Yeah,” Robby said.
The answer came firm. No hesitation.
Robby continued. “He came into my ER to harass one of my nurses. Yes, they’re doing that.”
Your eyes burned. Jack looked down at the counter, jaw tight. Not angry at Robby. Angry at the reason Robby had to say it. You pressed your lips together.
Robby’s voice softened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You blinked hard. “I know.”
Jack glanced at you. You let out a shaky breath. “I mean, I’m trying to know.”
“That counts,” Robby said.
A small, broken laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Jack’s mouth barely curved.
Robby continued, “Security is also sending the footage information to the officer on your report. It should support the protective order paperwork.”
You nodded, then remembered again that he could not see you. “Okay.”
“And you are not expected in tonight,” Robby said. “Or tomorrow, if you need it.”
Your stomach dipped. “Robby—”
“No,” Robby said, not harsh, but firm enough that you stopped. “Don’t do that.”
You closed your mouth. Jack looked at you like he absolutely agreed, but was smart enough not to say it while Robby was already doing it for him. You narrowed your eyes at him. Jack’s brows lifted in silent innocence.
It almost made you smile.
Robby sighed through the phone. “I’m serious. We’re covered. Lena knows. I know. You can send documentation later if HR needs it, but right now, I need you not to worry about this place.”
Your fingers tightened around your mug. “That’s hard.”
“I know,” Robby said. “Do it anyway.”
Jack muttered, “Subtle.”
“I heard that,” Robby said.
Jack did not look sorry. “You were supposed to.”
Despite everything, a real laugh slipped out of you. Small. Brief. But real. Both men went quiet for half a second. Not in a way that made you feel watched. In a way that made you realize they had both heard it and both decided, without saying so, that it mattered.
Robby’s voice was softer when he spoke again. “There she is.”
Your eyes burned again. “Don’t.”
“Okay,” Robby said immediately. “Not doing that.”
Jack’s hand moved once at the back of your chair. You looked down at your coffee and breathed through the tightness in your chest.
Robby cleared his throat. “I’ll text Jack if anything else comes through on my end. Security has a photo of Trent. He’s banned from the building. If he sets foot on hospital property again, they will call the police. No debate.”
You swallowed. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me for keeping my staff safe,” Robby said.
Your mouth trembled. Jack looked at the phone. “Robby.”
“What?” Robby asked.
Jack’s voice stayed gentle but firm. “Let her thank you.”
There was a pause. Then Robby’s voice softened. “You’re welcome.”
You wiped quickly under one eye with the heel of your hand. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Robby said. “And hey?”
You looked at the phone. “Yeah?”
“You were right to call,” Robby said.
The words landed differently this time. Officer Ramirez had said it. Jack had said it. Now Robby was saying it too. Three people. Three voices. None of them asking you to make it smaller.
Your throat tightened, but your voice held. “Okay.”
Robby seemed to understand that was all you could manage.
“I’ll let you go,” Robby said. “Jack?”
Jack looked down at the phone. “Yeah.”
“Take care of her,” Robby said.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “I am.”
You looked at him. He was already looking at you.
Robby added, “And let someone take care of you too, jackass.”
Jack’s mouth tightened like he was trying not to smile. “Goodbye, Robby.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robby said.
The call ended. For a few seconds, the kitchen was silent. Then you looked at Jack. He looked back at you.
“The hospital has footage,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
You tightened your fingers around the mug. “And they’re filing trespassing stuff.”
“They are,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “And he’s banned.”
“He is,” Jack said.
Your fingers tightened around the mug. “So it was bad.”
Jack’s face changed. Not with surprise. With the careful look he got when something mattered, and he did not want to say it wrong. He stepped closer, stopping just in front of you.
“It was bad when you asked him to stop, and he didn’t,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. He held your gaze.
“Everything after that is evidence,” Jack said.
Your eyes filled. Jack did not rush to wipe the tears away. He just stayed there. Letting you have the sentence. Letting it be true.
The coffee was warm in your hands. The kitchen smelled like apples, caffeine, and afternoon light.
Trent was still in custody. The apartment building had footage. The hospital had footage. The police had reports. The world, piece by piece, was starting to agree with what your body had known for too long. This was not nothing. You had not made it up. You had not made it too big.
Jack’s hand settled lightly over yours on the mug.
“Breathe,” Jack said quietly.
You did. Not deeply. Not perfectly. But enough.
Then Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.
“One thing at a time,” he said again.
You nodded. This time, you believed him.
The victim advocate called twenty minutes later.
Jack had eaten the rest of his apple, though you suspected he had done it mostly because you kept looking at it. Your phone buzzed on the counter, and both of you looked at it.
You picked it up and glanced at the screen. “Unknown number.”
Jack set his mug down. “Could be the advocate.”
You nodded, but your hand still tightened around the phone. Jack noticed. “You want me here?”
You looked at him immediately. “Yes.”
His face softened. “Okay.”
You answered before you could talk yourself out of it. “Hello?”
The woman on the other end said your name gently, then introduced herself as a victim advocate with the county. Her voice was calm. Not overly sweet. Not pitying. Just calm.
You put her on speaker and set the phone on the island between you and Jack.
“My boyfriend Jack is with me,” you said. “Is that okay?”
The words were out before you realized what you had said.
My boyfriend.
Your eyes snapped to Jack. For half a second, your whole body went still. Not because it was wrong. Because it was true too quickly. Because you had said it out loud to a stranger on an official phone call, like it was a fact. Like he was a fact.
Jack’s face changed. Barely. But you saw it. The softening around his eyes. The tiny shift in his mouth. The way his hand stilled against the counter like the words had landed somewhere deep enough to make him forget what he was doing.
The advocate answered before either of you could.
“That’s completely fine,” she said. “You can have whoever you want with you.”
Your throat tightened. Whoever you want. Not whoever you needed to justify. Not whoever the situation required. Whoever you wanted.
Jack stepped closer. Not enough to interrupt or to take over. Just enough that his shoulder brushed yours. You looked up at him, still a little alarmed. Jack’s mouth curved, small and warm.
Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Brief.
Certain.
Your breath caught.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. No teasing. No correction. No making you say it again when you were already raw and tired and trying to file legal paperwork at his kitchen island. Just Jack looking at you like the word had not scared him at all. Like maybe he had been waiting for it.
Your pulse tripped.
Then his hand settled lightly at the back of your chair.
The advocate continued, “I’m going to walk you through the process, okay?”
You looked from Jack back to the phone. Your voice came out softer than before. “Okay.”
The advocate explained the steps in a voice that made them sound smaller than they felt. Temporary protective order. Petition. Incident dates. Prior contact. Evidence. Hearing. Service. Conditions. No contact. No coming to your apartment. No coming to your workplace. No third-party messages. No calls. No texts. No notes. No showing up.
Every phrase sounded like a door closing. Not loudly. Not violently. Just firmly.
Jack slid a notepad in front of you without a word.
You looked at the phone. “No. I want to keep going.”
Jack’s hand moved once against the edge of the counter. Not touching you. Close.
The advocate spoke again. “Okay. I’m going to send a link to the petition. You can fill it out electronically. If you get stuck, I can stay on the line.”
Your phone buzzed with the link a second later. Jack pushed his laptop toward you from across the island.
You stared at it for a second, then looked at him. “You already had it ready?”
The advocate waited politely while you opened the link. Then the form appeared. Your name. Trent’s name. Relationship. Address. Employer. Prior incidents. Most recent incident. Reason for request.
You stared at the blank boxes. For a second, all the words you had been saying since that morning disappeared.
Jack’s voice came low beside you. “One box at a time.”
You breathed in. Then you started. You typed your name. You typed Trent’s. You typed your address, and your fingers slowed over the keys.
Jack noticed. “Want me to do it?”
You shook your head. “No. I can.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
So you did. You typed the apartment number you had said to dispatch. The building entrance. The place Trent had come to after being told not to. Then you moved to the next box. The advocate stayed on the line while you worked. She did not rush you. Jack did not rush you. No one rushed you.
That almost made it harder.
You were so used to trying to get fear over with before someone noticed.
This time, everyone was letting it take up space. So you wrote it down. The coffee outside your door. The notes. The calls. The messages. The day he came to the ER. The way he had cornered you at work like your job was just another place he could reach you. The knock. The pounding. The handle. His voice through the door.
Jack standing between you and him.
The 911 call. The sirens. The truck. Every little thing you had tried to survive quietly became part of the same pattern on a screen. At one point, your fingers stopped moving.
Jack looked over. “What do you need?”
You stared at the cursor blinking in the box. “I don’t know how to make it sound right.”
The advocate’s voice came gently through the phone. “You don’t have to make it sound polished. You just have to say what’s true.”
Your eyes burned.
Jack’s voice was quieter. “Start there.”
You swallowed. Then you typed.
I am afraid he will come back.
The sentence sat on the screen. Plain. Ugly. True.
Your breath caught. Jack’s hand covered yours where it rested beside the laptop. You did not look at him. If you did, you thought you might stop. So you kept typing.
I have told him not to contact me. He came to my apartment anyway. He tried the door handle while I was inside. He showed up at my workplace. He left notes at my home. Police responded this morning. He was arrested after officers saw him damaging Jack Abbot’s truck outside my building.
When you finished the paragraph, your hands were shaking. Jack did not tell you it was okay. He did not tell you to calm down. He just pushed your coffee a little closer. You took it because the mug gave you something to hold.
The advocate spoke after a moment. “That is clear. That is helpful.”
You let out a breath. Jack’s thumb moved once over the side of your hand. The next part asked about locations you wanted protected. Your apartment. Your workplace. Your car. The hospital. Jack’s house.
You froze on that thought.
Jack noticed immediately. “What?”
You looked at him. “Your house.”
His jaw tightened. Not with hesitation. With understanding.
“He knows you’re involved,” you said.
Jack looked at the screen, then back at you. “Add it.”
Your throat tightened. “Jack—”
“Add it,” he said again, voice even. “If he tries to come here, I want it documented that he was told not to.”
The advocate spoke gently. “Including a safe residence where you’re staying can be appropriate. You can also ask for protection around any location where you may reasonably be.”
You looked at Jack. “I hate putting your house in this.”
Jack held your gaze. “I don’t.”
You stared at him. He leaned closer, his voice low enough that it felt separate from the phone call.
“This is where you are,” Jack said. “This is where you’re safe. Add it.”
Your eyes burned, but you nodded. You typed his address. Jack watched you do it. No flinch. No resentment. No hesitation. Just there.
When the form asked about evidence, the advocate walked you through uploading screenshots.
Messages. Call logs. Photos of the notes the officer had already taken. The report number. Jack’s truck damage would be attached separately through the police report. Hospital security would send footage through official channels.
By the time you hit save, your shoulders ached. Your head hurt. Your coffee was cold again. The advocate walked you through the next steps. She would review the petition. Officer Ramirez’s report would be attached. The evidence would be logged. You might have to appear by video for the temporary order.
She would call back as soon as she knew the time. You thanked her. Jack thanked her too.
When the call ended, you sat very still in front of the laptop. The petition was saved. Not granted yet. Not finished. But started.
Official and real.
Jack sat on the stool beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours.
For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The form was still open on the screen. Everything he had done, reduced to boxes and paragraphs and uploaded files.
You rubbed your thumb against the side of your mug. “I thought filing it would feel bigger.”
Jack followed your gaze to the laptop. “How does it feel?”
You thought about it. “It feels weird,” you said.
Jack waited. You looked back at the form. “Like it’s too simple for how bad it felt.”
His face changed. Careful. Understanding.
“Paperwork usually is,” Jack said.
You looked at him. He held your gaze. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.”
Your throat tightened. You nodded once. The house was quiet around you. For once, the quiet did not feel empty. It felt like a pause. Like the day had given you a place to put something down before asking you to pick up the next thing.
Jack leaned back against the counter and looked at the laptop again. Then his mouth curved.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Jack’s gaze slid to yours, warm and entirely too pleased. “Boyfriend, huh?”
Your face warmed immediately. “Jack.”
His smile widened. “No, I’m just making sure I heard that right.”
“You heard it,” you said.
His brows lifted, all faux innocence and terrible smugness. “Did I?”
You gave him a look. “You know you did.”
Jack leaned closer, clearly enjoying himself now. “I was under a lot of emotional stress. Might need you to clarify.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Then the nerves hit. Silly, maybe.
After everything. After sleeping in his bed and crying into his shirt and calling him your boyfriend on speakerphone to a county victim advocate. Still, your fingers tightened around your mug.
“If that’s okay,” you said.
Jack’s expression changed immediately. The smugness did not vanish completely. It softened. Settled into something warmer. More serious.
“If that’s okay?” he repeated.
You looked down. “I know we didn’t really talk about it. I just said it, and maybe that was—”
“Sweetheart,” Jack said.
You stopped.
Jack waited until you looked at him again. Then his mouth curved, slow and devastating.
“Yes,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack leaned closer, forearms resting on the island between you, eyes fixed on yours.
“Boyfriend,” he said. “Fuck yeah, boyfriend.”
A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it. Wet. Startled. Real.
Jack looked delighted with himself. And with you. Mostly with you.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
“I’m your boyfriend,” Jack said, still smiling. “Apparently.”
Your face warmed again, but this time it did not feel like panic. It felt like being wanted. Like being claimed only because you had offered the word first. Like Jack holding it carefully and then grinning because he was allowed to have it.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you asked.
Jack pretended to think about it.
“No,” he said. “Probably not.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed. Jack’s hand found yours beside the mug. His thumb moved once over your knuckles. Then his voice softened.
“Hey,” he said. You looked back at him. “I liked it,” Jack said.
Your chest tightened. “The boyfriend thing?” you asked.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Yeah,” Jack said. “The boyfriend thing.”
You swallowed hard. “Good,” you whispered.
Jack’s smile came back, smaller this time. Still cocky. Still Jack. But so warm it made your chest ache.
“Good,” he said.
The laptop was still open beside you. The petition was still unfinished in the ways that mattered. Trent was still in custody. There were still calls to answer and forms to submit, and whatever came next was waiting somewhere beyond the quiet of Jack’s kitchen.
But for one second, none of that got to be the center of the room. For one second, it was just Jack’s hand over yours. His thumb moving over your knuckles. His stupid, pleased smile. Boyfriend. Your boyfriend. And the ridiculous, impossible warmth of realizing that even in the middle of all this, something good had still managed to become real.
For a while, the two of you just sat there.
The laptop stayed closed on the island. Your phone stayed quiet. Jack’s hand stayed over yours, his thumb moving slowly over your knuckles like he was not in a hurry to be anywhere else.
The boyfriend thing still sat between you.
Warm. Ridiculous. Real.
You looked down at his hand, then at the half-empty mug beside the laptop. Your coffee had gone cold again. You almost said something about it. Then your stomach made a quiet, unhappy sound.
You froze. Jack’s eyes flicked down. Then back up.
You looked at him. “Do not.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. “I was not.”
“You looked like a man about to say something medically smug,” you said.
His smile deepened. “Medically smug?”
“Yes,” you said. “It’s a whole face you have.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “I have a medically smug face?”
“You absolutely do,” you said.
His eyes warmed. “And what does that face say?”
You gave him a flat look. “It says, ‘I told you your body needed food, sweetheart.’”
Jack stared at you for half a second. Then he laughed. Not a big laugh. Not loud. But real enough that it reached his eyes. The sound moved through the kitchen, low and warm, and something in your chest loosened just to hear it.
You tried not to smile. You failed.
Jack saw it. “I wasn’t going to say sweetheart.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what you’re denying?”
“That was the inaccurate part,” Jack said.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed. Then your stomach pulled again, less quiet this time.
You looked away with a sigh. “Okay. Maybe I’m hungry.”
Jack’s face softened immediately. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just pleased in a way he tried very hard to hide.
You pointed at him. “Do not be happy about that.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’m not happy.”
“You’re extremely happy,” you said.
“I’m calmly encouraged,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “That is worse.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. You reached for your phone and tapped the screen. 5:42. You stared at the time. For some reason, that did more to disorient you than anything else had. Almost six. The same day. Still the same day. This morning, you had been in your apartment with Jack on your couch. This morning, Trent had been on the other side of your door. This morning, you had whispered your address to a dispatcher while Jack stood between you and the sound of the handle rattling.
And now it was almost dinner.
You sat in Jack’s kitchen with paperwork filed and coffee gone cold and his thumb still moving over your hand. A whole day had happened inside half a day.
Jack noticed the shift in your face. “What?”
You turned the phone slightly toward him. “It’s almost six.”
Jack’s gaze moved to the screen. “Yeah.”
You swallowed. “That feels impossible.”
His expression changed. He did not try to fix the feeling.
Jack only nodded once. “I know.”
You set the phone down. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a car passing outside. Your body felt heavy. Your head hurt. Your eyes felt tired. But underneath all of that, there was hunger. Small. Tentative.
Human.
You looked around Jack’s kitchen, then back at him.
“Can I make you dinner?” you asked.
Jack blinked once. Then his face shifted into immediate resistance. “You don’t have to do that.”
You looked at him. “I know.”
“I mean it,” Jack said.
“So do I,” you said.
His eyes searched yours. “You need to rest.”
“I did rest,” you said.
“For a few hours after a traumatic incident,” Jack said. “That’s not exactly a vacation.”
You leaned back slightly. “Are you trying to out-stubborn me?”
You looked down at your joined hands. For a second, the teasing faded. Not because it was gone. Because this mattered more.
“I’m not trying to pay you back,” you said.
Jack went still. You kept your eyes on his hand over yours. “I know I can’t.”
“Sweetheart,” Jack said quietly.
You shook your head. “No, let me say it.”
Jack stopped. He waited. You swallowed hard. “That’s not what this is.”
His voice stayed gentle. “Okay.”
You looked back up at him. “You’ve been standing between me and everything since this morning.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
“The door,” you said. “The police. The calls. The paperwork.”
Jack looked like he wanted to interrupt. You lifted your hand slightly. “Please don’t.”
Jack closed his mouth. Your throat tightened. “Your truck got fucked up because he wanted to punish you for being with me.”
His expression sharpened. “That is not your fault.”
“I know,” you said quickly.
Jack’s face did not ease.
“I know it’s not my fault,” you said again, softer. “I’m trying to know that.”
Jack breathed out through his nose.
You kept going before you lost your nerve. “But it still happened near you because of me. Because you stayed. Because you didn’t run when things got hard or scary or complicated.”
His eyes stayed on yours. You could see the words land. You could see him take them in.
You pressed your fingers against the side of your mug. “You stayed like it was obvious.”
Jack’s face changed. Careful. Quiet. Almost wounded by the idea that it could have been anything else.
“It was obvious,” he said.
Your eyes burned. You looked away for half a second, then forced yourself back to him. “That’s why I want to make dinner.”
Jack’s brows pulled together slightly. You gave him a small, tired smile. “Not because I owe you. Not because I’m trying to earn anything. I just want to do something good for you.”
His throat worked. You added, quieter, “Because you’re here.”
Jack did not speak. Your fingers tightened around the mug again. Then, because apparently this was who you were now, you said, “Because you’re my boyfriend.”
Jack’s eyes warmed immediately. The corner of his mouth lifted.
You pointed at him before he could say anything. “Do not.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
“I was thinking something,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Something smug?”
“Something accurate,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. His smile widened. “About being your boyfriend.”
Your face warmed. “Jack.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping into that flirtatious, entirely too pleased register. “You keep saying it.”
“You keep reacting like that,” you said.
Jack’s brows lifted. “Like what?”
“Like a smug idiot,” you said.
Jack’s grin deepened. “A smug idiot with a girlfriend.”
Your breath caught. Girlfriend. The word hit softer than you expected. Not like a joke. Like a hand settling carefully over something tender. Jack saw it. His expression softened at the edges, though the smugness stayed because he was still Jack.
You looked down, suddenly shy. “So dinner?”
Jack’s hand tightened lightly around yours. “Dinner.”
You glanced up at him. “Is that a yes?”
Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “That’s a yes.”
You studied his face. “You’re going to hover, aren’t you?”
Jack’s expression turned innocent. “I live here.”
You pushed back from the island. “You can live here from over there.”
He rose too, slower, still watching you. “Over where?”
You pointed toward the other side of the kitchen. “There.”
Jack looked at the space you indicated. “That is also my kitchen.”
You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw it and looked pleased with himself.
You crossed toward the fridge, then stopped with your hand on the handle. “Do you have actual food, or is this a bachelor doctor situation?”
Jack looked offended. “I have actual food.”
You opened the fridge. Then you looked back at him.
Jack lifted a brow. “What?”
You stared at him. “You have three kinds of mustard.”
“That is actual food-adjacent,” Jack said.
“You have eggs, Greek yogurt, two takeout containers, and enough condiments to survive an apocalypse,” you said.
Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I also have chicken.”
You searched the fridge again and found it. “Okay. Points for chicken.”
“I accept,” Jack said.
You opened a drawer. “Pasta?”
Jack nodded toward the cabinet beside the stove. “Pantry.”
You found a box of pasta, then parmesan, garlic, butter, and a bag of broccoli in the fridge. You set everything on the counter with more satisfaction than the situation probably deserved.
Jack watched you. “You have a plan.”
“I have a plan,” you said.
His eyes moved over the ingredients. “Pasta?”
You looked at him. “You say that like you’re surprised I can make something from your sad little fridge.”
“My fridge is not sad,” Jack said.
“Your fridge is emotionally unavailable,” you said.
Jack laughed. A real laugh. Low and warm and surprised out of him. The sound loosened something in your chest. You looked at him before you could stop yourself. He noticed.
His smile softened. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
Jack gave you a look. You smiled faintly. “I just like that.”
His voice gentled. “Like what?”
“You laughing,” you said.
Jack’s expression shifted. You looked away before it could get too big.
Then you picked up the parmesan and held it out to him. “Here.”
Jack took it. “What am I doing with this?”
“You’re grating it,” you said.
He looked down at the block of cheese. “I’m allowed to help?”
“You’re allowed to take direction,” you said.
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused. “Dangerous thing to say to me.”
Your face warmed. “Kitchen context, Jack.”
His mouth curved. “Sure.”
You pointed at the cutting board. “Grate the cheese.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.
You turned away too quickly, but you could feel him smiling. For the next few minutes, the kitchen changed around you. Not magically. Not completely. The fear was still there. The paperwork still existed. Your phone still sat on the island, close enough to hear if it rang. But there was garlic beneath your knife. Butter softening in a pan. Jack grating parmesan beside you with an expression of exaggerated concentration.
You handed him the broccoli. Jack looked at it. “Now what?”
You pointed toward the sink. “Wash it.”
Jack looked at you. “That one I knew.”
“Good,” you said. “I’m proud of you.”
He rinsed the broccoli. “That sounded condescending.”
“It was affectionate,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed.
Jack set the broccoli on the cutting board beside you. “What else?”
You glanced around the kitchen. “Set the table.”
His brows lifted. “The table?”
“Yes, the table,” you said. “We’re not eating standing over the counter.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “You have strong opinions about dinner.”
“I’m a woman under stress with access to garlic and pasta,” you said. “Obviously.”
Jack laughed again. This time, you let yourself enjoy it. He moved to the cabinet for plates. You turned back to the stove. The butter melted. The garlic hit the pan. The smell bloomed through the kitchen, rich and warm and immediate.
For the first time since the knock that morning, your body remembered something other than fear. Hunger. Not much. But enough.
You stirred the garlic and breathed in.
Behind you, Jack set plates on the table. Then silverware. Then napkins. Then he came back and stood too close behind you.
You did not even turn around. “You’re hovering.”
Jack’s voice came from just over your shoulder. “I’m observing.”
“You are breathing on my neck,” you said.
“That’s not illegal,” Jack said.
You looked back at him. “It might be in this kitchen.”
His mouth curved. Then his eyes dropped to the pan. “Looks good.”
“You haven’t eaten it yet,” you said.
“I have instincts,” Jack said.
You pointed the spoon at him. “Your instincts live at least two feet away until dinner is done.”
Jack lifted both hands and stepped back. “Yes, chef.”
The words should not have done anything. They absolutely did. Your stomach dipped. Jack saw that too. His smile went slow.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not weaponize kitchen obedience.”
“I would never,” Jack said.
“You absolutely would,” you said.
His gaze stayed on yours. “Yeah.”
You turned back to the stove before your face could give you away. Jack’s quiet laugh followed you. And somehow, impossibly, the sound of it settled into the kitchen beside the garlic and the butter and the late afternoon light.
The day was still the day. Nothing about this morning had disappeared. But Jack was setting the table. You were making dinner. Your boyfriend was grating parmesan in his own kitchen with a smug little smile on his face. And for a few minutes, the good thing got to be louder.
Dinner turned out better than you expected.
Not because you doubted yourself, exactly. More because Jack’s kitchen had given you chicken, pasta, garlic, parmesan, broccoli, and three kinds of mustard, and you had been operating on adrenaline, half a banana, cold coffee, and the emotional equivalent of a system crash.
Still, somehow, it worked.
The pasta was creamy and warm, the chicken browned at the edges, the broccoli tossed with garlic and enough butter to make Jack raise his eyebrows in silent approval when he thought you were not looking. You were looking. You plated his food first and set it down in front of him at the table.
Jack looked at the bowl, then up at you. “This looks really good.”
You sat across from him. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
“I have eyes,” Jack said.
“You also have a boyfriend bias,” you said.
His mouth curved immediately. “I do.”
Your face warmed before you could stop it. Jack looked much too pleased with himself.
You pointed your fork at him. “Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.
You tried not to react. You failed a little. Jack noticed. But he let you pretend he did not, which was generous of him, considering how smug his face looked. He took a bite. For one second, he said nothing. Your stomach dropped.
You sat up straighter. “What?”
Jack looked at the bowl. Then he looked at you.
His voice was quiet and serious enough to make your nerves spike. “That’s really fucking good.”
Relief hit so fast you almost laughed. “Don’t do that.”
Jack frowned. “Compliment your food?”
“Pause like you’re about to deliver bad news,” you said.
“I was appreciating,” Jack said.
“You were creating tension,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “Was I?”
“Yes,” you said. “And you don’t have to lie because I filed a protective order today.”
Jack took another bite. “I’m not that generous.”
A laugh slipped out of you. It came easier this time. Less broken. Less surprised. Jack watched you for half a second, something soft moving through his face, then he looked back down at his bowl and kept eating. That did something to you. You looked down at your own food and took a bite before your throat could get too tight.
The first taste startled you.
Not because it was good, though it was.
Because your body wanted it. Because hunger, real hunger, moved through you after a day spent bracing against fear. You took another bite. Jack noticed, but he only cut into a piece of chicken and said nothing. For several minutes, dinner was just dinner.
Forks against bowls. The quiet scrape of Jack’s chair when he shifted. The low hum of the refrigerator. The soft dimming of the kitchen as the light outside started to fade. Your phone stayed on the island. The laptop stayed closed. The paperwork stayed wherever paperwork went after you had given it everything you could for the moment.
Jack took another bite, then glanced up at you. “You okay?”
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
His brows lifted slightly. You thought about lying. Then you looked at his emptying bowl and decided not to.
“I think this is what I wanted,” you said.
Jack’s face softened. “Dinner?”
You shook your head. “No.”
He waited. You looked at him across the small table. “You sitting down. Eating something. Not watching the door for once.”
Jack’s hand stilled around his fork. Your voice stayed soft. “That’s what I wanted.”
For a second, he did not speak. Then he looked down at his bowl and took another bite like maybe that was easier than answering. You let him have that. A minute later, he stood with his bowl.
You looked up. “Are you done?”
Jack shook his head. “Seconds.”
The word landed harder than it should have. You tried to hide it. Jack saw it anyway.
His voice gentled. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
He stood beside the stove, spooning more pasta into his bowl. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You looked down at your own food. “I just like that you want more.”
Jack was quiet. You glanced up. His expression had softened in that dangerous way again. The kind that made everything in your chest feel too visible.
Then Jack lifted the serving spoon slightly. “It’s really fucking good.”
You smiled down at your bowl. “Okay.”
He came back to the table. “And I’m hungry.”
Your smile grew. “Okay.”
Jack sat again. “And my girlfriend made it.”
Your breath caught. He took another bite like he had not just casually rearranged the room around you. You stared at him.
Jack looked up, all false innocence. “What?”
“You’re abusing the title,” you said.
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Already?”
“Yes,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Good.”
By the time dinner was done, the kitchen had gone soft around the edges. Not clean. Not perfect. There were pans on the stove, plates on the table, parmesan on the counter, and a suspicious amount of garlic on one cutting board. You stood and reached for your bowl.
Jack looked at you. “No.”
You froze. “No?”
Jack stood too. “Dishes can wait.”
“I cooked,” you said.
“And I’ll clean later,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Later when?”
“Later,” Jack said.
“That is not a time,” you said.
“It is tonight’s time,” he said.
You looked at the sink, then back at him. “Jack—”
He leaned one hand on the table. “Sit on the couch with me.”
Your protest died somewhere embarrassingly fast. Jack saw it happen.
His mouth curved. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You rolled your eyes. “Cocky.”
“Accurate,” Jack said.
You pointed toward the sink. “Those dishes are going to be gross later.”
“I’ve survived worse,” he said.
You looked at him. His expression stayed warm, but something quieter moved beneath it. You thought of the morning. The door. The sirens. The truck. The forms.
Then you let the bowl stay on the table.
“Fine,” you said.
Jack’s mouth softened. “Fine?”
You lifted your chin. “I will sit on your couch.”
“My couch is honored,” Jack said.
“You’re very annoying as a boyfriend,” you said.
Jack’s smile turned slow. “As a boyfriend?”
You felt your face warm. “Do not.”
He stepped closer. “I’m just clarifying.”
“You’re fishing,” you said.
“I am,” Jack admitted.
You stared at him. He stared back. Then, because he was impossible and because you apparently liked impossible, you smiled. Jack’s face changed like he had won something. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed two wine glasses from the cabinet.
You leaned against the table and watched him. “Wine?”
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You want some?”
You lifted a brow. “You’re giving me alcohol after everything that happened today?”
“One glass,” Jack said. “Food in you. Boyfriend supervision.”
You laughed. “Boyfriend supervision sounds fake.”
Jack pulled a bottle from the small rack near the counter. “It’s very serious.”
“You made that up,” you said.
“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.
“That does not make boyfriend supervision real,” you said.
Jack worked the cork free. “It does in this house.”
You watched him pour red wine into one glass, then the other. Something warm and reckless moved through you.
You tilted your head. “Careful.”
Jack paused, the bottle hovering over your glass.
You met his eyes. “Red wine gets me into all kinds of trouble.”
For one second, Jack went very still. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately.
When his eyes came back to yours, they were darker than before.
Without looking away, he tipped the bottle and poured a little more into your glass.
Your stomach dipped. You stared at him. “Jack.”
His mouth curved as he set the bottle down. “Good to know.”
You picked up your glass, trying very hard to look unimpressed. “That was reckless.”
Jack handed you the wine. “I made an informed decision.”
You took the glass from him. “Did you?”
His fingers brushed yours. “Yeah.”
You swallowed. Jack picked up his own glass and nodded toward the living room. “Couch?”
You took a small sip of wine. It was smooth and rich and a little too fitting for the look on his face.
You lowered the glass. “Couch.”
The living room was dimmer than the kitchen, washed in the blue-gray light of early evening. Jack clicked on one lamp, warm and low, then set his glass on the coffee table. You sat beside him, close but not quite touching. Your phone sat on the table too. Screen down. Quiet. Jack noticed where your eyes went. He did not say anything. He only reached over and rested his hand on your knee.
You looked down at his hand. “Boyfriend supervision?”
Jack’s thumb moved once. “Exactly.”
You leaned into the couch. “You’re very cocky for someone who became a boyfriend today.”
Jack looked at you over his wine glass. “I’ve been overqualified for the position for a while.”
You laughed immediately. Jack’s mouth curved. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His eyes stayed on you. “That was not nothing.”
“That was just very you,” you said.
Jack set his wine down. “You like very me.”
You took another sip to buy yourself a second. “Unfortunately.”
His hand warmed over your knee. “Unfortunately?”
You looked at him. “Tragically.”
Jack leaned closer. “Devastating for you.”
“Terrible,” you said.
His gaze dropped to your mouth again. This time, he did not hide it. Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb slowed on your knee. “Can I kiss you?”
The question softened the heat without killing it. Your throat tightened.
“You don’t have to ask every time,” you said.
Jack’s eyes came back to yours. His voice went low. “Today I do.”
Everything in you went quiet. Not scared. Not frozen. Quiet. Like some part of your body had needed him to say exactly that.
You leaned closer, your voice softer. “Yes.”
Jack kissed you like he had been waiting.
Not rushing. Not taking. Waiting.
His mouth found yours softly at first, warm from wine and dinner and the smile he had been fighting all night. His hand stayed on your knee, careful, while yours moved to the front of his shirt. You gripped the fabric. Jack made a low sound against your mouth. The sound went through you fast. Too fast.
You kissed him harder. His hand slid from your knee to your thigh, still careful, still giving you room to move away if you wanted to. You did not move away. You shifted closer. Jack let you. He let you set the pace, let you angle your body toward his, let you decide when soft was not enough anymore.
The next kiss was deeper. Hotter. His mouth opened under yours, and your fingers tightened in his shirt as heat moved through you, sharp and welcome and so much better than fear. Jack’s other hand came up to your jaw. His thumb brushed along the edge of your face, steadying without holding you still. You made a small sound against his mouth.
Jack pulled back half an inch. “You okay?”
You nodded, breath uneven. “Yeah.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”
You kissed him again instead of answering. Jack’s hand flexed on your thigh. There he was. Still careful. Still Jack. But warmer now. Hungrier. His mouth moved against yours like he could feel the line you were drawing and wanted to follow it exactly.
You shifted again, your knee pressing into the couch beside his hip. Jack’s hand moved to your waist, not pulling, just there in case you wanted the balance. You did. You moved into his lap slowly, giving yourself time to change your mind. You did not.
Jack stayed very still beneath you until you settled over him. Then his hands found your hips. Firm and careful. Reverent enough to make your chest ache and confident enough to make your stomach flip.
He looked up at you, eyes dark and warm. “Hi.”
A laugh broke out of you, breathless and unsteady. “Hi.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “This okay?”
You looked down at him, at the open want on his face, at the restraint still threaded through his hands. “Yes,” you said. “This is okay.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Then he kissed you again. The angle changed everything. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, and his arms came around you more fully, holding you close but not trapping you. His mouth was hotter now, less careful at the edges, still controlled but only barely.
You could taste the wine on him.
The whole ridiculous miracle of being wanted by someone who had seen you scared and shaking and still looked at you like this. Like you were not broken open. Like you were here. Like you were his girlfriend in his lap on his couch, and that was allowed to matter more for a minute.
Jack’s hand moved slowly up your back. You leaned into him. He smiled against your mouth.
You felt it and pulled back just enough to glare at him. “What?”
Jack’s breathing was rougher now. “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That was a smile.”
“Was it?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack’s hands settled at your hips again. “I like this.”
Your face warmed. His eyes stayed on yours. “I like you here,” Jack said.
The words were simple. Low. Devastating.
You swallowed. Then you leaned down and kissed him again because answering that out loud felt too big. Jack met you halfway. The kiss turned messy in the best way, your hands in his shirt, his fingers pressing into your hips, your body finally remembering that wanting could be safe, that heat did not have to come with fear attached to it.
You rolled your hips without fully meaning to. Jack’s grip tightened. Just once. Enough that you felt the restraint in him snap taut.
He broke the kiss with a rough breath. “Careful.”
You stilled immediately. “Too much?”
His eyes opened. Dark. Focused.
“No,” Jack said, voice rough. “That’s the problem.”
Your stomach flipped. “Oh,” you said.
His mouth curved, smug even through the heat. “Yeah. Oh.”
You stared at him for half a second. Then a laugh slipped out of you. Soft. Breathless. Almost disbelieving.
Jack’s hands loosened on your hips immediately, his thumbs brushing over you in slow, grounding strokes. You looked down at him, your heart beating hard for reasons that had nothing to do with panic. Then you leaned back slightly, just enough to breathe. Jack watched you, chest rising beneath your hands.
You brushed your thumb over the open collar of his shirt. “Told you.”
His eyes narrowed faintly, mouth curving. “Told me what?”
You leaned closer until your mouth hovered near his. “Trouble,” you whispered.
Jack’s smile went slow. Wicked. Warm. So pleased with you it made your whole body ache. His hands settled more firmly at your hips.
“I poured accordingly,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. Then you laughed into his mouth when he kissed you again. Jack swallowed the sound like he wanted to keep it. His hands tightened at your hips, careful but firmer now, and you let yourself sink closer. Into the warmth of him. Into the solid press of his body beneath yours. Into the impossible fact that this day had held police and paperwork and fear, but it had also held this.
His mouth moved against yours, slow and deep, tasting faintly of wine. You kissed him back harder. Jack made a rough sound low in his throat. The sound went straight through you. Your fingers slid into his hair before you could think better of it, and his grip flexed once at your waist.
Not stopping you. Not rushing you. Just feeling it. Feeling you.
You pulled back only far enough to breathe. Jack’s eyes opened, dark and warm and fixed entirely on you. His chest rose beneath your hands. For a second, neither of you spoke. The living room was quiet around you. The lamp threw soft light across his face. Your phone stayed silent on the coffee table. The wine sat forgotten beside it.
Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “You okay?”
You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah.”
His mouth curved. “Good.”
You looked at him, still sitting in his lap, your hands braced against his shoulders, your body warm in a way that had nothing to do with panic.
“Good?” you asked.
Jack’s smile turned smug. “Very good.”
You huffed a laugh. “You’re so annoying.”
His hands slid slowly along your sides, settling again at your hips. “That hasn’t stopped you yet.”
You leaned closer. “Maybe I have questionable taste.”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “Maybe.”
You kissed him again before he could look too pleased with himself. This time, he smiled into it. You felt it. You loved it. That was dangerous, too. Not bad dangerous.
Not the kind that made your body go cold.
This was the kind that made everything in you wake up. The kind that made you want to press closer, breathe harder, forget the closed laptop in the kitchen and the paperwork saved inside it and the fact that this morning had almost swallowed you whole.
Jack’s hand moved up your back. You arched into him without meaning to. His breath caught. Then he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice rough.
You opened your eyes. “What?”
Jack breathed out slowly. “We should slow down.”
Your stomach dipped for a half second. Jack caught it immediately. His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing gently along your jaw.
“Not because I don’t want you,” he said.
Your breath caught. His eyes stayed on yours. “I do.”
The words landed low and warm. Simple. Unmistakable.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your skin. “A lot.”
Your lips parted. He gave you a look. A tiny warning. Soft. Amused. Still heated.
“Don’t look at me like that after I just said we should slow down,” Jack said.
A laugh slipped out of you, breathless and startled. “Sorry.”
“You are not,” Jack said.
“No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”
His mouth curved. You let your forehead rest against his again. For a moment, both of you just breathed. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. Jack’s arms settled around you. Holding. Not trapping. Not taking. Just holding. The heat did not vanish. It settled. Changed shape. Became something warm enough to stay with.
Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. For a moment, both of you just breathed. Then your throat tightened.
“I don’t want him to ruin this,” you said.
Jack’s thumb stilled at your back. You swallowed and kept your forehead against his. “Us.”
For half a second, Jack did not move. Then his arms tightened around you. Not hard. Not frantic. Certain.
“He doesn’t get to ruin us,” Jack said.
Your eyes burned, but not in the same way as before.
“He’s already in so much of it,” you whispered.
Jack turned his head enough to press his mouth to your temple. “Then we make more.”
Your breath caught. His hand moved slowly over your back.
“More of this,” Jack said quietly. “More good. More us.”
You closed your eyes. The words settled somewhere deep. Not a promise that everything would be easy. Not a denial of what had happened. Just a promise that Trent did not get to be the only thing that mattered. You nodded against him. Jack kissed your temple again. Then he kissed your cheek. Then near the corner of your mouth.
Your laugh came out small against his shoulder. “You’re very committed to this.”
Jack’s voice warmed. “Follow-up care is important.”
You lifted your head and looked at him. For one second, you just stared. Then you laughed. A real laugh. Tired. Soft. A little wrecked around the edges. Jack watched you like the sound was worth everything.
“Unfortunately, that was funny,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Unfortunately?”
You settled against him, your cheek near his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”
Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back. “Too late.”
You closed your eyes. The dishes were still in the sink. The paperwork was still waiting in Jack’s kitchen. Trent was still in custody. Jack’s truck was still somewhere with two ruined tires and a long scratch down the side. None of it had disappeared. But Jack’s arms were around you. His mouth was warm against your temple. His laugh was still caught somewhere in his chest.
And for once, the good thing was not waiting politely outside the bad thing.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Michael Robinavitch x f!Reader
Series Description: Jack Abbot and Michael Robinavitch are your soulmates, but you're not going to let them find that out. Eight months and one hit and run later, they might have some opinions about that.
Tags/Warnings: A/B/O, Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury (Reader gets in a car crash) Significant Age Difference (40s/50s with 20s), Reader is a psych nurse who works in the pitt, Jack and Robby are in an established relationship, both Jack and Robby go a bit feral in this chapter
Wordcount: 7.8k
Author's Note: I can't quite believe how well this story has done- thank you all so much for the comments and support, it's really helped motivate me. I really hope this lives up to yall's expectations- I'm very open to feedback!!! Also yes I'm back on nights that is the only reason I was able to find the time to edit this lol
Part 1 Part 2
Barely ten hours later, Jack found himself back in the Pitt, the smell of coffee and antiseptic stinging in his nose as he went to the nurses' desk to find Robby.
He'd slept better than he slept most days, lulled by the steady chatter of the police scanner. But no amount of sleep ever made up for the exhaustion that came from a job like this- exhaustion that had followed him from med school to the army all the way to now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt rested- really, truly rested- but he'd learnt long ago how to function without it- how to push through the haze and focus on whatever was in front of him.
Like now. Finding his mate. Figuring out what fresh hell the night shift had in store for him.
He found Robby at the nursing station, leaning against the desk as he frowned down at the tablet in front of him. He looked tired, but not unusually so- just that familiar, soul-deep weariness that came with running an ER day in and day out. His glasses had slipped down his nose slightly, resting precariously against the bump where it had been broken one too many times, and Jack felt the brief, automatic urge to push them back into place, or smooth away the lines between his brows.
Instead, he just made his way over and settled himself next to Robby, bumping his shoulder.
"Evenin'," he greeted.
"Evening Jack," Robby replied, tilting his head to look down at him over the rim of his glasses, "Back so soon?"
"Oh, you know me," Jack said, "Can't stay away from this place."
Robby snorted softly and returned to his chart while Jack dropped his bag and leaned down onto the desk, resting on his forearms as he scanned the department.
"How's it been?"
Robby shrugged, still focused on the tablet. “There’s been more of that drug you mentioned. We managed to get a sample to the lab, but even they couldn’t tell us what it is. We do know it’s being cut with fentanyl - and it’s getting passed around like goddamn party favours.” He paused, and Jack glanced over. Robby had straightened slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. "Had three fentanyl OD's this afternoon. Lost one of them."
Oh.
"How old?"
"Seventeen."
Oh.
"Shit," he murmured, leaning into Robby's space to try to catch his eye. Robby wouldn't meet it. "I'm sorry Mikey. That's never easy."
"Yeah, well-" Robby pushed off the desk and started walking, clearly unwilling to talk about it anymore. Jack let it go.
But Jack knew he'd take that death home with him, just as he'd taken every death home with him since he started this goddamn job- especially the kids. No matter what Robby told the residents, you never really got used to the ones you couldn’t save.
Especially the kids.
They walked in silence for a few moments before Robby started again.
"How d'you sleep?" he asked.
“Better than usual. Never enough.” Jack shrugged as they passed North 5. "But I'm ready to go."
Robby's mouth twitched in a half-smile. "You always are, brother."
They moved through the department, rounding informally as they went, checking in with residents and nurses in passing. It was the last hour of the day shift, and the ER had that familiar, slightly frantic edge to it- everyone pushing to wrap things up so they wouldn’t have to stay late. They would anyway. They always did.
As they walked, Jack found himself keeping an eye out for you. You were someone who liked to come in early, settling yourself before your shift officially started. More often than not, by this point, you’d be by the coffee machine in the break room, nursing a cup and trying to drag yourself awake. Jack liked those moments- the quiet, half-asleep conversations before the department tipped over into chaos. He wondered, absently, if he’d catch you there today, if he might get the chance to ask how you’d slept. He thought he’d like that.
"Looking for something?" Robby asked mildly, but with a slight twist to his mouth that betrayed his amusement.
"I'm… just seeing who's clocking in for overtime."
"Oh-hoh," Robby laughed, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were coming for my job, brother."
Robby barked a laugh, glancing down at him with an easy, familiar fondness- finally meeting his eye again. "Have it. I'd like to see you and Gloria go head-to-head over schedules. Could get Ahmad to bet on that."
Jack grinned and shook his head. “Nah. I'll leave you to handle that particular nightmare."
"Mm-hm," Robby muttered, stepping aside to let a group of nurses rush past with a gurney. "Just one of my many talents." They walked a few more steps before he added, quieter, “She’ll be here.”
And there it was: that mutual understanding that existed when it came to you. Just a small thread in their bond, almost too fine to notice, but always present. Jack didn't need to respond. He just let it settle as it always did- understood, left alone, but never quite forgotten.
And then they moved on.
“So, we actually have some free beds,” Robby said, already shifting gears as he launched into handover.
Jack focused on listening, filing it all away into his tired mind: ICU full, no surprise there; two psych beds open upstairs; all ORs staffed and running. Trauma Bay One was closed for deep cleaning.
Just a normal Thursday.
But even as Robby finished handover and the clock hit 19:05, you still hadn't shown up.
Now that was unusual. You were always early- twenty minutes, minimum. Ten if something had gone wrong. Jack glanced around the nurses' station- although most nurses were handing over to their night shift counterparts, the day shift psych nurse was still sitting at her computer, typing something up- with no you.
Odd. He and Robby exchanged a look, then, without a word, started another slow pass through the department. Jack even ducked into the staff lounge for a coffee on the off chance you'd decided coffee was a necessity even if you were late, but there was no sign of you there either. By the time they circled back, the psych nurse was bundled into her winter coat, checking her watch with an impatient huff.
Still no you.
Robby had a slight downturn to his lips- not quite a frown, but approaching one.
"I wonder where she is." he commented, glancing around.
“Probably traffic,” Jack said, not believing it for a second. But if Robby worried, Robby would stay- and Robby needed to go home. Jack wasn’t about to let what was, realistically, probably nothing derail his mate's already fragile sleep schedule.
"You want me to-"
There it was.
"I want you to go home," Jack cut in.
"But if something's wrong-"
"It's probably nothing." Jack said firmly, "but I'll have Lena give her a call anyway."
Robby didn’t look convinced. His eyes drifted past Jack again, scanning the corridor like he might have missed something. It was that same stubborn streak- only this time it wasn’t just about the job. It was about you.
But Jack waited him out. He was good at that.
Slowly, reluctantly, Robby started pulling on his coat, packing his things away with the kind of deliberate delay that made Jack want to roll his eyes. Robby made a half-hearted attempt at conversation with a couple of nurses, but Jack glared at them until they left them both alone. Eventually, there was nothing left to stall over.
“You sure you don’t want me to stick around?” Robby tried, one last half-hearted attempt.
“Yes. I can’t remember the last time you left on time; let’s keep it that way.” Jack tipped his head toward the exit. “Go home, Mikey. Get some sleep.”
Robby hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But call if you need anything.”
Jack gave his hand a quick squeeze, then watched him disappear down the hall. A little bit of his heart followed him out.
Jack let out a quiet breath, then turned his mind back to the situation. Shift to run, errant nurse to track down. He turned to Lena, who was already typing away at her computer at the centre of all the chaos of the nursing station. She glanced up as he approached, one eyebrow lifting.
“You heard from our favourite psych nurse?” Jack asked, keeping his tone deliberately casual. No need to cause panic.
Lena shook her head. “Nothing. Unlike her, isn't it?"
Jack frowned, trying to ignore the discomfort in his stomach. If something was wrong, Jack was sure you would've called in to let Lena know.
“Can you give her a buzz? See where she’s at?"
Lena nodded, already reaching for the phone. "Already on it," she smiled a little at Jack, "I'll track her down, Cap; don't worry."
Jack felt a brief, familiar flicker of relief. Lena was good- damn good- and fiercely protective of her nurses. If something was off, she’d get to the bottom of it.
She raised a second eyebrow at him.
Right. Shift to run.
He turned away to the group of night shifters who were gathering around for huddle. It was a good lineup tonight- Ellis and Toomarian on, Henderson as senior. With Lena running the floor, things were in good hands.
He got through huddle as quickly as possible, passing on all the little things he needed to have a functioning ER.
“Remember,” he said, the words automatic even as part of his mind stayed elsewhere, “trust your gut, and trust each other. We’ve got a good team tonight.”
A few nods- impatient more than anything. They wanted to get moving. Fair enough.
He wrapped it up quickly, watching them break and scatter, then lingered just long enough to make sure nothing immediately needed him.
Nothing did, so he made his way back to Lena.
19:25.
“Any luck?”
Lena shook her head, a faint crease forming between her brows as she wrote something down on a chart. For Lena, that was as close to concern as it got.
“Rings through. No answer.”
Jack winced, then pushed the reaction down. You'd probably slept through you alarm or something- wouldn't be the first time, wouldn't be the last.
And yet.
Just like the traffic excuse, something just didn't feel right.
“Keep trying,” he said. “And if you can’t get her, maybe try her flatmate. Hayley? Hazel?”
“Hannah,” Lena corrected immediately. “She brought in brownies from her that one night shift.” She flicked him a look over the top of her glasses. “Hey. You worry about your residents and I'll worry about my nurses, okay?"
Jack raised his hands in surrender, backing off with a huff of quiet amusement.
The night moved on from there.
EMTs burst through the doors not 5 minutes later, calling out stats as they wheeled in a trauma, and Jack snapped into motion. There was something almost comforting in it- the chaos, the immediacy. The world narrowed to vitals and interventions, to what was right in front of him. No space for unanswered calls when someone was bleeding out on your table.
They kept coming after that, one after another, the next hour blurring into a relentless sequence of controlled crisis. Stab wound. Car crash. Gunshot. Fast. Messy. Exactly the kind of work that demanded everything and left no room for anything else.
They came in fast and messy- just how he liked them. His residents were doing well tonight, and he felt a sense of satisfaction as he talked Toomarian through a tricky intubation.
The second he had a moment to breathe- 20:30- he went looking for Lena, lifting an eyebrow in question the moment he found her.
“Nothing,” she said immediately. Her expression had tightened. “Got hold of her flatmate. Said she left for work at the usual time. She should be here.”
Was it bad that Jack felt a grim sense of satisfaction that his gut feeling was correct? Maybe. Probably.
“If she’s not here in thirty minutes, we report her missing,” he said decisively. It might be early, but this didn’t add up- and it was cold as hell out there.
He wasn’t taking chances. He could see it in the way Lena's eyes kept darting to the door, could hear it in the hushed whispers of the other nurses as they worked around him.
You were well liked in the Pitt: funny, good at your job and fiercely protective of your fellow staff members. That you were missing was throwing them all off.
As Lena walked off, Jack took a moment to lean against the wall and just breathe. His leg was already starting to ache- too damn early in the shift for that- and his head felt crowded, thoughts slipping, again and again, back to you.
Damn it.
He dragged in a breath, then another, forcing himself- finally- to use the grounding exercises his therapist had been pushing on him for months. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. Slow. Controlled.
It helped. Just enough that when Toomarian reappeared at his side, asking to present a case, Jack was able to turn back to the work with something like focus, locking onto it with the same single-minded intensity as before.
It lasted just long enough to feel stable.
"Jack!"
Lena’s voice cut through the department hard enough to snap his attention up. She was hurrying toward him, face pale in a way that immediately made something in his stomach tighten.
“What?” he asked instantly.
She swallowed, stopping just short of him. “Just got a call from EMT.”
That alone wasn’t unusual. The look on her face was.
Jack’s stomach dropped a fraction. “What is it?”
Lena hesitated- just long enough to matter- then forced the words out. “Hit-and-run. Downtown. Young woman. Police found her on the roadside- alone."
She didn’t say your name. She didn’t need to. Still, he needed to check.
"Did you get a description?"
She nodded. "It matches."
For a moment, everything tilted. The noise of the department seemed to fall away, narrowing down to that single point.
You.
Hurt.
Bad enough for an ambulance. Bad enough for Lena to look like that.
"ETA and status?" he got out, voice rough.
“Three minutes,” Lena said quickly. “GCS six. Multiple rib and limb fractures. Probable internal bleeding. Severely hypothermic-core temp eighty-five. She’s been down in the snow for two hours at least."
Two hours.
The number landed heavy, sickening in its weight. Two hours of lying on the freezing ground, bleeding and hurt and alone and waiting for help that never came- and he had been here, moving from patient to patient like it was any other shift.
It was horrible. It was cruel. And it was completely fucking unnecessary.
Rage rippled hot and sharp beneath his skin at the asshole who’d left you there like trash on the side of the road- he cut it off hard. There wasn’t time for this. Not now.
“Alright,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Let’s get ready. Trauma 2, full team. I want X-ray and CT standing by, O-neg on a rapid infuser. Full hypothermia protocol- Bair hugger and warm fluids ready. Page Garcia-tell her to be ready for the OR.”
Lena was already moving before he finished, shouting out orders. The department snapped into motion around them, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate: quieter, sharper. A colleague coming in like this was never just another case. This was one of their own.
Jack let himself notice for a full five seconds before he turned away, heading straight for the ambulance bay. The cold hit him the second he stepped outside, sharp enough to steal his breath, but he barely registered it through the adrenaline. His focus narrowed to the sound growing in the distance- a distant wail that gradually filled the space around him until it was all he could hear, echoing in time with the frantic beat of his own heart.
God, he needed to get it together.
He’d worked in war zones with less than this- less equipment, less backup, less time. He'd stood over bodies with nothing but his hands and his wits and whatever supplies he could scrounge up from the nearest wrecked vehicle. This was nothing new. And yet, none of it made a damn difference in this moment.
Even though he could only claim you as a colleague, maybe as a friend at most, he knew this bone-deep, visceral fear was far beyond what he'd feel for any other nurse. No, this fear was something he only ever felt for Robby.
And that scared him.
He tried the breathing again.
In. Hold. Out.
In. Hold. Out.
Come on, Abbot, just fucking breathe. Don't think about the woman lying in the cold, scared and alone while blood leeches into the snow around her. Don't think about her blue lips and shallow breaths or the way she might have reached out, hoping someone would see her. Don't think-
It wasn't working. Panic was crawling up his throat, sharp and paralysing, the kind he hadn't felt since the desert, since the roadside where everything fell apart. His mind flashed with images that didn't belong there but felt terrifyingly real: your face pale and bloodless, your body crumpled and still against the cold ground.
That was when his army instincts kicked in- a soldier's response that came too late for himself but just in time for you. He shut it down. Whatever his mind was reaching for- fear, rage, something softer, more dangerous- he pushed it into a locked box he'd built years ago in a place that had been hotter, louder, dustier and just as unforgiving. He would feel it all later. If later came at all.
Instead, he forced his focus back where it belonged, to the medicine, running protocols in his head- hypothermia, massive transfusion, TBI management- lining everything up so there would be no hesitation when you came through those doors.
Seconds stretched, but he counted them anyway, steadying his breathing, locking himself into the rhythm of it.
Then the sirens screamed, and the ambulance burst through the bay in a spray of snow and gravel. Before the doors had even opened, Jack was moving forward, eyes locked on the rear of the vehicle, already taking you in.
"Female," the paramedic called out, half-barking as they rolled you off the ambulance, "approximate age thirty, found in roadway. Hit-and-run driver unknown. No ID on scene. BP 70/30, heart rate 110, o2 sat 85 on fifteen litres. GCS six. Pupils unequal, sluggish. Abdomen’s rigid- we’re thinking splenic rupture. Uneven chest movements. Multiple fractures, ribs and all four limbs. Core temp 86 now- we've been trying to warm her up, but it's slow going."
Yeah, he could fucking feel that as he reached for your wrist to check the radial pulse, which was weak, fast and thready. Your skin was ice cold, waxy and pale. Blood had soaked through the blankets they'd wrapped around you, seeping out and dripping onto the gurney as they moved you from the rig. Jack risked a glance at your face- slack, unresponsive, blood matted in your hair- and some part of him just cracked at the sight. He tightened his grip for just a second, forcing himself to feel the pulse beneath his fingers as a sign that you were alive- then he let go.
"What's the drip?" He kept his voice steady, sharp, clinical- all he could afford to be right now.
"Warm saline, wide open. We've given two units O-neg too but her blood pressure's still tanking."
"Why didn't you intubate?"
"Tried," the paramedic grunted. "Jaw's too stiff from hypothermia."
Jack nodded, already adjusting the plan in his head as they started moving inside.
“Trauma Two,” he called, “Let’s move.”
The team was already waiting as they rolled you through the doors, swarming in from all sides with practiced speed. He noticed Garcia somehow already standing by, and he nodded to her gratefully as he took his place as trauma lead.
“Alright, let’s get those clothes off. Full head-to-toe. EFAST now. I want cross-matched blood started immediately- Ellis, start a central. Lindsey get the rapid warmer going- let's push some heat into her.”
Everyone moved in unison, cutting away your clothes with practiced speed as the gurney locked into place. As more of you were revealed, Jack’s stomach clenched even harder.
Deep purple bruises flowered across your ribs, your limbs twisted unnaturally, the breaks clear and ugly even before X-ray. Your skin was too pale, your breathing laboured and shallow- the left side of your chest barely moving. Your abdomen was distended- he probed it tentatively, feeling the firmness underneath that screamed internal bleed. Broken ribs on both sides.
"Alright, watch the chest wall," he called to the team, "ribs are shattered. We could puncture a lung just looking at her wrong."
He kept scanning your body- noting the way your head lolled too loosely to one side, the unnatural angle of your right arm. He reached for your face, tilting your head back slightly to check your airway, to see if anything obstructed it, but his breath caught for half a second as he found himself looking down at you properly.
He'd grown used to seeing you at work- composed, smart and always a little amused behind that dry wit of yours. But this? You were reduced to this: cold and broken beneath him. The image burned itself into his memory, raw and vivid in a way that made his chest ache.
It was too close. Too much.
Jack forced himself to look away, blinking hard to clear his head. He found Lena at the end of the gurney, her eyes wide with worry as she glanced up at him.
He nodded once, tightly, then lifted his voice again.
"EFAST now- let's see how much blood we're dealing with. I want a chest tube on the left and I want to get her intubated before she drops any further- but watch the jaw, they couldn't get it in the field."
"Abbot," Ellis said, standing ready with a central line kit, "There's a soulmark cover. I need it off for the central line."
"Scent blocker too," Lena cut in from the head of the table, where she was holding your head steady, "You need it off?"
Jack hesitated, but only for a second.
"Yes," he said quickly, hating the word even as it left his mouth. "Get 'em both off."
Soulmarks and scent were private, intimate- and exposing yours in front of the whole trauma team felt wrong on a level that made his skin crawl. But there wasn't a choice. He needed access, and he needed to know what they were dealing with- even if that meant watching them peel back your most vulnerable secrets under the glaring lights of the trauma bay.
He saw Lena nod, her fingers quick as she peeled the covering away and then ripped the scent blocker off.
The effect was immediate. The scent hit him like a physical force- sharp, acrid, saturated with fear. Omega. Distressed, hurt, scared omega.
Jack’s breath caught hard in his chest as something instinctive surged up- hot, violent and utterly irrational. Someone had hurt you. Broken you. Left you out there to die.
The urge to tear something apart flared fast and bright. For a half second, he felt himself slip and then he wrenched it back, forced himself to focus.
Around him, the room had fallen into a hush, and Jack opened his eyes to find everyone frozen- Ellis with the ultrasound raised mid-air, other members stopped in motion, staring in shock. He glanced down, following their eyes.
And everything stopped.
Because there, staring up at him from your chest was a mark. Robby's mark. His mark. The one Robby had touched so many times, kissed and traced in the privacy of their bed, thinking it was just theirs- but there it was, stark against your skin for everyone to see. Identical in every way.
Time seemed to fracture. Jack felt the ground tilt beneath as sound became a useless, broken thing. Someone let out a shaky breath; another cursed under their breath- low and sharp. His own pulse roared in his ears.
Soulmate. You were his soulmate.
And he hadn't known. He hadn't- fuck. He had no idea.
In the space of half a second, he went from fear to disbelief, then straight into an all-consuming panic that tore through him with the force of a goddamn freight train. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. All he could see was you- broken, bleeding, dying- his mate. The word echoed in his skull, a foreign concept suddenly made real and devastating. This wasn't just a colleague anymore; it wasn't just a woman he respected and admired from afar. This was the one person destined for him and Robby, the piece of their bond they never knew was missing. And you were lying on a trauma table, slipping away while he stood frozen in horror, helplessly watching your life drain away onto the sterile white sheets beneath you.
“Alright, that’s enough.”
Garcia was there suddenly, stepping into his space without hesitation, snapping her fingers once in front of his face. Jack blinked at her, slow to process the words. She wasn’t yelling, but it felt like she was.
“You need to get it together,” she said sharply, “or you need to get out.”
“What?” The word felt strange in his mouth, disconnected. His mind was still on you- pale, broken, your scent everywhere, your soulmark burning into his vision like it had been branded there.
Garcia nodded once, like that confirmed something she already knew.
“Abbot. You are compromised.”
Jack frowned.
Compromised.
The word didn’t fit- not the way she was saying it. Like he was unreliable. Like he wasn’t functioning. He was functioning. He was fixing it. They were fixing you.
"Abbot," she said again, firmer. "Step back. You are delaying her care."
No he wasn't. He was helping. His brain was just catching up with his body, that was all. There were things that needed to be done- tubes to place, fluids to run, blood to transfuse- though right now he couldn't quite remember which came first. The plan was all jumbled, scattered across his mind like the pieces of gravel he could see embedded in your legs.
"Right, I'm taking over." Garcia all but shoved him out of the way, taking over with all the assurance only someone of her skill could. "Ellis, keep prepping that central line. Henderson, intubate. Toomarian, tell me what's going on with that abdomen." The team around him responded without question, falling into step behind her as she started calling out instructions.
Jack blinked, dragging his attention toward her with effort. “What? No- I’m- ” He shook his head once, like that might clear it. It didn’t. “I’m fine. I can do this.”
"You're not fine!" she called over her shoulder, too busy monitoring the intubation to look up, "That is your soulmate on the table, Abbot, and I do not have the time or patience to argue with you about treating her. I swear, you'll thank me later."
It wasn't that he was arguing, exactly; it was that every instinct he had was telling him to stay, to fix this, to be here for you. But Garcia had stepped between him and you, a small but unmovable wall as she kept giving orders.
And Jack Abbot wasn't used to being kept out of a trauma. He worked them- and for good reason. He knew what he was doing in a trauma bay, even with the ground shifting beneath his feet.
He moved, almost unconsciously, trying to angle for a better view around her. You'd been rolled slightly onto your side so Henderson could intubate. They were securing your airway now- Jack could see the tube going in, the breath sounds crackling over the ventilator. He tried again, moving around the edge of the bed to get a look at your vitals board on the other side. Still shockingly low BP- still barely responding to fluids.
"Dr Abbot."
A nurse- Lindsey?- was standing in front of him now, one hand on his chest, pushing him back. He looked down at the hand- then back at her, confused. Why was she blocking him? He was only trying to help, to do his job.
"Dr Abbot," she said, voice a little softer, eyes watching him carefully. "You should step outside."
"I don't need to step outside," he insisted, though the words felt thick and clumsy. The room was getting crowded- so many people around him now, moving fast but not letting him any closer. He could still see you over their shoulders; blood was being pumped in fast now, but still your BP wasn't budging.
He just- he just needed you. To touch you, to calm you, to tell you everything was going to be alright because he was here now and he was never, ever going to let anything hurt you again-
"Someone get security." he heard Garcia say, her voice hard but oddly distant, like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel. "He's not going to leave."
Leave? Why would he leave? Jack shook his head, trying to get his feet under him. No. He was fine. The world just needed to stop spinning for a minute and he'd-
Hands landed on him a second later- firm, practiced, impersonal. Someone at his shoulder, another catching his arm. Their touch was clinical but unwelcome, an intrusion that Jack's instincts registered as threat even through the haze of panic clouding his mind. Jack let it happen for all of three full steps before his body caught up, muscles tensing under restraint as years of combat training surged to the surface.
“Wait-” The word came out strained, his focus snapping back to you as the distance between you widened by inches. “No, just- give me a second, I need to- ”
The need to get back to you surged again, sharper this time, cutting through everything else. He twisted against their grip, not fully aware of it until they tightened their hold in response.
“Jack,” someone said- Lena, maybe- but it didn’t quite reach him.
All he could track was the space opening up between him and the bed.
Wrong.
The thought hit hard and immediate, overriding everything else. Wrong to leave. Wrong to step away. Wrong to let anyone else between him and-
“I need to be in there,” he said, still trying to keep his voice steady even as panic clawed at the edges of it. “I need to-"
He pulled again, harder this time, breath unsteady, control slipping in a way that felt both distant and terrifyingly close. He twisted hard against the guards’ grip, muscle memory kicking in on instinct. He knew how to do this- how to shift his weight, how to break a hold, how to turn someone else’s strength against them. And for a second it worked- the hold loosened, just slightly- and then his balance went.
The prosthetic didn’t give the way his body expected. His footing slipped half a beat off, just enough to throw everything out of sync, just enough to cost him the advantage.
And then he was being dragged back, back toward the door before he fully registered it. He could hear Lena and Darius, the night shift head of security, and Jack knew he'd fucked up if Darius had been dragged into it. Still, all he could focus on was you, on the life fading from your eyes as you lay there on that bed.
"No-"
His arms were wrenched behind his back, tight enough to hurt, and he was dragged into the corridor, the glass doors slamming shut between him and the trauma bay. He kept his eyes on you, unwilling to look away even for a moment, until Darius stepped in front of him. He was a mountain of a man, ex-military like Jack, with dark eyes and an unflinching expression. For a split second, something sharp and reactive surged up-an instinct to push past him, to remove the obstacle- but Jack blinked hard, forcing it back. He wasn’t in the field anymore. And Darius was not an enemy.
They'd sat in too many VA meetings together for that.
Jack let out a shaky breath and forced himself to meet Darius’s eyes. Tried to sound rational even though the inside of his head was anything but.
"You need to listen to me," he gritted out, voice taut. "I am the night shift attending in charge of this ER. That is my patient."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the queen of England," Darius shot back, deadpan. His hands stayed firm at Jack’s wrists, keeping the pressure steady as Jack struggled to regain control.
Jack pressed on, desperate and unthinking. "I am the most qualified person in this damn ED-"
"Not in this state you’re not," Darius cut in, unimpressed. His eyes flicked down once, tracking something Jack couldn't see- his breathing, the shaking of his hands- and Jack flushed hot with shame. He knew what he must look like. It wasn't good.
Darius’s voice shifted then, slightly less hard. More like he was trying to talk him off a ledge instead of off a patient. "Jack. My man. Listen to me." Darius turned them both so Jack was facing away from the doors, forcing his focus away from the chaos inside. Jack fought it, craning his neck to catch even a glimpse of you- then gave in, grudgingly, when Darius didn't budge.
He stared at the wall opposite instead, trying to even out his breathing while Darius kept talking. "You're not doing yourself or her any favours right now. Whatever is happening in there- they've got it."
"She's my soulmate." It came out broken, but he needed Darius to know- to understand that what was happening in that room wasn't just another patient. It was everything.
Darius’s expression barely flickered. He'd seen enough soulbonds play out in his own time- the best and the absolute worst- to know what this looked like.
"I know," he said, calm as ever. "But you're a doctor first, and this is a hospital. Let them do their job."
Jack exhaled roughly, body sagging a little in Darius’s hold as the fight ebbed out of him. Not because he believed it- because there wasn't another option. He couldn't push his way back in there without making things worse.
"Jack?" Lena was standing at his side, cautious in a way she rarely was. He turned to her, then took in the rest of the corridor properly for the first time. The department was oddly quiet, staff keeping a wide berth as they sneaked glances his way. Some of the nurses were whispering amongst themselves, but when he caught their eye they quickly looked away.
Scared. They were scared of him- or at least of what they'd just seen. He swallowed, forcing down the bitterness of it. He hadn't meant to-
Fuck.
"Jack," Lena repeated, anchoring his gaze on her, "I've called Robby. He's on his way in."
Robby. Jesus, Robby. In all his panic, Jack hadn't even thought to call his mate.
"He's-" his voice cracked, and he swallowed, hard. He hated his voice for coming out so unsteady. "Did you tell him?"
"About the soulmarks or about you making a scene?" she asked, trying for a smile but failing miserably. He shook his head once.
“Both,” she answered anyway. “I called her flatmate and her parents too. Flatmate’s on her way. Parents are in the UK, so…” She let it trail off.
Jack nodded jerkily, grateful for her quick thinking. He'd forgotten all about anyone else, the other people who loved you and would want to know what was happening. He hadn't thought beyond the four walls of the trauma bay and he hated himself for it.
“Alright.” He drew in a slow breath, forcing it deeper the second time when it hitched. “Alright.”
He turned back to the window, locking himself into stillness by sheer force of habit, of training. One breath in. One out. Again.
Darius eased back another step. “You good here, boss?” he asked quietly.
No. Not even close. But he wasn't going to go feral again. "I'm fine."
Darius hesitated for a moment before stepping back, giving him space but staying within reach. "I'll be right here if you need me."
Jack acknowledged it with another nod, his eyes already fixed back on your too-still body, half eclipsed by the flurry of staff working on you. Every rise of your chest was a victory, every bleep of the monitor a blessing.
In.
Out.
Still alive.
His shoulders ached. Something along his ribs protested every time he breathed too deeply, and he knew, distantly, that he’d feel all of it later when the adrenaline dropped.
But it didn't matter. Nothing outside that room did.
In.
Out.
Was that a fucking chest tube?
He narrowed his eyes, tracking Garcia’s hands as she worked- incision, insertion, already securing the line to suction. Good. That was good.
In.
Out.
The doors of the ambulance bay banged open, and Robby strode in like a whirlwind, his eyes searching the scene before landing on Jack. Robbie took him in at a glance- the dishevelled hair, the wild eyes, the lingering scent of rage and terror- then he was at his side in seconds.
“Jesus, Jack,” His hands came up, firm and grounding, framing Jack’s face. "The fuck happened?"
Maybe Jack didn't deserve it after the shit he'd just pulled, but he leaned into the touch anyway.
"Hit and run." his voice sounded like it had been scraped raw. “Two hours, at least, alone in the cold before someone found her,” he forced out the words, squeezing his eyes shut at the flash of images that came up with them. “Broken ribs, broken limbs, ruptured spleen at least. GCS 6. Left lung collapse-"
Robby made a soft noise in his throat and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around Jack's shoulders and holding him tight. Jack buried his face in Robby's neck, breathing in the scent of vanilla and woodsmoke, trying to get out that acrid, bitter scent of terrified omega.
"She alive?" Robby asked after a few beats.
"Think so," Jack replied, his voice muffled against Robby's coat, "They dragged me out. Said I was compromised."
"You were." Robby said without hesitation, stroking a hand over his hair. "And they were right to do it."
He knew that. He did, but it still made something resentful roll through his stomach as he nodded.
"She’s our soulmate," Jack whispered then, like saying it out loud would confirm it and sink it in further, as if the truth of it wasn't already splitting him open. Robby drew back, taking in the way Jack still trembled, the way his eyes kept darting back to the trauma bay.
"You're sure?" he asked, as if there was any room for doubt after the scene Jack had caused.
Jack pulled back slightly, just enough to look Robby in the eyes. "I'm sure."
Robby exhaled slow through his nose, then dropped his gaze to the window behind Jack, his arms tightening around him. There was nothing gentle about the way Robby watched the scene through the glass- no softness, just that same grim resolve Jack knew too well.
"Fuck."
Jack closed his eyes again, leaning his forehead against Robby's shoulder. “Yeah,” he breathed.
There wasn't anything else to say.
They both turned their attention back toward the trauma bay then, Robby with his arm still draped over Jack's shoulders, keeping him anchored while they watched the team work. The frantic activity hadn't slowed, though the panic had edged back into something more controlled- the absence of a feral alpha probably helped, Jack thought grimly. Garcia was at the centre of it all, running the case like she always did- calm, precise, unflappable. Logically, he was aware they were damn lucky she happened to be covering the night shift at all. Emotionally, he was still working his way past being pulled out of the bay at all.
Jack fixed his attention back to you, back to any bit of you that was still visible beyond the scrum of people at work. He tried not to let his gaze snag on the broken angle of your arm or the blood still seeping through the bandages on your chest, focusing instead on the small movements- the rise and fall of your ribcage as the ventilator pushed breaths into you, the way someone adjusted your blankets so that only a sliver of you was exposed. Small signs that you were alive and that people were still fighting to keep you that way.
Beside him, Robby went still. Jack didn't realise anything was wrong at first- because everything felt wrong right now- until Robby's hands slid off his shoulders and he straightened, stepping closer to the window. His hand twitched upward like he meant to press it to the glass but stopped just short, fingers curling against his palm instead.
Oh. Right. The soulmark.
Jack swallowed hard, watching as Robby stared through the glass- not at you, but at your chest. At the familiar mark that had belonged to them and only them for so long, now laid bare for Robby to see. Jack waited for the same ferocity that had taken him to rip through his mate- and it came, only differently. Not feral aggression- just something sharp and pained and unguarded in his eyes, an open wound of realisation.
Robby breathed your name- soft, almost silent, like a curse or a prayer. It was hope and agony wrapped into one, and the weight of it nearly took Jack to his knees again. Then-
"Lena!" Robby called out, sharper than he probably intended.
Lena appeared at his side almost instantly, her face tight with apprehension. "Yeah, Robby?"
"Walk me through it," he said, voice heavy. "Everything."
And so she did. In rapid fire detail, walking Robby through every intervention since you arrived: the intubation, the chest tube, the massive transfusion protocol already underway. There was still no response from you, but your vitals were climbing ever so slightly.
“Spleen's gone,” she said. “We're just packing her abdomen now to stop the bleed- they'll take her up as soon as she's stable enough for transport. Pulmonary contusion on the left, broken ribs on both sides, skull fracture with a small subdural- neuro is aware and standing by.” She paused, glancing between the two of them. “They'll be taken her up as soon as they've packed her abdomen."
Robby nodded once. Then again, sharper, like he was trying to force the information to settle.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
For a second, it looked like he might hold it together. Then Robby turned and slammed his palm into the wall.
"Fuck!" The sound echoed down the corridor, too loud for the hour, too raw- and the whole department was watching them, again.
"Hey!" Darius, still nearby, made a warning noise, stepping forward instinctively. "Don't you start too, man. We just got your mate under control."
"Yeah, alright!" Robby bit back, the anger turning to seething frustration. He hit the wall again- softer this time but no less frustrated - and then leaned forward, both hands braced against the plaster as if it was the only thing holding him upright. "Damn it!" he bit out, "Damn it all to hell. Why didn't she say anything?"
And that was the question, wasn't it? Because you had to have known. Neither he nor Robby were shy about changing in front of their coworkers, not with how often they got blood on their clothes. You must have seen their marks. And said nothing.
Jack rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to make sense of it but failing. "I don't know, Robby," he said finally, stepping forward to rest a hand on his back. He wasn't sure which of them needed comfort more right now. "I don't know."
Just then, the doors to Trauma 3 open and a stretcher came barrelling out, Garcia and the team racing alongside as they made their way to the elevators.
You looked so fucking small on the gurney, almost swallowed by the blankets and tubes and lines crisscrossing over you. There was still blood on your face, your mouth held unnaturally open around the ventilator tube, your torso an odd, bulging shape where they had packed the wounds. But you were breathing- they had made sure of that- and that small, mechanical rise and fall was all Jack could hold onto.
"Garcia!" Robby shouted, stepping away from Jack with renewed purpose as he rushed after the team. "I want updates ever fifteen minutes, you hear me? Fifteen minutes, or I'm coming in that OR myself."
Garcia didn't break stride, didn't even turn to look at him as she barked back. "Get back in your own department, old man!" she snapped. "I've got it under control." The doors to the elevator closed before Robby could respond, leaving him standing there, staring at the closed doors like he could will them open again. Then he exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, energy with nowhere to go.
Jack stepped in beside him, silent for now, knowing better than to say anything until Robby was ready. Robby muttered something under his breath- curses, Jack thought- then turned to face him, the grief and rage in his expression plain.
"Alright." He breathed out slow, like he was locking it down one piece at a time. "Alright." His hand came up, cupped the back of Jack's neck. Firm. Anchored them both in the present. "We wait."
There was nothing else to do.
Series tag List: @sirens-and-moonflowers @daisynotquake @3-smi @yl90 @midnightalbatross @elibansndnd @obi-wansgirl @xaestheticalien @blobsquaredagain @kneelforloki @bloodink94 @joelabbot @fleur-4-fleur @hollowrose12
Series Summary: You’re a traveling nurse on rotation at the Pitt. Dr. Robby lives across the alley, watching you from his window. What starts as tension builds into something neither of you can ignore, even when it hurts.
Part One: Across the Alley (3.4k) ❀
Part Two: Sweetheart (4.2k)
Part Three: To Be Wanted (2.54)
Part Four: Settled (6.6k) ♡
Bond (Complete)
Series Summary: You're the first omega ever to join the beta- and alpha-dominated PTMC emergency department. Over time, you find yourself relying on your alpha boss, Dr. Robinavitch, for more and more personal tasks. He becomes your friend, your protector, and, if the two of you can figure it out, even more.
Chapter One: Personal (2.4k)
Summary: Starting your residency at PTMC, you fall into step with your attending, Dr. Robby and ask him to do you a personal favor.
Chapter Two: Gourmet (4.0k) ☆
Summary: You heat comes on for the first time since working at the Pitt and Robby takes it upon himself to keep you safe.
Chapter Three: Preening (4.0k) ❀
Summary: Back at work, Robby's treating you -- and himself -- differently. And, when a patient attacks you, he goes feral to keep you safe.
Chapter Four: Starlit (2.7k) ❀
Summary: You make Robby a home-cooked meal and ask for his help with something personal.
Chapter Five: Drive (4.0k) ❀
Summary: You and Robby travel back to your hometown to stay with your parents under the guise of him being your boyfriend.
Chapter Six: Mine (6.5k) ♡
Summary: At your parents' anniversary party, Robby plays his part of your boyfriend a little too well, triggering your heat early and forcing you to confront your relationship head on.
Chapter Seven: Bite (4.5k) ♡ ❀
Summary: Robby takes care of you during your shared heat and rut and you officially become mates.
Bundle (Ongoing)
Series Summary: This companion series to bond features a collection of moments of you and your alpha, Dr. Robby, going through your first pregnancy together, no matter what it holds.
Chapter One: Wonder (4.1k)
Summary: When your scent begins to change, your alpha Robby realizes you're pregnant before you do.
Chapter Two: Sensitive (2.8k)
Summary: After a ribbing from your alpha friends, Robby laments that he hasn't yet found the right engagement ring for you.
First (Robby x Reader & Jack x Reader) (Ongoing)
Series Summary: A love triangle develops between you and the ER cowboys, with Jack becoming infatuated after you hook up while you fall for Robby in earnest.
Chapter One: Consult (6.4k)
Summary: On a recommendation from one of your nurses, you ask Dr. Jack Abbot to take your virginity in the name of sexual experience.
Chapter Two: Hypothetically (3.5k)
Summary: When a TORCH virus hits Pittsburgh, you lend your time and expertise to the Emergency Department, putting you in close contact with both Robby and Jack.
"Yours" Universe
Presented in chronological order.
Yours (14.3k) ☆
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Daddy (5.2k) ♡
Summary: With your daughter learning to speak, you start to call Robby 'daddy.'
One Shots
Special Treatment (6.7k) ⚠︎
Summary: How Robby treats you vs. your attacker after an assault.
Caught (2.9k) ♡
Summary: Your roommate (and long-time crush) Dr. Robby walks in on you masturbating when he wasn’t supposed to be home
Human Resources (11.0k) ♡ ☆
Summary: After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.
An Untenable Situation (3.3k) ♡ ⚠︎
Summary: You’ve been secretly seeing your dad Jack’s best friend Robby for the better part of a year. When he walks in on the two of you in your childhood bedroom, you’re all finally forced to confront it.
Whole (1.6k) ⚠︎
Summary: Getting pregnant has never been a part of your plan, especially right when it feels like your life is about to start.
Bags & Bows (3.1k) ♡
Summary: The one where Robby kind-of-accidentally-on-purpose steals your panties.
A Taste of His Own Medicine (2.0k) ⚠︎
Summary: When Robby gets a little too reckless, you scare him straight.
If (8.7k) ⚠︎
Summary: Robby’s always kept his five daughters close to his chest, but a serious accident sends them all out of orbit. An exploration of family dynamics, forgiveness, gratitude, and connection.
Mouthing Off (3.3k) ♡
Summary: You and Robby are always fighting as the two day-shift attendings, to the point of screaming matches on the ED floor. After a particularly brutal back-and-forth, it seems like using each other to get off is the only way to settle things.
Ficlets & Blurbs
outdoor sex & humiliation (500) ♡
hurt/comfort after miscarriage nightmare (700) ⚠︎
omorashi (no sex just piss) (1.0k)
semi-public corruption kink (1.1k) ♡
pregnant wife, protective robby (1.3k)
magic horny cookies breeding (1.4k) ♡ ❀
anal sex, gags, & noncon (1.4k) ♡ ⚠︎
sissification (1.6k) ♡
rabbot x reader breeding (2.1k) ♡
you wear a tail plug (2.5k) ♡ ❀ ☆
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
Summary: After a night of restraint, public declarations, and one lethal promise of later, Brendon finally takes you home — and proves that his control is not coldness. It is attention. It is patience. It is precision. And it might ruin you forever.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex, penetrative sex, soft dom Brendon Park, praise, light biting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, protected sex, aftercare, age gap romance, power/control dynamics but fully consensual, Brendon being devastatingly competent, Biscuit cameo
Author’s Note: Well. Here we are. This chapter is the payoff to “later,” and I am both proud of it and emotionally unwell about it. Brendon Park is not loud about wanting you. He is not messy about it. He is not careless for even one second. He is focused. He is patient. He asks still? like it means more than consent, because with him, it does. It means are you with me? are you safe? are you still choosing this?
And yes, Biscuit is still the smallest orange menace in Pittsburgh.
The room was dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the windows and the low lamp on the dresser. Brendon’s bed was made, because of course it was. Dark sheets. Clean lines. Nothing extra. Nothing out of place.
You barely had time to take it in before Brendon turned back to you. His hands settled at your waist. He guided you backward until your legs met the foot of the bed.
Then he pressed down.
Not hard. Not rough. Enough.
You sat.
Your breath caught as the mattress dipped beneath you. Brendon stood in front of you, close enough that your knees almost brushed his thighs, tall and quiet and devastating in his dark suit.
For a second, he only looked at you.
Your bare shoulders. Your parted lips. Your hands curled against the edge of his bed.
His eyes lifted back to yours. “Stay there.”
Your stomach dropped. Then flipped. You nodded once, too quickly.
His brow moved. Barely.
Your face warmed. “Yes,” you said.
Brendon’s gaze held yours for one more second. Then his hands went to his jacket. You watched because he had told you to stay, and because you could not have looked away if the room had caught fire.
He slipped the jacket from his shoulders with controlled precision, one side, then the other, the fabric pulling cleanly down his arms. He folded it once and set it over the back of the chair beside the dresser.
Your fingers tightened against the mattress. Brendon noticed. His eyes flicked down. Then back up. He said nothing. That made it worse.
His hands moved to his cuffs next. One button. Then the other. He rolled one sleeve up his forearm, slow and exact, exposing the warm line of his wrist, the tendons shifting beneath skin, the veins visible when his fingers flexed.
Your mouth went dry.
Brendon rolled the other sleeve. Same pace. Same control. Like he knew exactly what watching his hands was doing to you. Like he had known all night. Your thighs pressed together before you could stop them.
Brendon’s gaze dropped. Then his eyes returned to yours.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. His voice was quiet. Unraised. Absolute.
You went still.
He held your gaze until your knees relaxed apart again. Heat rushed through you so fast you almost looked away. Brendon did not let you. Not with his hands. With his eyes.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The word landed low and deep. His fingers went to the first button of his shirt. You stopped breathing. Brendon unbuttoned it slowly. Then the next. Then the next. White fabric opened inch by inch, revealing skin and shadow, the center of his chest, the controlled rise and fall of his breathing.
Not perfectly controlled now. You saw it. The smallest change. The first crack. His chest moved harder than it had in the living room. His jaw was tight.
His eyes stayed on you.
He was making you watch, but he was watching you too.
Every shift. Every breath. Every place your body betrayed you before your mouth could. Your fingers curled harder into the edge of the mattress.
Brendon opened another button. You swallowed. His gaze dropped to your throat. Then his mouth changed. Not a smile. Something darker.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
Your eyes snapped back to his. He finished the last button. For a moment, he did not take the shirt off. He only stood there with it open, sleeves rolled, mouth serious, and chest bare beneath the parted fabric.
Your thoughts scattered.
Brendon stepped closer. The inside of his knee brushed yours. You tilted your face up automatically. His hand came to your jaw. Firm. Careful. He held you there, looking up at him from the edge of his bed while his thumb moved once beneath your lower lip.
“You can touch me when I tell you,” Brendon said.
Your pulse jumped. Your fingers tightened against the mattress.
“Yes,” you said.
Brendon’s gaze held yours. Then he drew his hand away. He took one step back. Not far. Enough. Then he pulled the shirt from his shoulders and laid it over the chair with his jacket.
Your breath left you.
Brendon stood over you in dark trousers, chest bare, composed enough to ruin you and affected enough that you could see the restraint working under his skin.
He watched you look. He let you. Your gaze moved over him slowly, helplessly, across the clean lines of his shoulders, the controlled rise of his chest, the tension in his abdomen every time he breathed. His hand flexed once at his side. You saw it. So did he. His eyes sharpened.
“Hands where they are,” Brendon said.
Your palms pressed into the mattress. Brendon stepped between your knees. The inside of his thigh brushed yours, and your breath caught again, smaller this time, weaker.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. To your bare shoulders. To the black top. To the rise and fall of your chest. His hand lifted, but he did not touch you right away. He let his fingers hover near the delicate chain at your throat, close enough that your body reacted to the almost of him.
Then he touched the necklace.
Lightly.
One finger beneath the chain.
He followed it to the hollow of your throat, then lower, over the top edge of your shirt without crossing it.
You stopped breathing.
Brendon noticed. “Breathe.”
You dragged in a breath.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Again.”
You obeyed.
His thumb moved once along your collarbone.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The praise went through you slowly, hot and heavy. His hand returned to your jaw. He tilted your face up a fraction more, studying you like he had all night and no reason to rush. Then he leaned down. Not to kiss your mouth. His lips touched the side of your neck. Your eyes closed.
His mouth moved slowly, deliberately, down the line he had opened for himself earlier, kissing beneath your jaw, then the side of your throat, then the sensitive place just above your collarbone.
His teeth grazed there. Soft. Precise.
Your hands twitched against the mattress.
Brendon’s mouth paused. “Hands.”
Your fingers pressed harder into the bedding.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His mouth returned to your neck. The next drag of his teeth was a little firmer. Still careful. Still controlled. Enough to make your body jolt.
Brendon’s hand caught your waist before you could move too far.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His mouth shifted against your skin. Not quite a smile. Not enough to help you. “Good.”
Then he sank slowly to his knees in front of you.
Your breath stopped.
Brendon’s hands settled on your knees. Warm. Steady. Certain. He looked up at you from between them, shirtless and composed and devastating, his thumbs moving once against your skin like he was testing how much patience you had left.
None.
You had none.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Open,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your mind caught up.
Your knees parted beneath his hands.
Slowly.
Not because he forced them.
Because he asked like a man who already knew the answer.
The slit in your skirt fell open across one thigh.
Brendon’s gaze dropped.
Your face went hot.
His hands slid higher, over your knees, up the outside of your thighs, pushing the satin with them by slow degrees. Not rushing. Never rushing.
You gripped the mattress harder.
Brendon watched the fabric gather under his hands. Then he looked up at you.
“You wore this for me,” Brendon said.
Your throat went dry. “Yes,” you said.
His thumbs pressed into the soft skin above your knees. “Good.”
The praise hit harder this time.
Your breath shook.
Brendon’s hands kept moving, sliding higher beneath the fall of satin, warm palms dragging over your thighs until your skirt bunched around your hips. He did not look away from you when he did it. That was the worst part. No. That was not true. The worst part was how calm he looked while taking you apart.
His fingers reached the edge of your underwear. Paused. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Can I?” Brendon asked.
Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”
His jaw shifted once. Then his fingers hooked beneath the fabric and dragged it down your thighs. Slow. Controlled.
Unbearably precise.
You lifted your hips without him asking.
His eyes darkened. “Good.”
The word nearly made you whimper.
He pulled your underwear over your knees, past your ankles, then set it aside with the same quiet care he had given his jacket. Like everything had a place. Like he had already decided yours was here. On the edge of his bed. Open for him. Shaking before he had even put his mouth on you.
Brendon’s hands returned to your thighs. He spread them wider. Not much. Enough. Your body went tense with anticipation. His thumbs moved once, slow arcs against your skin.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You forced your eyes down to his. He was still on his knees. Still composed. Still watching you like there was nothing in the room more important than the way you were breathing.
“Do you want me to stop?” Brendon asked.
“No,” you said, too fast.
His eyes sharpened.
Your fingers twisted in the bedding. “No. Don’t stop.”
Brendon held your gaze for one more second. Then he leaned in. His mouth touched your inner thigh first. Not where you wanted him.
Not yet.
Your breath broke anyway. Brendon kissed you there once. Then higher. Slow. Measured. His hands held your thighs open while his mouth worked upward by degrees, each kiss closer, each pause crueler, until your entire body had gone tight with waiting.
“Brendon,” you breathed.
His eyes lifted. He did not answer. He only moved closer.
His mouth found you.
And every thought you had disappeared.
Not all at once. Piece by piece.
First, the room went.
The low lamp on the dresser. The dark sheets beneath your hands. The city light cutting soft shapes across the floor.
Then your body forgot how to hold itself politely. Your spine curved. Your fingers twisted in the bedding. Your thighs tensed beneath his hands.
Brendon noticed all of it.
His palms tightened against your thighs, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you open for him when your body tried to close around the first clean stroke of his tongue.
Your breath broke. “Brendon.”
His eyes lifted. He did not stop. That was worse.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, dark and focused, his mouth still on you, his hands still holding you exactly where he wanted you. The sight of him like that should have been impossible. Too much. Too intimate. Too controlled.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s mouth left you.
The sound you made was immediate and helpless.
His fingers replaced his mouth before you could miss him for more than a second.
One slow stroke. Then another. Your breath caught hard as he pushed two fingers inside you, measured and careful, watching your face the whole time.
Your hands fisted in the bedding.
“There,” Brendon said.
Your hips shifted toward his hand before you could stop yourself.
His other palm pressed your thigh down.
“No,” Brendon said.
Quiet. Absolute. Your body went still except where his fingers kept moving.
In. Out. Slow. Controlled.
Your head fell back again, mouth open, breath breaking on every careful thrust of his hand.
Then the mattress shifted.
Brendon moved up your body without pulling his fingers from you.
Your eyes flew open.
He came over you slowly, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh, his bare chest close enough that the heat of him changed the air. His hand kept working between your legs, steady and devastating, while his other hand slid up your side, over your ribs, to your throat.
Not pressing. Just there. Then his fingers moved to your jaw.
He gripped you firmly and tilted your face down. “Look.”
Your eyes dropped.
His hand was still between your thighs. Your skirt was bunched around your hips. Your legs were open around him. His fingers moved in and out of you with the same precise rhythm, the same focused control, while he watched.
And then you watched too.
A broken sound left you.
Brendon’s hand flexed once at your jaw.
“There,” he said again.
You could not look away. Not from his hand. Not from the way your body took him. Not from the way his fingers disappeared inside you and returned slick and sure, over and over, while he stayed above you, forcing you to see exactly what he was doing to you.
Your face burned. Your body tightened. Brendon noticed both.
His gaze moved from his hand to your face. “Still?”
“Yes,” you said, the word barely holding together.
His fingers curled. Your whole body jolted.
Brendon’s grip on your jaw kept your face angled down. “Again.”
You did not know if he meant the answer or the sound or the way your body had moved for him. It did not matter. His fingers did it again.
Your breath broke harder.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His eyes darkened. For the first time, his control shifted. Not gone. Never gone. But thinner now. His breathing had changed. His jaw was tight. His gaze kept dropping to where his fingers moved inside you, then lifting back to your face like he wanted both. Like one view was not enough.
The knowledge made you shake.
He watched that too. Then he released your jaw.
For one terrifying second, you thought he might stop.
He did not.
Brendon moved back down your body, his fingers still inside you, dragging another sound from you before his mouth reached your thigh.
He kissed you there once.
Then higher.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Keep your legs there,” Brendon said.
Your thighs trembled. You obeyed.
His mouth returned to you while his fingers kept moving, and the combination tore through you so sharply your hand flew to his hair before you could think better of it.
You froze.
Brendon stopped.
Only his fingers stayed still inside you, holding you right on the edge of too much.
Your chest heaved. His eyes lifted. You started to pull your hand back.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. He shifted his head once, pressing into your touch like both permission and command.
Your fingers slid into his hair. Careful at first. Then tighter when his mouth moved again, and his fingers resumed that slow, brutal rhythm.
Brendon made a low sound against you. Barely there. Enough. It went straight through you.
His control did not break.
It sharpened.
His mouth grew more insistent, his fingers deeper now, still precise, still measured, but with a hunger under it that had not been there before. Like letting you touch him had given him something he had been holding back from himself, too.
Your hips tried to move.
This time, he let you have a fraction of it. Only a fraction. Enough to make you desperate. Not enough to let you take over. His name left you again. Then again.
Less like a word each time.
More like the only thing your body remembered how to say.
Brendon’s fingers curled inside you. His mouth stayed exactly where you needed him.
“Good,” he said against you.
Your stomach tightened. The praise hit exactly where his mouth had been working you open, and your body went taut all at once.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
He looked up. He knew. His hand found yours, tangled in his hair. He pulled it free gently, then threaded his fingers through yours and pressed your joined hands down against the mattress beside your hip.
He held you there.
Anchored you.
Then his mouth returned.
Your entire body bowed. The first wave hit hard enough to steal your voice. For one suspended second, there was nothing but pressure and heat, and Brendon’s hand locked with yours, his fingers still inside you, his mouth still moving, his other hand holding your thigh where he wanted it while you came apart for him.
You heard yourself then.
A broken sound.
His name.
Maybe yes.
Maybe nothing coherent at all.
Brendon did not stop until your body started to twitch away from him.
Then he lifted his head. Slowly.
For a few seconds, he stayed exactly where he was.
On his knees. Between your thighs. His fingers still threaded through yours, his other hand firm against your leg, holding you open even as your body softened and shook around him.
You could not make your breathing even. You could not unclench your hands. You could barely make yourself look at him.
Brendon looked at you anyway.
His gaze moved over your face, your parted mouth, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your body still trembled at the edge of his bed. Not smug. Not smiling. Focused.
Like he was taking inventory. Like every reaction mattered.
His thumb moved once against the back of your hand. Your breath hitched.
His eyes sharpened. “There,” Brendon said quietly.
The word should not have undone anything else in you. It did.
He pressed one final kiss to the inside of your thigh. Soft. Almost tender.
Your fingers tightened around his. Brendon released your hand only when he was sure you would not reach for the mattress to hold yourself together.
Then he stood.
The movement was controlled, but his breathing was not as even as it had been before. You noticed. So did he. His hand came to your jaw, thumb brushing once beneath your lower lip.
“You okay?” Brendon asked.
Your voice barely worked. “Yes.”
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
Your pulse jumped, even now. Especially now.
“Yes,” you said.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then he leaned down and kissed you.
You tasted yourself on him.
Your hands lifted before you could stop them. This time, Brendon let you. Your palms slid over his bare chest, and the first contact made his breath catch against your mouth. There. Small. Almost nothing.
Everything.
Your fingers spread over warm skin, feeling the tension beneath, the hard beat of him under your palm, the way his composure thinned when you touched him back.
Brendon broke the kiss just enough to breathe. His forehead hovered near yours. Your hand moved lower, over his ribs, his stomach. His jaw tightened.
“Careful,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His eyes were dark. Not warning you away. Warning you what would happen if you kept going. Your fingers reached his waistband. Brendon went still. You looked up at him from the edge of the bed. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you slid your hand lower and pressed your palm over him through his pants.
The sound that left him was quiet. Rough. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.
But you heard it. Your body warmed everywhere. Brendon’s hand closed around your wrist. Not hard. Firm enough to stop you.
His eyes held yours. “Is that what you want?”
Your throat went dry. You nodded.
His grip tightened by a fraction. “Words.”
Your breath shook. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Yes, what?”
The question was low. Precise. Devastating.
You swallowed.
“I want you in my mouth,” you answered.
Brendon’s jaw shifted. For the first time, his control did something visible. Not breaking. Adjusting. He released your wrist.
“On your knees,” Brendon said.
You moved. Brendon stepped back just enough to give you room, and you slid from the edge of the bed to the floor in front of him. The carpet was soft beneath your knees. Your skirt was still bunched high around your hips. Your body was still shaking from his mouth.
He looked down at you.
Dark dress pants. Bare chest. Hair slightly disturbed by your hands.
Still composed enough to ruin you. Still affected enough that you knew he wanted this too.
Your hands went to his belt. Brendon did not help you. Not yet. He watched while your fingers worked at the buckle, then the button, then the zipper. You were not graceful with it. Your hands shook once.
Brendon noticed.
His hand came to your jaw. He tilted your face up before you could look away.
“Slow,” he said.
Your breath caught. You nodded once.
His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip. “Good.”
The word steadied you and ruined you at the same time. You opened his pants carefully, your fingers still not quite steady, then pushed both layers down just past his hips.
Just enough.
Then you reached for him.
Brendon’s breath changed when your fingers wrapped around him.
Your eyes lifted. His gaze was fixed on your hand. Then on your face. The heat in his expression made your pulse trip.
You leaned forward.
Brendon’s hand slid from your jaw to the back of your head. Not pushing. Just there. A weight. A promise.
You licked him first. Once. Slow. Your tongue brushed over him, and his fingers flexed against your hair. You did it again. Then you looked up.
Brendon’s eyes were dark.
“Open,” Brendon said.
Your mouth parted immediately. His hand tightened at the back of your head.
Then he guided himself into your mouth.
Slow and careful.
Enough that you could feel every inch he gave you. Enough that your hands curled around his thighs for balance. Brendon watched your face the entire time. His jaw was tight. His breathing had gone low and uneven.
He stopped before it was too much. Held there. Let you adjust. Your eyes watered slightly.
His thumb moved once at your temple.
“Still?” he asked.
You hummed around him.
His eyes closed for half a second. Only half. Then they opened again, darker than before.
“Good,” Brendon said.
His hand stayed at the back of your head. He pulled back slowly. Then pushed in again. Controlled. Measured. Gentle enough that you could take him. Firm enough that you knew he was the one setting the rhythm.
Your fingers tightened against his thighs. Brendon’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted back to your eyes.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You did. He moved again. In. Out. Slow at first.
Then a little deeper. A little firmer. Still watching. Still careful. Still making you feel every second of what you had asked for. Your body went warm and loose with it, the weight of him on your tongue, the hand in your hair, the quiet sounds he almost swallowed before they could escape him.
Almost.
Not all of them.
One slipped free when your tongue moved against him. A rough breath. A broken edge of control. Your pulse jumped. Brendon felt the change in you. His hand tightened slightly.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your eyes lifted to his. His chest moved harder.
“You don’t get smug,” Brendon said.
The words were quiet. Nearly flat. But his eyes were burning. You made a small sound around him. His jaw went tight. Then he moved again. This time, the rhythm changed. Not harsh. Not careless.
But firmer now.
Deeper.
His hand held your head exactly where he wanted it, guiding you through every slow thrust, giving you enough to overwhelm you without ever taking more than you could give. Your eyes watered more. You breathed carefully through your nose.
Brendon watched all of it. Every blink. Every sound. Every place your fingers dug into his thighs.
“Good,” he said.
The praise hit low, even like this. Especially like this. Your body reacted before you could hide it. Brendon saw. His eyes darkened further.
“That’s it,” Brendon said.
He pushed in again, slow and deep, then held there for one suspended second while your throat worked around him. Your hands tightened. His hand at the back of your head softened immediately. He eased back. Let you breathe. Your mouth slipped from him with a broken inhale.
For a second, the room was nothing but your breathing and his. Brendon looked down at you. His hand moved from the back of your head to your jaw. His thumb brushed your lower lip.
“Enough,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. You shook your head before you could stop yourself. His eyes sharpened. You looked up at him, mouth wet, chest rising too fast, knees pressed into the carpet.
“Not enough,” you whispered.
Brendon went very still. The words landed. You watched them hit him. Then his hand slid into your hair again. His voice dropped.
“Again,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught.
Then he guided himself back into your mouth. Slow at first. Controlled. Like he was reminding both of you who decided the pace.
His hand stayed in your hair, firm at the back of your head, not forcing, but guiding. He gave you enough to make your eyes water again, enough to make your fingers tighten against his thighs, enough to make your whole body remember that you were still sensitive and open and shaking from what he had done to you moments before.
Brendon watched you take him. Every inch. Every blink. Every careful breath through your nose. His jaw was tight. His chest moved harder now, the clean lines of his control starting to show strain. He pulled back, then pushed in again, a little deeper this time, and the sound that left him was low enough to feel private.
Your pulse jumped.
His hand tightened in your hair. “Look at me.”
You did. The moment your eyes found his, he moved again. Slow. Deep. Precise. Your mouth stretched around him. Your throat worked, and Brendon’s control cracked just enough for his eyes to close. Only for a second. Then they opened. Dark. Focused.
“You wanted this.” His voice was rougher now.
Your fingers dug into his thighs. You made a small sound around him. Brendon’s breath left him harder.
“Yes,” he said, almost to himself. “Good.”
The praise went straight through you. Your body reacted before you could hide it, your thighs pressing together, the heat between them sharpening again despite how thoroughly he had already taken you apart.
Brendon noticed. His gaze dropped to your thighs. Then back to your face. His mouth tightened. He pulled out slowly, giving you room to breathe. You dragged in air, mouth wet, chest rising too fast, eyes still fixed on him. Brendon looked down at you for one long second. His hand stayed in your hair. His thumb moved once, almost gently.
Then his expression changed. Not softer. Decided.
“Enough,” Brendon said.
Your fingers tightened against his thighs. “No.”
His eyes sharpened. The word had come out before you could stop it. Small. Wrecked. Honest. Brendon’s hand slid from your hair to your jaw. He tilted your face up.
“No?” he asked.
You swallowed, still on your knees in front of him, your skirt bunched around your hips, your body warm and shaking and nowhere near satisfied with being done touching him.
“No,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your lower lip. Your mouth parted under the touch. His eyes followed it. For a second, you thought he might say again. For a second, you thought he might put himself back in your mouth and keep you there until neither of you could pretend he was controlled anymore.
Instead, his jaw shifted.
“Up,” he commanded.
Your stomach flipped. You blinked up at him.
His hand stayed on your jaw. “Now.”
You moved. Not entirely steady. His hands caught you under your arms and brought you to your feet as it cost him nothing, though his breathing said otherwise. The second you were standing, he turned you toward the bed. Your knees hit the mattress. His hand settled between your shoulder blades.
“On the bed,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You crawled onto the dark sheets, skirt still pushed high, top still in place, hair mussed from his hands, and your mouth still swollen from him. Behind you, Brendon stepped out of his pants and underwear the rest of the way.
You heard the fabric shift.
The quiet sound of it hitting the floor. Then nothing. The silence made your pulse climb. You looked back over your shoulder. Brendon stood at the foot of the bed, bare chest rising and falling, dark eyes fixed on you with such focused heat that your fingers curled into the sheets.
He looked at where your skirt had ridden up. Then at your face. “Turn over.”
Your breath caught. You did. Slowly. You rolled onto your back, the sheets cool beneath your overheated skin. The skirt twisted around your hips. Your thighs fell open a little from the movement, and Brendon’s gaze dropped immediately.
Your face warmed. He saw. He stepped closer. One knee pressed into the mattress. Then the other. The bed dipped beneath his weight. Brendon moved over you with the same controlled precision he did everything else, one hand braced beside your head, the other settling at your waist.
He did not kiss you right away. He looked at you. Really looked. Your bare shoulders. Your swollen mouth. Your chest rising too fast beneath the black top. Your skirt bunched around your hips. Your thighs open beneath him.
His jaw tightened. “You’re beautiful.”
The words were quiet. Almost flat. Like he did not need them decorated to make them true. Your throat closed. “Brendon,” you whispered.
His eyes stayed on yours. “I know,” he said.
Then he kissed you.
Not softly. Not carefully. Not after the way he had looked at you and said beautiful like it was a diagnosis. His mouth took yours, deep and controlled, one hand at your waist and the other braced beside your head. You opened for him immediately, and he made a low sound against your mouth when your hands slid up his chest.
He let you touch him now.
Finally.
Your palms moved over bare skin, over the hard line of his shoulders, the tension in his arms, the heat of him above you. His body was solid over yours, all restraint and muscle and focus, and your fingers dug into him because you could.
Because he had let you.
Brendon’s hand slid from your waist to the top edge of your shirt.
He broke the kiss just enough to look at you. “Off.”
Your breath caught. Then you lifted your arms. He pulled the black top up slowly, carefully, his knuckles brushing your skin as the fabric rose. Your body arched without meaning to, chasing the contact, and his eyes sharpened. The shirt disappeared over your head.
He set it aside. Not tossed. Set aside. Of course. Then his gaze came back to you. You were still in your strapless bra, the smooth fabric sitting close against your skin, your necklace crooked at your throat, your skirt bunched around your hips, your body trembling beneath him.
Brendon looked at you for one suspended second. Your breathing changed. His jaw shifted.
Your pulse jumped. Your hands moved behind your back, but his hand caught your wrist before you could fumble with the clasp.
“No,” Brendon said.
You went still. His eyes held yours. “I’ll do it.”
The words went straight through you. He slid one hand beneath your back and lifted you just enough, his other hand finding the clasp with calm, devastating efficiency. One quiet release, and the tension gave. Your breath caught. Brendon did not pull it away immediately. He let the loosened bra rest there for one second, his eyes on your face, his hand still warm beneath your back.
Then he drew it down slowly and set it beside your shirt. Your chest rose and fell beneath his gaze. Brendon’s hand returned to your side. Slow. Palm warm against your ribs. His thumb moved once beneath the curve of your breast, not touching where you wanted him yet.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. His eyes lifted to yours. “Breathe.”
You dragged in a breath. His thumb moved higher. Your breath broke.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then his mouth lowered. The first kiss landed high on your chest, just beneath your collarbone. Warm. Slow. Almost gentle. Almost. His hand slid beneath your back again, lifting you into him as his mouth moved lower. His lips traced a careful path over your skin, unhurried and exact, like he was learning what he had only let himself look at before.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s mouth closed over you. Heat shot through you so sharply your fingers found his shoulders. He did not stop you. Not this time. Your nails pressed into warm skin, and his breath changed against you. Small. Noticeable.
Enough to make your whole body go soft beneath him.
His tongue moved slowly, then his teeth grazed just enough to make you jolt.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His hand tightened beneath your back, holding the arch.
“There,” Brendon said against your skin.
Then he did it again. A careful drag of teeth. A slow kiss after. A soft bite that made your thighs tighten around his hips. His mouth moved to the other side with the same devastating attention, giving you no place to hide from the heat building under your skin again. He kissed your chest, your sternum, the sensitive underside of your breast, then back up, his teeth catching lightly enough to make your breath stutter.
Not rough. Not careless. Precise.
He warmed you back up like he had all the time in the world. Like he had not been on the edge himself minutes earlier. Like his mouth on your body was not making his own breathing lower and rougher by degrees.
Your hands slid into his hair. Brendon let you. For a moment. Then his hand left your back and closed gently around your wrist. He guided your hand down to the mattress beside your head.
Pinned it there.
Your pulse jumped.
Brendon lifted his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes were dark. “Stay there.”
Your fingers flexed beneath his palm.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His gaze held yours. Then his mouth returned to your chest, and you understood that he was not done making you ready for him. His other hand moved lower. Slow over your ribs. Your stomach. Your hip. Then between your thighs.
Your breath caught before he even touched you.
His eyes stayed on yours as his fingers found you again, warm and sure, moving with the same controlled attention he had put everywhere else.
Not inside you this time. Not yet. Just slow pressure where you were still sensitive from his mouth. Your back arched. His palm over your wrist pressed you gently back into the mattress.
“Easy,” he murmured.
You tried.
You really did.
But his fingers moved in a slow circle, exact and steady, and your body was already too open for him. Too aware. Too trained now to respond to every small shift in his pressure. You made a broken sound. His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“There,” he said.
He did it again. Same pressure. Same rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips. He watched your face while he touched you, like he wanted to see the exact second the pleasure stopped being bearable and started becoming something you had to survive. Your free hand gripped his shoulder.
Brendon let you have that. His fingers moved a little slower. Deeper pressure. Not enough to push you over. Enough to bring you close to the edge again. Enough to make your breath come in pieces.
“Brendon,” you said, your voice thin.
His hand stilled for one second. Your body clenched around nothing. His eyes sharpened.
“Yes,” Brendon said quietly.
Then his fingers moved again. Your head tipped back. His hand left your wrist and came to your jaw, turning your face back to him before you could disappear into it.
“Look,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His fingers kept moving. Slow. Steady. Cruel.
You watched his face as he watched yours, bare chest above you, dark eyes fixed on every reaction he pulled from your body. Your breathing broke. His jaw tightened.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His fingers slowed. You made a helpless sound. Brendon’s mouth brushed yours. Barely.
“Good,” he said.
Then he stopped. The loss of contact hit so sharply that your hips shifted after his hand. Brendon caught your thigh.
“No,” he said.
Your breath came hard. His hand slid up your leg, over your hip, settling there with firm pressure while he reached toward the bedside table.
The drawer opened with a quiet slide. Your whole body went tight. He looked back at you, condom packet in his hand.
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
Your throat went dry. “Yes,” you said.
He did not move. Not yet. Your fingers tightened against his shoulder. “Yes, Brendon.”
That did it. His jaw shifted once.
He tore the packet open. The sound was small. Sharp.
Final.
Your body went still beneath him.
Brendon rolled the condom on with controlled efficiency, but there was nothing casual about the way he did it. His breathing had changed. Lower now. Rougher at the edges. His eyes stayed on you like looking away would cost him something.
When he moved back over you, your whole body answered.
One hand braced beside your head.
The other slid down your thigh.
He guided your leg up around his hip, placing you exactly where he wanted you. Your knee bent. Your thigh opened. His hand stayed there, firm and warm, holding you around him.
Then his other hand found yours. He took it from his shoulder and pressed it into the mattress near your head. Pinned. Not hard. Not painful. Enough.
Your fingers spread beneath his. His palm covered the back of your hand. Your breath caught.
Brendon looked down at you. “Okay?”
Your body was already trembling. “Yes,” you said.
His eyes held yours. “Still?”
“Yes,” you said again, softer. “Please.”
The word changed him. Barely. A tightening in his jaw. A harder breath through his nose. His hand on your thigh flexed once. Then he reached between your bodies. You felt him guide himself to you. Your breath stopped. Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Breathe,” he said.
You dragged in air. His hand tightened over yours.
Then he pushed in.
Slowly. Carefully. Devastatingly.
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. The stretch stole it from you, sharp and deep and overwhelming enough that your fingers curled beneath his palm.
Brendon stopped immediately. Not all the way in. Not even close.
His forehead dipped toward yours. His voice was low. “Still?”
Your eyes burned. Not from pain. From too much. From him above you, holding your hand down, your thigh wrapped around his hip, his body pressing yours into the mattress like he had decided the whole world could narrow to this.
“Yes,” you breathed.
His eyes searched yours.
You nodded once. “Yes.”
Brendon believed you. He moved again. Another slow inch. Your body tightened around him. His eyes closed. Only for a second. Only long enough for you to see what it did to him. Then they opened again.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Your breath broke.
He pushed deeper.
Your back arched, but his hand at your thigh held you down, pressing you into the mattress, keeping the angle exactly where he wanted it. His other hand stayed over yours near your head, fingers lacing with yours now, holding you there while he filled you by slow degrees.
Too slow. Too much. Not enough.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His mouth brushed yours. Not quite a kiss.
“Take it,” Brendon said.
The words went through you like heat. Your body gave around him. He felt it. His hand tightened over yours.
“There,” he said.
Then he sank the rest of the way in. Your whole body went still. So did his. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. You felt everything. The weight of him above you. The stretch of him inside you. The steady pressure of his hand pinning yours near your head. The firm hold on your thigh. His chest moving against yours. His breath against your mouth.
Brendon’s jaw was tight enough to look painful. You whispered his name. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to yours.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You did not know what he wanted. His hand pressed your thigh a little higher around his hip. His body shifted deeper. Your breath shattered.
“There,” Brendon said.
Oh. That. He wanted that sound.
He wanted the way your body tightened around him when he pressed into you just right. He wanted you open and pinned and watching him while he learned exactly how to ruin you. Your free hand found his shoulder. Your nails dragged lightly over his skin. His control slipped for half a second. His hips moved. One slow thrust. Deep. Measured.
Your head tipped back.
Brendon’s hand left your thigh long enough to grip your jaw. He brought your face back to his. “Look.”
Your eyes opened. His hips drew back. Then pushed in again. Slow. Harder this time. Your body moved beneath him, but he kept you where he wanted you, one hand holding yours to the mattress, the other returning to your thigh and pressing it high around his hip.
You could not look away.
Not from his face.
Not from the way his composure cracked in tiny, brutal pieces every time he drove into you. Not from the way he watched you take him.
Brendon started slowly. Not gentle. Controlled.
Each thrust deep enough to make your breath catch, measured enough that you felt the whole of him every time he moved. He did not rush toward his own pleasure. He built yours with it, finding the angle that made your hand clench beneath his, the rhythm that made your thighs shake, the pressure that made your voice break.
“There,” he said again.
His hips moved. You cried out. His hand tightened over yours.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then he did it again. And again.
The room changed around you.
The cool sheets beneath your back warmed with the heat of your body. The city light blurred at the edges. The air between you grew thick, close, made of breath and skin and the quiet, rhythmic sound of his body moving into yours. Your chest stuck lightly to his every time he lowered himself closer. His skin was warm.
Then hot.
A fine sheen of sweat gathered along his throat, at his chest, where your hands slid over him and could not find purchase for long. Your own body felt overheated beneath him, your skin damp where his palm held your thigh, where his chest brushed yours, where your bodies met again and again in a rhythm that was too steady to escape.
Brendon’s breathing roughened. Not loud. But lower now. More uneven. Each exhale hit your mouth, your cheek, the side of your throat when he dropped his head closer. His control was still there, but you could feel the strain of it in every precise thrust, every flex of his hand over yours, every hard set of his jaw as your body tightened around him.
Your thoughts slipped.
First around the edges. Then faster. You knew his name. You knew his hand. You knew the press of his body over yours and the deep, devastating drag of him inside you.
Everything else became impossible to hold.
“Brendon,” you said. It came out broken.
His eyes opened. You had not realized they had closed. His gaze found yours, dark and focused, and his hips slowed immediately. Not stopping.
Slowing.
Making you feel him. Making you come back to him.
“Stay with me,” Brendon said.
Your fingers clenched beneath his palm. “I am,” you tried.
His eyes sharpened. “No.”
Your breath caught.
He shifted his weight and pressed your thigh higher around his hip. The new angle made your whole body jolt. His mouth came close to yours.
“Here,” Brendon said.
Then he thrust into you again. Your cry broke against his mouth.
“There,” he said.
He did it again. Same angle. Same depth. Your body tightened hard around him. Brendon’s jaw flexed. For one second, his rhythm faltered. Only one. But you felt it. You saw it in his face. The slip. The crack. The way your body was affecting him no matter how tightly he held himself. Your free hand slid up his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, damp skin warm beneath your palm.
His breath hitched.
You felt powerful for half a second.
Only half.
Then his hand left your thigh, closed around your wrist, and pinned that hand beside the other near your head. Both hands now. Held. Your pulse kicked. Brendon looked down at you.
“Careful,” he said.
The word was quiet. Rough. Your body clenched around him. His eyes darkened. He lowered his head, mouth brushing the side of yours.
“You like that,” Brendon said.
It was not a question.
Your breathing fell apart.
His hips moved again, harder now, still controlled but deeper, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress with every thrust. The bed shifted beneath you. Your shoulders pressed into the sheets. Your hands stayed pinned above you, his fingers locked around your wrists, his body caging yours without making you feel trapped.
Held.
There was a difference.
Brendon knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too. The heat built too quickly. The pressure of him. The sweat-slick drag of his chest against yours. The way he watched your face. The way he heard every sound and used it.
You turned your head to the side, overwhelmed.
Brendon stopped.
Your whole body protested the loss of rhythm. His hand left one wrist and came to your jaw. He turned your face back.
“Don’t hide,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His face was close. Too close. Not close enough.
A drop of sweat slid down the side of his neck. His chest rose and fell hard against yours. His hair had lost some of its control, one piece falling forward, and the sight of him like that, still precise, still focused, but visibly affected, almost undid you more than his body did.
“I can’t,” you whispered.
Brendon’s thumb brushed once along your jaw.
“You can,” he said.
Then he kissed you.
He kissed you as he started moving again, swallowing the first broken sound that left you when he found the angle immediately. His hand returned to your wrist, pinning it beside the other, and his hips settled into a rhythm that felt designed to take you apart slowly.
Not frantic. Not careless. Relentless.
Your body went soft beneath him. Then tight. Then shaking.
Brendon felt the change. His mouth left yours. His breathing was rough now. Controlled, but barely.
“Not yet,” Brendon said.
Your eyes flew open. His hips slowed before you could fall over the edge. A ruined sound left you. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
“Not yet,” he repeated.
You stared up at him, trembling and furious and so overwhelmed you could barely form words.
“Brendon,” you pleaded.
His jaw tightened. That hit him. You saw it. For one second, the control went thin enough that his hips pressed deeper, like his body had answered before his restraint could catch up.
Then he stopped himself. His forehead lowered near yours. His breath was hot against your mouth.
“Turn,” Brendon said.
Your mind struggled to catch up. His hands softened around your wrists. He kissed your jaw once, brief and firm. Then he moved off you just enough to guide your body with him.
“On your side,” Brendon said.
Your body obeyed before your thoughts did.
Brendon moved with you, one hand at your waist, the other guiding your thigh as he shifted you onto your side. For one dizzy second, he was gone from inside you, and the loss made your whole body tighten.
You made a small sound. Brendon heard it. Of course he did.
His hand slid over your hip. “I know.”
The words were quiet. Barely comfort. Mostly promise.
He settled behind you, his chest coming to your back, his body hot and damp against yours. The sheets shifted beneath you. Your skin stuck lightly to his where he pressed close, sweat and heat making every point of contact feel too intimate to survive.
His arm slid beneath your neck, not trapping you, just giving you somewhere to rest. His other hand caught your top thigh and lifted it back over his hip. The angle opened you. Your breath caught.
Brendon’s mouth brushed the back of your shoulder. “Keep your leg there.”
Your fingers curled against the sheet. “Yes.”
His hand left your thigh long enough to reach between your bodies.
You felt him guide himself back to you.
Your eyes closed.
Brendon’s hand came to your jaw immediately, fingers firm along the line of it, turning your face back enough that you could see him from the corner of your eye.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes opened.
His mouth was near your ear. His breath was rougher now, warmer, not as controlled as it had been when he first brought you into the bedroom.
“Look,” Brendon said.
Then he pushed back inside you.
Your whole body jolted. The angle was different like this. Deeper somehow. Closer. More devastating because he was behind you and around you and still watching your face while your body took him again.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His jaw brushed your temple. His hand stayed at your face, holding you turned toward him while his hips settled flush behind you.
For a second, he did not move. Neither did you. You could feel him everywhere. Inside you. Against your back. At your jaw. Around your thigh.
His chest rose and fell against you, sweat-damp skin dragging lightly over yours with every breath. Then his hand slid from your jaw to your throat. Not pressing. Just resting there. A steady weight.
His mouth touched your ear. “Still?”
Your answer came immediately. “Yes.”
His hand flexed once against your throat.
Then he moved.
Slow at first.
One deep thrust from behind, controlled enough that you felt every inch of him leave and return. Your thigh tightened over his hip. His arm tightened around you in response, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Then again. Deeper.
Your mouth opened around a sound you could not stop. Brendon’s hand moved from your throat back to your jaw, turning your face more fully toward him.
“There,” he said.
His hips moved again. Your whole body trembled. You understood, dimly, why he had shifted you like this. You could not get away from him. Not because you were trapped. Because there was nowhere his body was not. His chest pressed to your back. His thigh between yours. His hand at your jaw. His mouth at your neck. His cock moving inside you with the same precise rhythm he had used to take you apart with his fingers.
And then his other hand slid down your stomach. Your breath caught before he even reached between your thighs. Brendon noticed.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “Easy.”
You tried.
You failed.
His fingers found you again, and the first slow circle of pressure made your entire body clench around him. Brendon’s hips faltered. Only once. His breath hitched against your ear. You felt it. You heard it. Your fingers twisted in the sheet. His hand at your jaw tightened by a fraction.
“Don’t,” Brendon said.
You could barely breathe. “Don’t what?”
His fingers moved again. Your body jerked. His hips drove in deeper, and the sound that left you broke apart in the quiet room.
His voice was rougher when he answered. “Don’t make me rush.”
Your eyes closed. That did something to you. Something ruinous. Brendon felt the way your body tightened around him. His mouth found the side of your neck and stayed there, lips warm against sweat-damp skin as his hips resumed their rhythm.
Slow. Deep. Precise.
His fingers kept moving between your legs, matching the pace of his thrusts until the two sensations became impossible to separate. Every time he pushed into you, his fingers circled. Every time he drew back, his hand softened just enough to make you chase him.
Too much. Not enough. Everywhere.
You were not thinking anymore.
Not really.
Your body was doing that for you now, opening around him, trembling against him, taking whatever rhythm he decided to give. Brendon’s breathing was rough against your ear. Still controlled. But barely. You could feel the effort of it in the tension of his arm around you, in the way his jaw brushed your cheek, in the way his fingers pressed a little harder when your body clenched around him.
“Brendon,” you said.
It barely sounded like his name. His hand at your jaw turned your face again. His mouth came close to yours.
“Here,” Brendon said.
His fingers changed pressure. Your vision blurred.
“There,” he said.
He thrust into you again, deeper than before, and his fingers kept working you at the same time. Your whole body went tight. Your hand flew back toward him, searching for anything to hold onto. His shoulder. His hair. His wrist. Brendon caught it. He brought your hand to his forearm where it was wrapped around your body and pressed your palm there.
“Hold,” Brendon said.
You did.
Your fingers dug into his arm. The muscle shifted beneath your hand as he held you against him, as he fucked you slow and deep from behind, as he rubbed you with the kind of careful cruelty that made every breath sound broken. Sweat gathered between your bodies. Your back slid against his chest. His mouth moved along your neck, not kissing now so much as breathing against you, biting once when your body clenched too hard around him.
The nip made you cry out.
Brendon groaned. Quiet. Rough.
The sound went straight through you.
His hand stilled for half a second between your legs. His hips did not. He thrust into you once, harder than before, and his control showed its first real fracture. Not a break. A crack.
Enough.
Your body reacted instantly. “Again,” you gasped.
Brendon went still behind you. Only for a second. Then his hand returned to your jaw and tilted your face back toward him. His eyes were dark. Sweat shone at his temple. His hair had lost more of its control. His mouth was serious, but his breathing was not.
“Again?” Brendon asked.
Your fingers tightened on his arm. “Please.”
His jaw shifted. The word had landed. You knew it. You felt it in the way his hips pressed deeper, in the way his hand between your legs resumed with more purpose, in the way his mouth came to your ear.
“Good,” Brendon said.
Then he gave it to you.
The rhythm changed. Still precise. Still his. But firmer now, his body moving against yours with enough force to rock you into the mattress, his hand holding your jaw so you could not turn away, his fingers rubbing you through every deep thrust.
You broke.
Not fully. Not yet. But something in your mind slipped loose. The room narrowed to sweat and pressure and Brendon’s voice at your ear.
“Breathe.” He said against your ear.
You dragged in air.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You tried.
His hips drove into you, deep enough to make your fingers clamp around his forearm.
“There,” he said.
Your body tightened.
His mouth pressed to your shoulder, his breathing rough against your skin. “Good.”
Your eyes burned. Too much. Too good. Too close. Your thighs shook around his. Your fingers clamped around his forearm, and Brendon’s mouth pressed to your shoulder like he needed somewhere to put the sound he would not let out.
You felt him losing control in increments. A harder breath. A rougher thrust. A shorter pause between commands. His hand between your legs became less teasing and more determined, giving you the pressure your body had been begging for while his hips kept the same deep, devastating rhythm behind you.
“Brendon,” you said, wrecked now.
His hand tightened at your jaw. “I know.”
Your thighs shook. He felt it. His hand at your stomach pressed you back harder against him, and the angle changed just enough to make your whole body go tight.
You made a broken sound.
Brendon’s breath caught against your ear. “There,” he said again.
His fingers moved faster. Not frantic. Never frantic. Determined. Your body gave one helpless jolt against him. His thigh stayed firm beneath yours, holding your leg where he had put it, keeping the angle exactly where he wanted it while he fucked you from behind and rubbed you through every deep, controlled thrust.
The room disappeared. The bed. The city. The sweat cooling and gathering again between your bodies. Everything narrowed to his hand, his voice, his cock moving inside you, his mouth at your ear, his chest hot against your back.
You could not get enough air. You could not get away from the sensation.
You did not want to.
“Brendon,” you said, barely a word now.
His hand left your stomach and came to your jaw, turning your face back toward him. His eyes caught yours from over your shoulder. Dark. Focused. Almost undone.
“Come,” Brendon said.
It hit you like a command your body had been waiting for.
Your orgasm broke hard and fast, tearing through you before you could prepare for it. Your head fell back against his shoulder. Your hand locked around his forearm. Your body clenched around him so tightly his hips stuttered once behind you.
Brendon made a rough sound against your neck. Small. Almost swallowed. But you heard it. You felt it. His fingers kept moving, slower now, dragging you through it while his hips pressed deep and stayed there. He held you against him, jaw tight, breath uneven, one hand firm at your face and the other between your thighs, not letting you disappear into the pleasure without him.
“That’s it,” Brendon said, his voice rough at your ear.
Your body shook.
He held you through every wave. When you tried to twist away from the overstimulation, his hand eased immediately, but his arm around you stayed firm.
“I’ve got you,” Brendon said.
Your breath broke on something that might have been his name. Brendon kissed the side of your neck once. Slow. Grounding.
Then he went still behind you. Not finished. Not even close. You could feel it in the hard press of him still inside you, in the way his breathing had gone uneven, in the strain of his arm around your waist.
He had held back.
Your eyes opened slowly. “Brendon,” you whispered.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. His voice came low. “Turn over.”
Your stomach flipped, even wrecked as you were. He pulled out slowly, careful enough that your whole body trembled with the loss. His hands stayed on you, steadying you through it, one at your hip and one at your stomach.
Then he turned you carefully. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Decided.
Onto your back again.
You blinked up at him, dazed, sweat cooling on your skin where his body had been pressed to yours. Your legs felt unsteady. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. Your body was loose and shaking and still somehow reaching for him again.
Brendon moved over you.
The bed dipped beneath his weight. His hand slid behind your knee and lifted your leg back around his hip. His other hand found yours immediately, threading your fingers together and pressing your joined hands into the mattress beside your head.
There. Again. Face-to-face.
His chest hovered over yours, sweat-damp and warm, his breathing low and uneven. His eyes searched your face.
“Still?” Brendon asked.
Your throat tightened. Because this was what he meant. Watching you. Holding your hand. Making sure you were with him before he gave himself what he had been holding back.
Your answer came as a whisper. “Yes.”
Brendon’s jaw shifted once.
Then he guided himself back inside you.
Your breath left you in pieces. Even after everything, even after his mouth and his fingers and the way he had made you come against him on your side, the stretch still stole the air from your lungs. Your body was too sensitive now, too open, too aware of every inch of him as he pushed back into you.
Brendon’s hand tightened over yours. His jaw flexed. For a second, he did not move. He stayed there, buried deep, chest hovering over yours, breathing rough through his nose while your body adjusted around him again. Your eyes found his. He was looking at you like he was trying to hold himself together by force. Like focus was the only thing keeping him from losing the careful control he had carried all night.
“Brendon,” you whispered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lifted. His hips moved. Slow once. Deep. Your head tipped back against the sheets. His hand tightened over yours.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened again. He was closer now, his mouth almost touching yours, his chest damp where it brushed yours.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You did. His hips drew back. Then pushed in again. Harder this time. Your breath broke. His eyes sharpened.
“There,” Brendon said.
Then he did it again. And again. The rhythm changed by degrees. Not suddenly. Not carelessly. Brendon did nothing carelessly. But the patience started to thin. Each thrust came deeper than the last, steadier, heavier, driving you down into the mattress while his hand held yours near your head and his other hand kept your thigh high around his hip.
You could feel the shift in him. The way his breath left him rougher. The way his chest lowered closer to yours. The way his fingers dug into your thigh like he needed something to hold onto. The way his control did not vanish, exactly. It narrowed. Focused.
Became this.
His body over yours. His hand locked with yours. His hips moving hard enough now that the bed shifted beneath you, dark sheets twisting under your back, your skin slick with sweat where he pressed against you. You were ruined.
Completely.
There was no cleaner word for it. Your body had gone loose and trembling beneath him, then tight again every time he hit that place inside you that made your thoughts white out. Your free hand clung to his shoulder, nails dragging over sweat-damp skin, and every time you tried to form his name, it broke apart before you could finish it.
“Bren—”
His hips drove in deep. The rest of the word disappeared. Brendon’s mouth found your jaw. Not a kiss. A breath. A place to put himself for half a second before he lifted his head again and watched your face.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You barely understood him. Your eyes were wet. Your mouth was open. Your chest moved too fast beneath him. His hand on your thigh slid higher, pressing your leg farther around his hip, changing the angle until your whole body jolted. A broken cry left you. Brendon’s jaw tightened.
“Yes,” he said, rougher now.
His hips moved faster. Not frantic. Never that. But harder. Deeper. The controlled precision was still there, but underneath it was something hotter, something strained, something that made his breath catch when your body clenched around him.
You felt it every time.
The little breaks in him. The almost-groan against your mouth. The hard exhale at your ear. The way his hips stuttered once when your nails dragged down his back. The way his hand tightened over yours so sharply that your fingers spread beneath his palm.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The word was lower now. Less smooth. Almost wrecked. Your body reacted to it instantly, tightening around him, and his eyes closed for one dangerous second. Only one. Then they opened again. Dark. Unsteady. Focused on you like he could not afford to look anywhere else.
“You hear me?” Brendon asked.
You tried to nod. His hand left your thigh and came to your jaw.
“Words,” Brendon said.
Your voice barely worked. “Yes.”
His thumb pressed beneath your lower lip.
“Yes, what?” Brendon asked.
Your body clenched around him again because the question should not have done anything to you. It did.
“Yes, Brendon,” you said, wrecked and breathless.
His control slipped. A real slip this time. His hips drove into you hard enough that your hand clenched beneath his and your whole body shifted up the bed. Brendon caught you immediately, pressing you back down with his weight, his mouth close to yours, his breathing rough and uneven.
“There,” he said. Then again. “There.”
Again.
Your vision blurred at the edges. The room had become heat and sweat and the deep rhythm of his body moving into yours. The lamp. The city. The clean lines of his bedroom. All of it vanished beneath the press of him over you, inside you, around you. Your body did not feel like yours anymore. It felt like something he had learned. Something he knew how to open.
Something he knew how to ruin.
He shifted his hand from your jaw to the side of your neck, then back to your thigh, dragging your leg higher, holding you exactly where he wanted you while he fucked into you with a rhythm that made your breath come in small, helpless sounds.
“Brendon,” you gasped.
His forehead dropped near yours. His hips did not stop. “Still?” he asked.
Even now. Even like this. Even with sweat on his chest and his breath breaking and his body losing its perfect rhythm by fractions. Your throat tightened.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”
Then he kissed you.
It was not clean. Not controlled the way his kisses had been earlier. It was deeper, rougher, his mouth catching yours while his hips kept moving, swallowing the sounds he dragged out of you. Your free hand slid into his hair, and this time he did not stop you. He let you pull. Let you hold. Let you feel the way he was coming apart in the only way Brendon Park seemed capable of coming apart. Quietly. Precisely. Devastatingly.
His rhythm grew harder. Faster. The sound of it filled the room now, low and intimate and obscene beneath your broken breathing. Sweat gathered between your bodies. Your chest slid against his. His hand pinned yours above your head, fingers threaded tight, while his other hand moved between you again. Your entire body jolted.
You gasped, though your hips lifted into the touch.
Brendon’s eyes found yours. His fingers moved over you, steady despite the roughness of his breath, despite the strain in his face, despite the way his hips were starting to lose that perfect measured pace.
You shook beneath him. “I can’t,” you said.
His hand tightened over yours. “You can,” Brendon said.
His fingers kept moving. His hips drove deeper. Your body tried to arch, but his weight held you down, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you beneath the heat and force of him.
“There,” he said, voice rough at your mouth. “That’s it.”
Your eyes burned. You were too sensitive. Too full. Too close. Too overwhelmed by the fact that he was still watching you, still touching you exactly right, still giving you more when you had already given him everything your body knew how to give.
“Brendon,” you pleaded.
His face changed. The sound of his name like that did something to him. You felt it in the way his rhythm faltered. In the rough sound he pressed into your cheek. In the way his fingers tightened around yours. His mouth came to your ear.
“I’ve got you,” Brendon said.
Then he stopped holding back. Not fully. Not recklessly.
But enough.
Enough that the next thrust drove the air out of you. Enough that your hand twisted beneath his. Enough that your body clamped down around him and the pleasure finally broke over you again, sharp and deep and blinding. You came with his name in your mouth.
Brendon’s hips stuttered. His head dropped. A rough sound broke out of him before he could bury it completely against your neck. He kept moving. Slower now. Deeper. Dragging it out while your body shook beneath him, while your thigh trembled around his hip, while his fingers stayed between your legs until the pleasure turned too sharp and your body twitched away.
He stopped touching you immediately. But he did not stop moving. His hand returned to your thigh. His other stayed locked with yours.
His face lifted from your neck. His eyes found yours. He looked wrecked. Not undone in the way you were. Not loose or helpless.
Wrecked in Brendon’s way.
Jaw tight. Hair damp and disordered. Chest shining with sweat. Eyes dark and almost desperate, like he was holding the last of himself together by looking at you.
Your voice came out broken. “Brendon.”
His hand tightened over yours. “Stay,” Brendon said.
One word. Rough. Almost gone. You held his gaze.
You stayed.
He thrust once. Deep. Then again. His breath broke. His forehead lowered to yours, his mouth brushing yours without quite kissing. His body pressed you into the mattress, heavy and hot and shaking now in small, controlled tremors.
“Good,” he said, but the word barely held its shape.
Your fingers squeezed his. His eyes closed. This time, they stayed closed. His hips drove in one final time, deep enough that your breath caught all over again, and then his whole body went taut above you.
Brendon came with his forehead against yours, his hand locked around yours, his other hand gripping your thigh like he needed the anchor.
No loud sound. No dramatic collapse. Just a rough breath. A hard shudder. The last clean edge of his control snapping silently through his body while he held himself over you and let you feel every second of it. For a moment, neither of you moved.
The room was nothing but breath. Heat. Sweat. His body still over yours. His hand still holding yours. Your heart still trying to survive him.
Then Brendon shifted carefully. Not away. Never abruptly. He eased his weight off you first, one controlled movement at a time, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip, then to your waist, like he was checking each place he had held you. Your body gave a small, involuntary tremble.
Brendon noticed. His eyes moved over your face. “Okay?”
Your voice came out thin. “Yes.”
His thumb brushed once against your waist. “Still?”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Yes.”
His mouth softened by half a degree. Then he moved. Practical even now. He disappeared only long enough to deal with the condom, then came back with a damp washcloth and a glass of water. He cleaned you gently, quietly, one hand steady at your knee when your body twitched from sensitivity.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
Brendon looked up immediately. “No.”
The word was flat. Final. Your throat tightened. He finished with careful hands, then set the washcloth aside and handed you the water.
“Drink,” Brendon said.
You took the glass with both hands because you did not quite trust your fingers. He watched until you swallowed. Only then did he take it from you and set it on the nightstand.
You shifted, reaching for your shirt. Your body immediately reminded you that moving was a terrible idea. Your thighs trembled when you pushed yourself upright, and you tried to hide it by reaching too quickly, but Brendon’s hand closed around your wrist before you could make it convincing.
Not tight. Just there. You looked at him. His eyes moved over your face, then down your body, clinical enough to be annoying and intimate enough to make your cheeks burn.
“You can stay,” Brendon said.
Your heart gave a stupid, tender kick. You blinked. “I can’t.”
His brow moved. “Why?”
You looked down at the sheets, suddenly shy in a way that made no sense after everything he had just done to you. “I’ve never left Biscuit overnight,” you admitted.
Silence. You risked a glance up. Brendon stared at you. Not judging. Not amused. Just processing. Then his expression settled.
“Okay,” Brendon said.
Your chest tightened. “Okay?”
He stood and reached for his trousers. “Then we sleep at your place.”
You stared at him. Your voice came out soft. “Brendon.”
He looked back at you while buttoning his pants with infuriating calm, shirt still off, hair damp and mussed from your hands.
“What?” he asked.
You tried to find words for it. For him. For the fact that he had wanted you in his bed and, instead of making you feel silly for caring about your tiny orange cat, he had simply changed the plan. You failed. Brendon crossed back to the bed and held out your shirt.
“Arms,” he said.
Your laugh came out shaky. “You’re dressing me now?”
His eyes flicked over you once. You watched the smallest shift happen at the corner of his mouth. Almost smug. Almost.
“You’re not steady,” Brendon said.
Your cheeks went hot. “That is your fault,” you said.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
No apology. None. The heat in your face got worse. A few minutes later, you crossed the hall in your rumpled skirt, your black top, and bare feet, with Brendon behind you carrying your shoes in one hand and his keys in the other.
You were absolutely walking a little funny. You knew it. He knew it. The entire hallway probably knew it. Brendon said nothing. Which somehow felt worse.
You glanced back at him. “Stop being smug silently.”
His eyes met yours. “I’m not,” Brendon said.
You sighed, “You are the loudest silent smug person I’ve ever met.”
This time, his mouth did move. Barely. A dangerous almost-smile. Your stomach flipped. You turned back around before he could see what it did to you.
Biscuit was waiting at the door when you opened it. He looked at you. Then at Brendon. Then at you again. Then he sat down with the offended dignity of someone who had been abandoned for several entire hours.
“Oh, stop,” you told him softly.
Biscuit chirped. Brendon stepped into 6B behind you and closed the door.
“No,” Brendon said.
Biscuit sat straighter. You looked over your shoulder at Brendon. He looked back at you, calm and shirtless and barefoot in your apartment like this, too, was a place he belonged. Your heart did something quiet and irreversible. Brendon’s hand settled at your waist. Steady. Certain.
Summary: After everything with Trent, Jack asks you one question he is terrified to get wrong: was last night really about him, or was it just because he was there when everything went bad? The answer changes everything. So Jack does what Jack does best—he slows down, makes it clear, and shows you exactly what it feels like when a man means it. Dinner first. Then the kiss.
Warnings: stalking/harassment aftermath, references to previous threatening behavior, protective Jack, age gap, emotional vulnerability, first date tension, kissing, suggestive ending, Jack Abbot being devastatingly competent.
Author’s Note: This one is for everyone who wanted Jack to do this properly. The man said dinner first and unfortunately for everyone’s blood pressure, he meant it.
Xoxo, Del
| Chapt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 |
You woke to quiet.
Not the sharp kind. Not the waiting kind.
Just quiet.
For a second, you stayed still beneath the blanket in Jack’s guest room, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the house settled around you.
No knocking. No voices. No coffee cup outside a door.
No Trent.
Your phone sat on the nightstand beside you, still plugged into the charger that had somehow become yours without anyone saying so. The screen was dark. You reached for it anyway. No missed calls. No new texts. Nothing from the police. Nothing from Lena. Nothing from anyone.
Your breath left you slowly. It should have felt like relief. It did. Mostly. But relief was strange when it had nowhere to go. It sat in your chest beside everything else. The exhaustion. The memory of Trent’s voice in the ambulance bay. Jack’s hand closing around his wrist. Jack in the consult room, crouched in front of you, voice low and furious. “He reached for you. And I was so fucking angry.”
Your throat tightened.
Then, because apparently your brain had no interest in mercy, the kitchen came back next. Jack’s hand near your face. His fingers brushing your cheek. The soft, impossible distance between you. Fuck. The word had been quiet when he said it. Ragged. Like pulling away had hurt.
Your eyes closed. You could still feel the almost-kiss like something warm beneath your skin. Not quite pain. Not quite want. Something worse because it was both.
Across the hall, Jack’s door was still halfway open. You had checked before you fell asleep. You checked again now, turning your head toward the hallway. Still open. Halfway. Not more. Not less.
Exactly Jack.
Your face warmed before you could stop it. You rolled onto your back again and pressed both hands over your eyes. This was ridiculous. A man had tried to grab you at work less than twenty-four hours ago, security had escorted him out through the ambulance bay, and somehow, the thing making your stomach flip was Jack Abbot stopping himself from kissing you in his kitchen.
You stayed like that for another minute. Maybe two.
Then the smell of coffee reached you.
Of course.
You dropped your hands from your face and stared toward the hallway. Jack was awake. Which meant you had to leave the guest room eventually. Which meant you had to see him. Which meant you had to find out if he was going to pretend nothing had almost happened.
Your stomach twisted.
You threw the blanket back before you could talk yourself into hiding there until your next shift.
The house felt different in the early afternoon. Softer than it had last night. Less haunted by the almost-kiss and more quietly aware of it. Your bag sat near the dresser. Your scrubs were folded in the drawer. Your face wash was still in the bathroom. Your charger was still plugged into the wall. All the little signs of a temporary arrangement that had stopped looking temporary days ago. You changed into the soft clothes you had packed, brushed your teeth, washed your face, and spent entirely too long looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror.
You looked tired. You looked like you had slept badly. You looked like someone who had almost been kissed by Jack Abbot and then had to spend the night pretending that did not matter.
You pointed at your reflection. “Get it together.”
The reflection did not look convinced.
By the time you stepped into the hallway, the coffee smell was stronger. So was the sound of movement from the kitchen. A cabinet opening. A mug being set down. The low hum of Jack moving through his own house like he had every right to be composed. You followed the sound.
Jack was at the counter with his back half-turned to you, one hand braced near the coffee maker, the other holding a mug. He was dressed in sweats and a soft shirt, his prosthetic already on, his hair slightly damp, as if he had showered. He looked normal.
Mostly.
You stopped at the edge of the kitchen. Jack noticed you immediately. His shoulders shifted once before he turned around. “Morning.”
You leaned one hip against the doorway. “Morning.”
His eyes moved over your face. Careful. Not too careful. Just enough that you knew he remembered exactly where you had both left things. Then he looked back at the coffee. “You sleep?”
You stepped farther into the kitchen. “A little.”
Jack glanced over, one brow lifting faintly. “A little?”
You gave him a look. “Enough.”
His mouth barely moved. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting before coffee,” you said.
That earned you the smallest curve of his mouth. Jack turned back to the counter, picked up the mug he had made for you, and held it out. You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his.
Barely.
Not enough to mean anything. Enough that both of you noticed. Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand around the mug. Then to your mouth. Only for a second. A quick, helpless flicker of attention that he corrected almost immediately.
But you saw it. Your pulse climbed. Jack looked back at your eyes like nothing had happened, like he had not just stared at your mouth in the middle of his kitchen while handing you coffee he had made exactly the way you liked it.
You wrapped both hands around the mug. “So.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “So.”
The silence stretched. Not awkward. Worse. Aware. You took a breath, then asked, voice soft, “Are we going to talk about last night?”
Jack’s hand stilled near his own mug. For one second, nothing moved. Then his mouth barely curved. “Oh, absolutely we are.”
Your breath caught.
Jack reached for his coffee. “I just need caffeine first.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small. Unsteady. Real. Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug, and something in his eyes warmed at the sound. Then he took a slow sip. You crossed your arms. “Was that dramatic pause medically necessary?”
Jack lowered the mug. “For me? Yes.”
You stepped into the kitchen. “That bad?”
His gaze held yours. “I didn’t sleep much.”
Your amusement softened. “Because of Trent?”
Jack set the mug down. Quietly. Deliberately.
“No,” Jack said.
Your pulse kicked. Jack’s expression stayed steady, but his voice changed. Lower. Closer to honest.
“Because of you,” Jack said.
The words landed gently. Somehow, that made them worse. Your fingers curled against your arm. Jack looked down for half a second. “That came out wrong.”
You swallowed. “Did it?”
He was quiet. Then he looked back at you. “No,” Jack said.
The kitchen went still around you. Coffee maker. Morning light. Two mugs. The island between you. Everything ordinary and charged at once. Jack dragged one hand over the back of his neck, then dropped it like he regretted the movement. “I need to ask you something.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m going to do it badly.”
Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at your mouth. “Okay.”
Jack gave you a look. The smile stayed. His expression softened by a fraction before the nerves came back. He looked down at the mug, then back up at you. “Last night.”
Your stomach flipped. You did not look away. “Yeah?”
He breathed out through his nose. “Was that because of the night we had?”
His voice stayed low. “Because I let you stay here?”
“No,” you said again.
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Because I was there when everything went bad?”
You looked at him for a second. Then you laughed softly. Not because it was funny. Because he looked so serious. So careful. So Jack. Like he could stop a man from touching you without blinking, but could not ask whether you wanted him without looking like he was walking into a live wire.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “What?”
You shook your head. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on yours. “I’ve had a crush on you since my first day at PTMC.”
For one full second, Jack Abbot had absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. No dry answer. No correction. No quiet little cut of sarcasm to save himself. Just silence. His hand still rested on the counter beside your mug. His eyes stayed on your face. You almost smiled. Almost. Then nerves caught up, and you looked down at the island between you.
Jack’s voice came rougher. “Since your first day.”
You glanced back up. “Yes.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “You could have said something.”
You gave him a look. “My first day, you walked into the ED in SWAT gear after getting shot.” Jack blinked. You lifted your eyebrows. “You were intimidating.”
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then he looked away like he needed a second. “It was a graze,” Jack said.
You pointed at him. “That is not the reassuring part of the story.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “It barely caught me.”
“You walked into the ED in SWAT gear after getting shot,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “Grazed.” You stared at him. He sighed through his nose. “Fine.”
You crossed your arms. “Fine?”
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face, softer now. “I can see how that might have made an impression.”
You huffed a small laugh. “An impression.”
His mouth curved, barely there. “Apparently.”
The smile slowly faded from your face. Not because the moment turned bad. Because it turned honest. You looked down at the counter, suddenly more nervous now that the words were out.
You exhaled slowly, “So no. Last night wasn’t because I was scared. Or because you let me stay here.”
Jack went still again.
You looked back up at him. “It’s been you for a while.”
His expression changed. Just slightly. Enough to make your chest tighten. Jack went quiet. Not the careful kind. The caught kind. You shifted under his stare. “What?”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m trying to decide if telling you mine makes this better or worse.”
Your heart kicked. “Yours?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “Timing.”
You forgot how to breathe for half a second.
Then he looked down, then back at you. “It wasn’t your first day.”
You tried not to let disappointment show.
Jack noticed anyway. His expression softened by a fraction. “Don’t get me wrong. I noticed you.”
You blinked. “You did?”
Jack gave you a look. “Obviously.”
Your face warmed.
His mouth barely moved. “I’m a man. With eyes.”
That startled a laugh out of you. Jack’s eyes warmed at the sound, but he kept going before you could make him regret being honest.
“But that wasn’t the problem,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “What was?”
His expression went still. “The night after the Simmons trauma.”
You searched your memory. “The kid with the crush injury?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
Your chest softened. “That was a bad one.”
“It was,” Jack said.
The room quieted around the memory. Then his eyes came back to yours. “I was tired,” Jack said. “More than I wanted anyone to notice.”
You stared at him. He looked mildly annoyed by the admission, which made it feel even more honest. Jack continued, “You noticed anyway.”
You looked down. “I brought you coffee.”
“You brought me coffee,” Jack said. “And half a turkey sandwich.”
You winced. “It was a questionable sandwich.”
“It was terrible,” Jack said.
A small laugh escaped you. His expression softened. “You set both down beside me and told me to eat something before Lena started threatening me with an IV bag,” Jack said.
You pressed your lips together. “That does sound like me.”
Jack’s voice came quieter. “Then you walked away before I could thank you.”
You glanced up. “Did you want to thank me?”
Jack held your gaze. “I thought about it for three days.”
Your breath caught. He looked at you like he could still see it. The coffee. The bad sandwich. The fluorescent light. You noticed what he had not said.
Jack’s voice dropped. “That was when I knew.”
You swallowed. “Because of coffee?”
His mouth barely moved. “It wasn’t the coffee.”
The words landed low in your chest. You stared at him. Jack stepped closer, slowly, giving you every chance to move away. You didn’t. You asked, “Then what was it?”
Jack’s voice came quieter. “You.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Jack stepped around the island. Slowly. Carefully. Nervously, you realized. Jack Abbot, who could walk into a trauma bay without blinking, looked nervous standing in his own kitchen with you. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Your pulse climbed. His hand lifted. For one breath, you thought he was going to kiss you. For one breath, you thought he had finally stopped fighting it.
Then Jack went still. His hand hovered between you. His eyes stayed on yours, dark and focused and suddenly, devastatingly sure.
Jack said, “Alright.”
You blinked. “Alright?”
His mouth barely moved. “We’re going to do this right.”
Your pulse was still somewhere in your throat. “Do what right?”
Jack lowered his hand, not away exactly, but enough that the space between you felt deliberate. “This.”
You stared at him. “Jack.”
“I’m taking you out,” Jack said.
Your brain stalled. “Taking me out?”
His eyes did not leave yours. “On a date.”
The words landed with ridiculous force. A date. Not coffee at his kitchen counter because you were already there. Not sleeping down the hall because there was a reason no one wanted to name too closely. Not safety dressed up as convenience.
A date.
You swallowed. “You’re asking me on a date after almost kissing me?”
Jack’s expression did not change. “Yes.”
You stared at him. His mouth barely curved. “I’m aware I’m doing it out of order.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Are you?”
Jack stepped back half a pace, like distance was the only reason he was still capable of forming sentences. “I am.”
You crossed your arms because it was either that or reach for him. “Okay, so let me get this straight.”
You ignored him. “I have spent almost a week sleeping at your house.”
Jack opened his mouth. You lifted a finger. “I sang Sabrina Carpenter in your truck.”
His mouth closed. You lifted another finger. “I made you pancakes.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. You lifted a third finger. “I fell asleep on your couch with your arm around me.”
His eyes darkened by a fraction. You lifted a fourth finger. “You watched Love Island with me.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Under protest.”
“You wanted resolution,” you said.
Jack looked away for half a second. You pointed at him. “Exactly.”
His eyes came back to yours, warmer now. You dropped your hand. “And after all of that, you won’t kiss me until after you’ve taken me on a date?”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then he said, “Yes.”
You blinked. “Yes?”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Yes.”
You stared at him. His expression was steady now. Still nervous underneath it, maybe. But steady. Certain. Infuriatingly sure of himself.
Jack said, “That is exactly what I’m saying.”
Your face warmed. Your pulse was absolutely not normal anymore. “You realize that’s ridiculous.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “No.”
Your brow arched, “No?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “I’m taking you to dinner first.”
Your pulse jumped. His voice dropped. “Then I’m going to kiss you properly.”
You forgot what air was supposed to do. Your fingers curled against your arms. He held your gaze. You stared at him for a second. “Properly.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Yes.”
You swallowed. “And what does properly involve?”
His mouth barely curved. Not a smile. Worse. Something steadier. Something sure.
“You say yes,” Jack said. “I take you out. I open the door for you.”
Your stomach flipped.
“I pull out your chair,” he continued. “I sit across from you. I pay the bill.”
You crossed your arms tighter, mostly because you needed somewhere to put your hands. “You pay the bill?”
Jack gave you a look. “Yes.”
Your brow furrowed, “I can pay for my own dinner.”
“I know you can,” Jack replied. You blinked. Jack’s voice stayed calm. “That’s not the point.”
Your face warmed. He stepped closer again, slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. Jack said, “The point is I asked. So I’m paying.”
Your throat went a little dry. He held your gaze.
“I walk you to your door after,” Jack said. “I don’t assume I’m coming in. I don’t make you explain what you do or don’t want. I wait.”
Your heart beat hard against your ribs. He looked at you like he wanted every word to land exactly where he put it.
“No dating app bullshit,” Jack said. “No half-effort. No making you wonder what I meant.”
The kitchen went quiet. You managed, “So you’re showing me how this goes.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Yes,” he said.
Your breath caught. His voice dropped, rougher now. “I’m showing you what it feels like when a man means it.”
For a second, you had no words at all. None. Then you breathed, “Jesus, Jack.”
His eyes warmed. Just enough. “Dinner,” Jack said.
You blinked, dazed. “What?”
His mouth curved faintly. “This is the part where you say yes.”
You stared at him for half a second. Then you laughed, unsteady and breathless. “Yes.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Not much. Jack never gave much away unless he meant to. But satisfaction moved through his face like warmth. “Good,” he said.
The word should not have done anything to you. It did. You pointed at him, mostly because you needed somewhere to put your hand. “Don’t say it like that.”
Jack reached for his coffee like he had not just rearranged your entire nervous system in his kitchen. “Like what?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Like you knew I was going to say yes.”
His eyes flicked to yours over the rim of the mug. His mouth barely moved. “I hoped.”
You shook your head. “That is not what your face said.”
Jack took a sip of coffee. Slow. Unbothered. Terrible. Then he lowered the mug. “Seven.”
Your stomach flipped again. “Seven?”
Jack set the mug down. “I’ll make a reservation.”
You blinked. “You already know where?”
Jack nodded once. “Yes.”
You muttered, “Of course you do.”
His brow lifted. “Problem?”
You answered too fast. “No.”
His eyes warmed. You looked away before he could see too much, which was pointless because Jack saw everything. You added, “No problem.”
Jack nodded again. “Seven works?”
You tried to sound normal. “Seven works.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Good.”
There it was again. Good. Like a hand at the back of your neck. Like a door opening. Like a promise. You pulled in a breath. “Okay.”
Jack watched you. “Okay?”
You looked toward the hallway. Your bag was still in the guest room. Your charger was still plugged into the wall. Your face wash was in the bathroom. Your clothes were folded into the drawer like they had a right to be there. Every little piece of you that had landed in Jack’s house over the last several days suddenly felt very loud.
You looked back at him. “I want to go back to my apartment.”
Jack went still. Not visibly. Not to anyone who didn’t know how to read him. But you knew. His fingers tightened once around his mug. Then they relaxed.
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Okay.”
You gave him a look. “That was very convincing.”
Jack set the mug down. “I said okay.”
You crossed your arms. “You said okay like you hated it.”
His mouth barely moved. “I don’t have to like it to respect it.”
Your chest softened. You hated that a little. You loved it more. Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “If you’re sure.”
You nodded. “I am.”
His eyes searched your face. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Your voice softened. “I know.”
Jack waited. You glanced down at your hands, then back at him. “But I want to get ready in my own apartment.”
His expression stayed quiet. Listening. You exhaled. “I want to pick out my own clothes and overthink everything and pretend I’m not nervous like a normal person going on a normal date.”
Jack’s expression changed at the word nervous. A little softer. A little pleased. You huffed. “Don’t look like that.”
His mouth barely curved. “Like what?”
You pointed at him. “Like me being nervous is doing something for you.”
Jack held your gaze. “It is.”
Your breath caught. He did not even have the decency to look sorry about it. You shook your head. “Dangerous.”
Jack’s smile deepened by half an inch. “You’ve mentioned.”
You fought your own smile. “I’m serious. I want it to feel normal.”
His amusement softened into something steadier. You continued, “I want to leave here. I want to go home. I want to get ready.”
Jack stayed quiet. You held his gaze. “And then I want you to pick me up because you asked me on a date, not because I was already sleeping down the hall.”
Jack nodded. Once. Firm. Respectful. “Okay.”
This time, he meant it differently. You exhaled. Jack’s voice gentled. “I’ll drive you home.”
You said, “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You gave him a look.
Jack gave it right back. “I’m still driving you home.”
You opened your mouth. Jack lifted one hand slightly. “And before you argue, I’m not saying that because I think you can’t take care of yourself.”
Your mouth closed. He held your gaze. “I’m saying it because I want to know you got inside safely, and because after what happened yesterday, I’m not going to pretend I’d be fine dropping you off and driving away.”
Your chest tightened. You hated how reasonable he was when he was being impossible. You sighed, “You can drive me.”
Jack nodded. “Good.”
You pointed at him again. “But you leave after.”
His brows lifted. “I know.”
You held his gaze. “I mean it.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I heard you.”
You nodded your head once, “I’m doing this properly too.”
That made him pause. His eyes moved over your face, slower now. Not assessing. Listening.
You swallowed. “You said you’re showing me how this goes.”
Jack’s voice softened. “I am.”
You lifted your chin. “Then I get to show up for it.”
Something in his expression softened so much it made your chest ache. Jack’s voice came quieter. “Yeah.”
The kitchen went still again. Then his mouth barely moved.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “You do.”
Your pulse climbed. For a second, neither of you looked away. Then Jack reached for his coffee and cleared his throat like a man saving himself from saying too much before noon.
“Seven,” he said.
You smiled. “Seven.”
Jack nodded. “I’ll pick you up at your door.”
You tilted your head. “At my door?”
His eyes warmed. “That is generally where picking someone up happens.”
You laughed. Jack looked pleased with himself. Smug, maybe. Hot, definitely. You hated him a little for it. You liked him a lot more. You rolled your eyes, “Fine. My door. Seven.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’ll be there.”
Your stomach flipped. You believed him. That was the problem.
You believed every single word.
The drive to your apartment was quieter than the drive to Jack’s had been the night before. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. Your bag sat by your feet, your hands rested in your lap, and Jack kept one hand on the wheel with the kind of focus that made you suspect he was concentrating very hard on not saying at least six things.
You looked over at him. “You’re quiet.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the road. “I’m trying not to talk you out of something I already agreed to respect.”
Your chest softened. You looked out the windshield, watching the familiar streets pass by in the afternoon light. “I’m sure.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You glanced at him. “You hate it.”
His jaw shifted once. “I don’t hate that you want to go home.”
You waited.
Jack turned onto your street. “I hate why it feels complicated.”
That landed softly. You looked down at your hands. “I do too.”
Jack pulled up outside your building, put the truck in park, and cut the engine. For a second, neither of you moved. Then he looked at you. “Do you want me to check inside?”
You swallowed. Part of you wanted to say no just to prove you could. Part of you wanted to say no because you hated that the question had to exist. But Jack did not rush you. He did not reach for your bag. He did not open his door. He just waited.
You breathed in through your nose. “Yes.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
He got out first, came around to your side, and opened your door before you could reach for the handle. You looked at him. Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’m practicing.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. “For tonight?”
His eyes warmed. “For tonight.”
The laugh stayed with you as you grabbed your bag and stepped out. It helped. A little. Jack walked beside you into the building, close enough to be there, not close enough to crowd. At your door, he waited while you unlocked it. The click of the lock sounded too loud. You pushed the door open, then stopped.
Jack’s voice was quiet behind you. “Stay here.” You looked back at him. He lifted one hand slightly. “Only if you want me to check.”
You nodded. “I do.”
Jack stepped in first. Not like he owned the place. Not like Trent, who had decided knowing where you lived meant he had a right to be there. Jack moved like someone who understood the difference. He checked the living room first, then the kitchen. He looked at the windows, the lock on the balcony door, the hallway, the bathroom, and your bedroom. He did it without making a show of it. Without touching anything he didn’t need to touch. Without making your apartment feel like evidence.
You stood just inside the doorway and watched him move through your space with careful restraint. When he came back down the hall, his expression was calm. “You’re clear.”
You exhaled. You had not realized you were holding your breath until then. “Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Of course.”
He stopped a few feet from you. The door was still open behind you. The hallway waited. The whole afternoon seemed to hold itself still.
You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay.”
Jack’s eyes searched your face. “Okay?”
You lifted your chin. “You have to go now.”
His mouth barely curved. “I know.”
“I mean it,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said again.
The fact that he did know made something in your chest ache. He did not argue. He did not linger by pretending he needed to check another lock. He did not make you comfort him for leaving. He just stepped toward the doorway. Then he paused.
Jack looked back at you. “Call me if anything feels off.”
Your voice softened. “I will.”
“I mean anything,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. “Jack.”
His expression did not change. “A noise. A text. A weird feeling. Anything.”
You nodded. “I will.”
Jack held your gaze. “I’ll come back.”
Your chest tightened. There was no hesitation in his voice. No performance. Just fact. You swallowed. “I know.”
His eyes softened. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else. For a second, you wanted him to. Then Jack glanced down the hall, exhaled through his nose, and stepped fully into the doorway.
Jack looked back at you. “Lock this behind me.”
You leaned against the edge of the open door. “I was going to.”
“I know,” Jack said.
You studied his face. “You’re very calm for someone who hates leaving.”
His mouth barely moved. “I don’t hate leaving.”
You lifted your brows. Jack looked at you for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose. “I hate wanting to stay.”
Your fingers tightened on the door. Jack held your gaze, steady and quiet and too honest for the narrow space between you. Then he stepped back. Because you told him to. Because he meant it. Because this was him showing you how this went.
You swallowed. “Jack?”
He paused in the hallway. “Yeah?”
You let your eyes drop to his mouth. Just once. Then you looked back at him. “For the record, I’m going to want you to kiss me after dinner.”
Jack froze. Completely.
For one perfect second, he had nothing. No dry answer. No careful correction. No controlled, competent, infuriatingly composed response.
Nothing.
You smiled. Small. Sweet. Terrible.
“Seven,” you said.
Then you closed the door in his face.
For one second, you stood there with your hand still on the knob, heart pounding so hard it felt ridiculous. Then, from the hallway, Jack exhaled. A low, disbelieving sound. Almost a laugh. Almost a curse. You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling too hard.
Jack’s voice came through the door, rough and amused. “Lock it.”
You laughed under your breath and turned the deadbolt. The lock slid into place. Jack stayed there for another second. You could feel him on the other side of the door. Then his footsteps moved away down the hall. Slow. Measured. Like a man doing exactly what he promised. Like a man who had just had his own rules used against him. Like a man who would be back at seven.
Then the apartment went quiet. Really quiet. For the first time in days, the silence did not feel like a warning. It felt like yours. You checked the lock once. Then the windows. Then the hallway, even though Jack had already checked it, because this was your apartment and you needed your hands to believe what your head was trying to tell you.
Everything was where it should be. Your blanket was still on your bed. Your book was still facedown on your nightstand, abandoned mid-chapter. Your water glass sat beside it. Your apartment was still yours.
The thought settled something in you.
So you changed into something soft, set an alarm, and climbed into your own bed for the first time in days. You expected to lie there awake. You expected every sound in the hallway to pull you back to the surface. You expected your mind to circle the rose on your windshield, the coffee outside your door, Trent’s hand reaching for your arm in the ambulance bay.
But your body was tired. Your bed was familiar. Your door was locked. And Jack had left when you told him to. Sleep found you easier than you thought it would.
When you woke, the light had shifted across the room, warm and low, and for a second you stayed still beneath the covers, letting yourself feel it. Home. Your own sheets. Your own walls. Your own quiet. Then your alarm went off. Seven. Jack. Dinner. Your stomach flipped so hard you sat up too fast.
“Oh my God,” you whispered to the empty room.
Then you remembered Jack standing in your doorway. ‘I hate wanting to stay.’
Then you remembered his voice in the kitchen. ‘I’m taking you to dinner first. Then I’m going to kiss you properly.’
Your face warmed. Slowly, deliberately, you got out of bed. This was not throwing yourself together before a shift. This was not scrubs, badge reels, and coffee in a travel mug. This was not survival. This was getting ready. For Jack. And if Jack Abbot wanted to be noble and gentlemanly and devastatingly patient, then fine. Fine. You could be patient too.
You showered. You took your time. You moved through your apartment with more intention than you wanted to admit. The soft black sweater came first. It slipped just enough off one shoulder to feel dangerous without looking like you had tried too hard. Then the jeans. Then the black ankle boots were waiting by the door. Then gold earrings, because apparently you had decided to be cruel.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. It was not too much. It was not casual. It was exactly the kind of outfit a woman wore when a man had decided he was going to be noble about kissing her, and she had decided to make that as difficult for him as possible.
A smile pulled at your mouth. Small. Terrible. Absolutely unhelpful. You made one final adjustment, then checked the time. 6:57.
Your pulse jumped. Three minutes. You stared at the clock like glaring at it would make you calmer. It did not. At 6:59, you gave up pretending you were not listening for him.
At exactly seven, there was a knock at your door. Not a text. Not headlights through the window. A knock.
Because Jack Abbot, apparently, meant every word.
You let yourself take one breath. Then another. Then you walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
Jack stood in the hallway. And for one perfect second, neither of you said anything. He was dressed for dinner. Dark jacket. Clean shirt. Good jeans. Watch at his wrist. Simple. Grown. Devastating in a way that made you briefly resent every man who had ever owned a graphic tee. But that was not what made your breath catch.
In one hand, Jack held a small bouquet.
Not roses. Nothing red.
Daisies, baby’s breath, and soft pastel blooms wrapped in plain paper.
Your eyes moved from the flowers to his face. Jack’s jaw shifted once. “I almost didn’t bring them.”
Your hand stayed on the door. “Because of the rose?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
Something in your chest softened. He held the bouquet out, but not too far. Not forcing it into your hands. Just offering. Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “I didn’t want him to ruin that for you.”
For a second, you could not quite speak. Then you reached for the bouquet. The paper crinkled softly beneath your fingers. Small white petals. Pale yellow centers. Tiny sprays of baby’s breath. Nothing sharp. Nothing dramatic. Nothing demanding.
Just flowers.
Given at your door by a man who had asked first. You looked down at them, then back up at him. “Thank you.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You’re welcome.”
You glanced over your shoulder into the apartment. “Come in for a second?”
Jack went still. Only slightly. Only enough for you to notice.
You lifted the bouquet. “I want to put these in water.”
His eyes held yours for one beat too long. Then Jack nodded. “Okay.”
You stepped back to let him in. He crossed the threshold carefully, like he remembered exactly what it meant to be invited this time. Not to check the windows. Not to make sure you were safe.
Just because you had asked him to come in.
You moved into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. Jack stayed near the edge of the room, hands at his sides, watching you like he was trying very hard to behave in a space where you had just let him back in. You found a glass vase, filled it at the sink, and set the flowers inside.
They looked soft there. Sweet.
You adjusted one of the daisies with your fingertip. “There.”
Jack’s voice came from behind you. “Looks good.”
You turned. He was not looking at the flowers anymore. He was looking at you. This time, really looking. The sweater. The jeans. The black ankle boots. The gold earrings. The fact that you had gotten ready with purpose. His jaw shifted once.
You leaned back against the counter and tried very hard not to smile. “You’re staring.”
Jack’s eyes came back to yours. “I know.”
Your stomach flipped. He cleared his throat. It did not help. His voice came lower than usual. “You are beautiful.”
The words landed softly. No performance. No app-boy exaggeration. No hungry, careless line meant to see what it could get him.
Just Jack.
Standing in your kitchen at seven because you invited him in, with flowers on your counter and restraint written all over his face.
You swallowed. “Thank you.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. For a second, neither of you moved. The space between you felt smaller than it had a moment ago. Warmer. Louder. You could have stepped forward. He could have too.
You both knew it.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Then he looked away, just enough to pull himself back. Your pulse kicked. He breathed out through his nose, almost like he was annoyed with himself. You tilted your head. “Still doing this properly?”
Jack looked back at you. His mouth barely curved. “Trying.”
The single word did terrible things to your nervous system. You smiled, slow and entirely unhelpful. “Is it hard?”
Jack held your gaze. His voice came rougher. “Yes.”
Your fingers curled against the edge of the counter. His eyes darkened by a fraction, but he did not move closer. He stayed exactly where he was. Because dinner came first. Because he had said it would. Because apparently Jack Abbot’s self-control was both the hottest and most infuriating thing you had ever seen.
You pushed off the counter before you could do something stupid. “Then we should probably go.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Probably.”
You stepped toward him, bouquet behind you on the counter, door behind him, dinner waiting somewhere outside this apartment. Jack offered his hand. Not demanding. Not assuming.
Just there.
You looked at his hand. Then at him. Then you took it. His fingers closed around yours, warm and steady. You pulled the apartment door shut behind you and locked it.
Jack waited.
When you turned back, his thumb moved once over your knuckles. Barely there. Enough.
“Ready?” Jack asked.
You looked up at him. The flowers were in water. Your door was locked. Dinner came first. After dinner, he was going to kiss you properly.
You smiled. “I’m ready.”
Jack’s eyes held yours for one charged second. Then he opened the door to the stairwell for you. Because of course he did.
At his truck, Jack opened the passenger door for you. You paused and looked at him over the roofline. “Still practicing?”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “No.”
You lifted your brows. His eyes stayed on yours. “This part counts.”
Your stomach flipped. You climbed in before your face could give you away. Jack closed the door gently, came around to the driver’s side, and got in beside you. The cab felt different tonight. Same truck. Same seats. Same faint smell of coffee and whatever clean soap Jack used.
But different.
Jack started the engine, then glanced at you. You settled back against the seat and watched him pull away from the curb. “So where are you taking me?”
His eyes stayed on the road. “Dinner.”
You turned your head slowly. “That was very informative.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I thought so.”
You sighed, “Jack.”
“Italian place,” he said. “Quiet. Good food. You’ll like it.”
You looked at his profile in the passing streetlights. “You sound very sure.”
Jack glanced over. “I am.”
Your stomach did something embarrassing. You looked forward again. For half a minute, neither of you spoke. Then your hand drifted toward the radio.
Jack noticed immediately. His voice came calm and dry. “For the sake of my self-control, do not put on Sabrina Carpenter.”
Your hand froze. Then you looked at him. “Excuse me?”
Jack kept his eyes on the road, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You heard me.”
You settled back in your seat, fighting a smile. “I sang.”
Jack nodded once. “You did.”
He glanced at you for half a second, then said, completely deadpan, “Something about coming right on you.”
Your mouth fell open.
Jack looked back at the road. “I won’t be forgetting that anytime soon.”
Heat rushed up your neck. “Jack.”
He looked over. “What?”
You stared at his profile. “You cannot just say that like you’re reading discharge instructions.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m a doctor.”
You laughed, helplessly, and Jack’s eyes softened before he could hide it. Then his gaze dropped briefly to the line of your sweater, the bare angle of your shoulder, the place where black knit slipped just enough to make his self-control look increasingly theoretical. He looked back at the road. Quickly.
Very quickly.
You smiled to yourself. “So no Sabrina.”
“Not tonight,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Because dinner comes first?”
His fingers tightened once on the steering wheel. Then he exhaled through his nose.
“Because dinner comes first,” he agreed.
The words settled between you. Warm. Promising. Absolutely not helping either of you behave.
You leaned back in the seat and let him drive.
The restaurant was tucked on a quiet corner a few neighborhoods over, the kind of place you would have walked past twice before realizing it was there. No neon sign. No crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk. Just warm light in the windows, dark wood around the door, and the low, inviting hum of conversation inside. Jack pulled into a spot along the curb and put the truck in park.
You looked out the windshield. “This is very nice.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “That was the idea.”
You glanced at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack turned off the engine and looked over at you. “Yes.”
The answer came too easily. Too honestly. Your stomach flipped. You reached for your seatbelt, mostly because you needed to do something with your hands. Jack was out of the truck before you could open your door.
Of course he was.
By the time you reached for the handle, he was already there, opening it from the outside.
You looked up at him. “You’re serious about every single part of this.”
Jack held the door and offered his hand. “I told you I was.”
You took his hand. His palm was warm against yours, his grip steady as you stepped down from the truck. He did not let go immediately. Neither did you. For one breath, you stood there on the sidewalk, close enough to see the slight shift in his jaw when his eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then he looked back at your eyes. Dinner first. You could practically hear him thinking it. You smiled.
Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly. “What?”
You squeezed his hand once before letting go. “Nothing.”
His mouth barely curved. “That was not nothing.”
You started toward the restaurant door. “You’re very suspicious.”
Jack stepped ahead of you just enough to open the door. “I have reason to be.”
You paused beside him. “Do you?”
His eyes held yours. “Yes.”
The word landed low. Warm. Promising. Then Jack opened the door and let you go inside first. The restaurant smelled like garlic, warm bread, tomato sauce, and something rich enough to make your stomach remember you had not eaten anything real since Jack’s kitchen. Low lights glowed over small tables. Framed black-and-white photos lined the walls. Somewhere farther back, someone laughed quietly over the soft clink of silverware.
It was not flashy.
It was not trying too hard.
It was exactly the kind of place Jack would choose because the food was good, the tables were not six inches apart, and no one had to shout to be heard.
The hostess looked up from her stand with a smile. “Two?”
Jack stepped beside you. “Reservation for Abbot.”
Your heart did something ridiculous at the sound of it. Reservation.
The hostess checked the list, then smiled. “Right this way.”
Jack’s hand came to the small of your back. Light. Brief. Barely there. Still enough to make your entire body notice. He guided you through the restaurant without crowding you, his touch disappearing before you could decide whether you wanted to lean into it. That was the worst part. He kept doing things properly.
He kept making it hotter.
The hostess led you to a small booth near the back, tucked against the wall beneath a warm pendant light. Quiet. Private without feeling hidden. Jack waited until you slid in before taking the seat across from you. You watched him settle in, jacket falling open, sleeves neat at his wrists, watch catching the light when he reached for the menu.
He looked infuriatingly comfortable here.
Not relaxed, exactly. Jack was too aware of you for relaxed. But composed. Capable. Date Jack, apparently, did not fumble. Date Jack had reservations. Date Jack opened doors. Date Jack looked at you across warm light like he was absolutely aware he was making a point.
You picked up your menu. “You’ve been here before.”
Jack glanced over the top of his menu. “A few times.”
You looked at him over yours. “With dates?”
His eyes lifted to yours. You regretted the question immediately. Not because you did not want to know. Because you did.
Jack studied you for one second too long. “Not like this.”
Your fingers tightened around the menu. You looked down. “That was a very good answer.”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “It was true.”
That was worse.
The server came by with water and a basket of bread, saving you from whatever your face was doing. Jack ordered calmly, politely, with the kind of easy competence that made you realize he probably knew how to be kind to service staff even when he was exhausted. When the server left, Jack reached for the bread basket and offered it to you first. You stared at him.
His brow lifted. “What?”
You took a piece of bread. “Nothing.”
Jack set the basket down. “You keep saying that.”
You pointed the bread at him. “You keep doing things.”
His mouth barely curved. “That is generally how dates work.”
You shook your head. “No. This is different.”
Jack leaned back slightly. “Different how?”
You looked around the restaurant, then back at him. “You have a reservation. You opened every door. You offered me bread first.”
Jack’s expression stayed dry. “I’m a monster.”
You laughed before you could stop it. His eyes warmed. That warmth always did something to you. It made him look less untouchable. Less attending. Less controlled. More like the man who had slept on his own couch so you would not feel alone. The man who made coffee the way you liked it. The man who almost kissed you and stopped because he wanted the wanting to mean something clean.
You tore off a piece of bread and looked down at it. “I’m not used to it.”
Jack went quiet. When you looked up, his expression had shifted. Not sad. Not pitying. Just attentive in that way that made it impossible to hide behind jokes for long.
His voice softened. “Used to what?”
You tried to shrug. “This.” Jack waited. You huffed a small breath. “Effort.”
His jaw shifted once. You looked down at the bread again, suddenly wishing you had said something easier. “That sounded depressing.”
Jack’s answer came quietly. “It sounded honest.”
Your eyes lifted to his. He held your gaze across the table. “There’s a difference.”
Your chest tightened. For a second, the restaurant blurred around the edges. Warm lights. Low voices. Jack’s hands resting near his water glass. His attention fixed on you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
You swallowed. “You’re very good at this.”
His mouth barely moved. “Dinner?”
You gave him a look. “Making it impossible to stay normal.”
Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Then back up. “Good.”
Your pulse kicked. You sat back. “You’re getting smug.”
Jack reached for his water. “I’m aware.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re smug about it.”
Jack took a sip, then lowered the glass. “Yes.”
You stared at him. He looked back like he had no intention of apologizing. You shook your head. “Dangerous.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You keep saying that too.”
You leaned slightly forward. “Because it keeps being true.”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “You okay?”
The question was soft. So soft it almost undid you. You blinked. “Yeah.”
Jack studied your face. “Really?”
You looked around the restaurant again. At the warm light on the table. At the bread basket between you. At the door he had opened. At the man across from you who had asked, waited, listened, left, returned, and brought flowers that were not red because he remembered exactly what had hurt.
You looked back at him. “Really.”
His expression eased. Just a little. You smiled. “I’m nervous.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “I know.”
You narrowed yours. “You like that.”
His mouth barely curved. “I do.”
You held his gaze. “Why?”
Jack leaned forward slightly, forearms resting near the edge of the table. “Because this is the kind of nervous you should have had.”
Your throat tightened. He held your gaze. Jack’s voice stayed quiet. “Not scared. Not bracing. Not wondering if I’ll listen.”
You breathed in slowly.
He continued, “Just nervous because you want it to go well.”
The words settled somewhere deep. You looked down before he could see too much. Too late, probably. Always too late with Jack.
You reached for your water and took a sip. “You are way too good at saying devastating things over bread.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I’ll try to pace myself.”
You set your glass down. “You won’t.”
“No,” Jack said. “Probably not.”
The server returned to take your order, and Jack looked to you first. You ordered, and he listened like even your pasta choice mattered. Then he ordered his own, added an appetizer for the table, and handed the menus back.
When the server left again, you looked at him. “You ordered an appetizer.”
Jack picked up his water. His eyes flicked to yours. “You like bruschetta.”
You blinked. He took a drink. You stared at him. “How do you know that?”
Jack set his glass down. “You stole half of Lena’s in the break room two weeks ago.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. Jack looked pleased. Not obviously. But enough.
You pointed at him. “That is unsettling.”
His mouth barely curved. “It was observational.”
You shook your head. “That’s worse.”
His eyes warmed. “You liked it.”
You leaned back. “The bruschetta?”
Jack held your gaze. “That I noticed.”
Your face warmed. You looked down at the table.
Jack’s voice softened, just a little. “I notice you.”
Your fingers curled around your napkin. That was the thing about Jack. He did not need to say very much. He just had to say it like that. Like it was simple. Like it had been true for longer than you knew.
You lifted your eyes back to his. “I’m starting to understand why dinner had to come first.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “You’re making a very strong case for yourself.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Good.”
There it was again. Low. Certain. Dangerous.
You leaned forward just enough to lower your voice. “Careful, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Across the little table, between the candle and the bread and all the manners he had armed himself with, Jack looked at you like dinner was the only thing standing between him and the rest of the night.
His voice came quiet. Rougher. “I am being careful.”
Your breath caught.
Jack held your gaze. Then he added, “That’s the problem.”
The appetizer arrived then, and you had never been more personally offended by bruschetta in your life. Jack leaned back as the server set the plate between you, the corner of his mouth barely moving like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
You waited until the server walked away before looking at him. “Saved by tomatoes.”
Jack reached for one of the pieces. “I didn’t ask to be saved.”
You picked up your own piece. “No?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “No.”
The word landed too low for something said over toasted bread. You looked down at your plate because looking at him directly felt like a mistake. “You’re very comfortable making dinner dangerous.”
Jack took a bite, chewed, and swallowed before answering. “You started it.”
You looked back up. “Me?”
His brow lifted. “The door.”
Your face warmed. Of course he was going to bring that up. You set the bruschetta down. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Jack’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “You closed a door in my face after telling me you were going to want me to kiss you.”
You pressed your lips together.
His mouth barely curved. “That was not subtle.”
You picked up your water. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”
Jack’s eyes darkened by a fraction. For one second, the table felt too small again. Then he looked down at the plate between you and reached for another piece like he was choosing survival. You smiled into your glass. Dinner, apparently, was going to require discipline from both of you.
The conversation softened after that. Not cooled. Never cooled. But softened. You asked him how he found the restaurant, and Jack told you Robby had recommended it years ago after declaring Jack’s takeout habits “a cry for help.” You laughed so hard Jack’s eyes warmed over his water glass, and he admitted, under pressure, that Robby had not been entirely wrong.
Jack asked about the book on your nightstand, the one he had noticed facedown earlier when he checked your apartment. You accused him of snooping.
Jack shook his head. “I was checking windows.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And judging my bookmark habits?”
His mouth barely moved. “A little.”
You pointed a piece of bread at him. “I knew it.”
Jack leaned back. “You abandoned it facedown. The spine didn’t deserve that.”
You stared at him. “I’m sorry, are you defending the structural integrity of my paperback?”
Jack’s expression stayed dry. “Someone has to.”
You laughed again, easier this time. Normal. That was the dangerous part. Not the flirting. Not the way his eyes occasionally dropped to your mouth and came back like he was punishing himself.
The normalcy.
The fact that dinner with Jack felt less like performing for someone and more like stepping into something that had already made room for you.
The entrees came out hot and fragrant, and Jack moved your water glass slightly to make more room before the server set your plate down. Small. Automatic. Infuriating. You looked at him after the server left. “You know, the worst part is that I don’t think you’re even trying.”
Jack glanced up from his plate. “Trying to do what?”
You gestured at him with your fork. “All of this.”
His brow lifted faintly. “Be decent?”
“Be devastating,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Jack went still. Only for a second. But you caught it. His eyes lifted to yours, focused and quiet.
Your face warmed.
His voice came lower. “For what it’s worth, I’m trying very hard.”
Your fork paused. You looked back up. Jack held your gaze across the table. “Just not at being decent.”
Your stomach flipped. The restaurant kept moving around you. Forks against plates. Low conversation. Someone laughing two tables over. But none of it seemed to reach the little booth beneath the warm light.
You swallowed. “Jack.”
His jaw shifted once. “I know.”
You breathed out slowly. “Do you?”
Jack leaned forward slightly, voice quiet enough that it belonged only to you. “Yes.”
Your fingers tightened around your fork. He held your gaze. “Dinner first.”
You hated him. You absolutely did. You smiled despite yourself. “You’re saying that to yourself more than me.”
Jack looked down at his plate for half a second. Then back at you. His mouth barely curved. “Yes.”
A laugh broke out of you, soft and helpless. Jack’s expression warmed, and for a few minutes, the pressure eased again. You ate. You talked. You found out Jack was opinionated about restaurant lighting, hated QR code menus with the passion of a man personally betrayed by technology, and had once gotten into an argument with Robby over whether a salad counted as dinner.
You said, “It depends on the salad.”
Jack looked personally disappointed. “No.”
You laughed. “What do you mean, no?”
Jack set his fork down. “A salad can be part of dinner. It is not dinner.”
You leaned back in the booth. “That is such a fifty-year-old man opinion.”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “Careful.”
You smiled. “What? You are.”
Jack reached for his water. “I’m aware.”
You tilted your head. “Does it bother you when I say it?”
His hand stilled around the glass. Not long. Just enough. Then he looked at you. “No.”
You studied him. “No?”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “No.”
Something in your chest softened at the quiet honesty in it. You set your fork down. “Good.”
His eyes warmed. You smiled a little. “I like that you’re older.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. You leaned forward, just enough to lower your voice. “I like that you know what you’re doing.”
The air changed. Instantly. Jack’s eyes went still. The kind of still that told you every word had landed. You watched his hand tighten once around his water glass before he released it.
Then he looked at you across the table, voice low and controlled. “You need to be careful with that one.”
Your pulse jumped. You held his gaze. “Why?”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Because I’m trying to get you through dinner.”
Your breath caught. There it was. Not the gentlemanly version. Not the polished date version. The man underneath all that restraint, showing through for half a second.
You sat back slowly. Not retreating. Just giving yourself room to breathe. Jack watched you do it, eyes dark and attentive and still somehow patient. You reached for your wine glass, then seemed to remember you had ordered water, which was honestly rude of reality.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved faintly. “You okay?”
You glared at him. “No.”
His eyes warmed. “Good.”
You pointed at him. “That one sounded smug.”
Jack picked up his fork again. “I know.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling. And when he smiled back, small and real and almost private, you felt the whole shape of the night shift under your ribs. Dinner first. Then the door.
Then the kiss.
And maybe, if you were both very lucky and Jack stopped being so infuriatingly noble, more than that.
By the time the plates were cleared, you had learned three things. Jack hated QR code menus. Jack believed salad was a supporting character, not a meal. And Jack Abbot, when he was trying very hard to behave, was almost impossible to survive.
The server came by with the dessert menu tucked against her apron. “Can I interest you two in dessert?”
Jack looked at you first. The server smiled politely, waiting. You glanced at the menu in her hand, then back at Jack. “Are we dessert people?”
Jack’s brow lifted faintly. “We?”
Your face warmed. The word had slipped out before you could stop it. His mouth barely curved, but he did not make you suffer for it. He looked at the server. “What’s good?”
The server’s face brightened. “The tiramisu is probably our most popular. The lemon cake is great too.”
Jack looked back at you. “Tiramisu?”
You tried to sound casual. “I could be convinced.”
His eyes warmed. “That means yes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re getting very comfortable interpreting me.”
Jack’s voice stayed dry. “You’re not subtle when you want something.”
You stared at him. The server laughed under her breath. Traitor.
Jack ordered the tiramisu with two forks, then handed the dessert menu back like he had not just exposed you in public.
When the server walked away, you leaned across the table slightly. “That was rude.”
Jack leaned back in the booth. “That was efficient.”
“You called me out in front of a witness,” you said.
His mouth barely moved. “She already knew.”
You sat back. “Unbelievable.”
Jack reached for his water. “You still want the tiramisu.”
You looked away. Jack’s expression went deeply smug.
You pointed at him without looking back. “Do not say it.”
His voice came low and amused. “Good.”
Your head snapped back toward him. “Jack.”
His eyes warmed over the rim of his glass. He was enjoying himself. That should not have made you want him more. It did.
The tiramisu arrived a few minutes later, soft and dusted with cocoa, two forks laid neatly beside the plate. Jack slid one fork toward you before taking his own.
You took a bite. Then your eyes closed. The sound you made was small. Soft. Completely involuntary.
Across the table, Jack went still.
You opened your eyes. He was watching you. Not the dessert. You. His gaze had dropped to your mouth, fixed there for one charged second before he dragged it back to your eyes.
You swallowed slowly. “What?”
His eyes stayed on yours, darker now. “You made a sound.”
Your face warmed. You looked down at the plate. “It’s good.”
Jack did not look at the plate. “I gathered.”
The low, dry edge in his voice did something dangerous to your spine. You picked up another bite, mostly because if you looked at him too long, you were going to forget you were in public. The mascarpone was soft on your tongue, sweet and rich, and you tried very hard to have a normal reaction to dessert.
You failed.
Jack watched the fork leave your mouth. Careful. Quiet. Not moving. But watching. You felt the weight of his restraint from across the table. Then a little mascarpone caught on your finger when you adjusted the edge of the dessert with your fork.
You glanced down. You could have used your napkin. You should have used your napkin. Instead, you lifted your finger to your mouth and licked it clean.
Jack’s hand tightened once around his water glass. Just once. But you saw it.
His voice came lower. “That’s not fair.”
Your pulse jumped. You set your hand back in your lap and tried to look innocent. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours across the table. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
His jaw worked once. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth again, slower this time, like he knew he should not and was doing it anyway.
“You know what,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped. For a second, neither of you moved. The restaurant carried on around you. Low voices. Silverware. A server laughing near the bar. The little candle on the table flickered between you like it had no idea what kind of damage was being done over dessert. Jack leaned back slightly, like distance was the only thing keeping him civil.
His voice came rougher. “Dinner first.”
You looked at the space where the empty dinner plates sat before the server had cleared them. Then you looked back at him.
“Dinner is done,” you said.
Jack went very still. The words landed between you. Not loud. Not dramatic. Worse. True. His eyes held yours for one long second. Then his mouth barely curved.
“Dessert counts,” Jack said.
You huffed a laugh, but your pulse was not funny anymore. “That is very convenient for you.”
Jack picked up his fork. You watched his hand. The way his fingers curled around the handle. The way his wrist shifted. The way he took a bite like he was doing something normal, like there was anything normal about sitting across from him while he delayed kissing you on a technicality.
He looked at you as he pulled the fork from his mouth. Slowly enough to ruin you. Not exaggerated. Not obscene.
Just Jack.
Controlled. Aware. Completely unfair. Your breath caught before you could stop it. His eyes warmed.
Jack set the fork down with deliberate care. “See?”
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “See what?”
His mouth barely moved. “Not so easy from that side of the table.”
Your fingers tightened around your napkin. You looked down, because apparently dessert had become a public safety hazard.
Jack’s voice softened, but it did not get safer. “Sweetheart.”
Your eyes lifted. He held your gaze.
“Dessert,” Jack said.
You stared at him. Then you took one more careful bite, just to be cruel. Jack watched you do it. Then he exhaled through his nose and reached for the check the second the server passed close enough to flag down.
You watched him do it. “That was fast.”
Jack slid his card into the folder without looking at the total. “Necessary.”
Your pulse was still doing something deeply unhelpful. “Necessary?”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “If we stay here much longer, I’m going to forget why dinner had to come first.”
Your breath caught.
Jack looked back down at the check like he had not just pulled all the air out of the booth. The server returned, took the folder, and left again. Jack waited. Composed on the outside.
Not composed at all underneath.
You could see it now. The little restraint lines. The way his fingers rested too still near his water glass. The way his gaze kept touching your mouth and pulling away. He really was trying.
That was the problem.
The server came back with his card and the receipt. Jack signed, added the tip, and closed the folder. You watched him. “You didn’t even let me pretend to argue.”
Jack stood and held out his hand. “No.”
You looked up at him. “No?”
His mouth barely curved. “I told you I was paying.”
You took his hand and slid out of the booth. “You’re very committed to the bit.”
Jack helped you to your feet. “It’s not a bit.”
The words were quiet. Simple. They hit harder because of it. You stood close to him for one second too long. Close enough to smell his soap. Close enough to see the little flicker in his eyes when you did not immediately step back.
Then Jack reached for your bag, giving his hands something ordinary to do. You let him. Because he was doing this properly. Because you wanted him to. Because every gentlemanly thing he did made you think about what would happen when he finally stopped being one.
Jack guided you toward the front with one hand at the small of your back.
Light. Brief. Controlled.
The restaurant door opened into cool evening air, and you stepped out ahead of him, breath catching slightly at the change.
Jack followed, the warmth of him close behind you. For a second, both of you stood on the sidewalk beneath the restaurant’s low light.
Jack looked down at you. “Cold?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His eyes held yours. “You sure?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m sure.”
Jack did not move. Neither did you. The street was quiet around you. A car passed at the corner. Somewhere behind the restaurant door, silverware clinked against plates.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
This time, he let it stay there a second longer.
Your pulse jumped. Then he looked back at your eyes.
His voice came low. “Truck.”
A small laugh escaped you. “That sounded like an order.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “It was a survival tactic.”
You turned toward the curb before your knees could do something embarrassing.
Jack walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed, not close enough to touch. The restraint of it made your skin feel too warm for the evening air.
The truck waited at the curb beneath the low spill of restaurant light.
Your boots sounded against the sidewalk. Jack’s steps stayed steady beside yours. Every foot between the restaurant door and the passenger side felt longer than it should have.
Dinner was over. Dessert was over. The check was paid. He had opened every door. He had remembered what you liked and waited and watched and behaved until the word barely had any meaning left. He had done exactly what he said he was going to do.
Properly.
You reached the passenger side of the truck, but before Jack could move around you and open the door, you turned.
He stopped immediately.
You leaned back against the passenger door and looked up at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “What?”
Your pulse kicked at the sound of his voice. Low. Careful. Too controlled. You let your gaze drop to his mouth. Just once. Then you looked back at him.
“Dinner’s over, Jack,” you said.
For one second, he went completely still. Not confused. Not hesitant. Still like every disciplined thing in him had just been given permission to stand down. Then he moved.
Jack surged forward and kissed you.
No careful almost. No polite first-date brush of his mouth. No hovering hand, no tortured pause, no quiet fuck before he pulled away. He kissed you like he had been waiting all day to do it and every second of restraint had cost him something.
Your breath caught against his mouth.
Jack’s hand came to your jaw, firm and warm, angling your face up as his other hand found your hip. He pressed you back into the truck door, not hard enough to hurt, just enough that you felt the solid line of him in front of you and the cold metal at your back.
You made a small sound into his mouth.
Jack’s fingers tightened at your hip.
The kiss changed.
Deepened. Went hotter. Hungrier. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of control that felt more dangerous than losing it would have. Like he knew exactly how much pressure to use. Exactly when to slow down. Exactly how to make you chase him for more.
So you did.
Your hand fisted in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and Jack went with you on a rough breath. The sound he made was quiet. Almost nothing. It still ruined you.
His thumb brushed along your jaw, steadying you while his mouth did the opposite. Warm, firm, devastatingly sure. He kissed like he had meant every word at dinner. Like this was not a question anymore. Like he had asked, waited, paid attention, walked you out, and now he was finally letting you feel what all that restraint had been holding back.
Your knees went unreliable.
Jack felt it.
His hand at your hip slid more securely around you, anchoring you against the truck and him at the same time.
He broke the kiss just enough to breathe. Not enough to move away. His forehead hovered near yours, his breath warm against your mouth.
For a second, neither of you said anything. You could hear the quiet drag of his breathing. Feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours. Feel his thumb still resting at your jaw like he had forgotten how to let go.
Jack’s mouth brushed yours again. Barely. A warning. A promise.
You tightened your fingers in the front of his jacket and kissed him once more. Slow. Deep. Enough to feel the way his control frayed when you pulled him back in.
Jack made a rough sound against your mouth, and his hand flexed at your hip.
You broke the kiss first.
Jack followed you half an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened slowly, dark and fixed on yours. You swallowed, breathless.
Then you said, “Take me home, Jack.”
Jack went still.
For one second, the street disappeared.
The restaurant. The truck. The cold air. All of it.
His hand stayed at your hip. His thumb stayed near your jaw. You watched the words land. Watched him understand exactly what you meant. Watched the last of his gentlemanly restraint fight for its life. Then Jack reached behind you to open the passenger door.
summary: When you've been feeling sick for a few weeks, Jack expects to face the worst. But a trip to the emergency room reveals something he never expected. And you have to face the fact you're there for each other in sickness and health... and everything between.
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of abbot being a widower, lots of uncertainty and anxiety, age gap (but reader is implied to be a bit older), talks about infertility/ trouble getting pregnant. let me know if I need to add anything!
notes: had this idea a few days ago and like the devious baby fever pilled gal I am and managed to bang it out in two evenings. thank you jack abbot for being my current muse.
Jack’s work shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hospital hall. He’s running, a layer of sweat already beading at his temple. The glass ambulance bay door hits the wall with a teeth chattering thud. Jack is almost suprised it didn't shatter with his thrust.
He pants, eyes scanning the hospital’s back lot, trying to find the ambulance he knew was on his way.
“Mr. Abbot, we have your wife here- she fainted in the grocer’s parking lot…”
Jack knew he shouldn't have left you. He'd had a feeling. The looming dread that had been creeping up on him the past couple of weeks.
You'd been feeling out of it for a while now. A lethargic and nauseating achiness you couldn't quite shake, no matter how much tylenol or herbal teas you’d tried.
You had played it off as nothing. Just a headache that came and went. An upset stomach due to the day old chinese food you’d eaten.
“It's fine, Jack. I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m okay. I’m here. You don't have to worry.”
But Jack worried.
He was always worrying.
He knew that little things sometimes added up to a bigger, meaner somethings. That if you missed the signs, you might catch it too late.
What exactly? Jack wasn't sure. He didn’t particularly want to find out.
But he sure as hell wasn't gonna let you blow it off now.
His heart pounds as the ambulance finally pulls into the bay, the emergency lights blaring an ugly red and orange. Jack bary registers the EMT saying hello to him, his eyes focused on your splayed out form, laying on the gurney.
“Hey baby,” he says, voice cracking slightly.
“Jack,” you look up at him blearily, your eyes hazy, a bandage already taped to your forehead. Jack is quick to come by your side as the EMT lowers the gurney, his hand running over the back of your hair.
“One of the bystanders said she hit her head going down. It's not too bad. Just needs some cleaning. Same for her legs,” the EMT says to Jack as she watches him carefully lift the bandage.
Jack lets out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and leading your gurney back into the Pitt.
“What the hell Jack. You just ran off-” Robby calls out, watching Jack come back in. He stops once he sees you, your scraped up knees and bandaged head, the confused expression on your face. “What happened?”
“She fainted. We’ll need to start her on an iv, get her fluids and run a couple of blood tests. Do you still feel dizzy?”
“I don’t… Jack, what’s going on?” You look up at Jack, confused, panic written across your face. Jack looks back at the EMT who shakes her head.
“She was having trouble remembering the fall. Only remembers her headache and feeling sick.”
Jack remembers how you had looked this morning. The purple bruises around your eyes and the wince you'd tried to hide when he said goodbye.
“I don't have to go in today. Shen can cover if Robby really needs him to.”
“Go Jack. They need you more than me.”
He should have known better.
Robby comes beside the railing of the gurney, helping to pull it into a trauma room. You look around, your chest beginning to rise and fall quicker as your eyes begin to clear of the confused fog.
“What’s going on?”
“Jack, stay with your wife.”
“I am with her,” he throws back at Robby, turning to grab the bag of fluids Princess was moving to hand him.
“No. Stay with her as Jack. Not Dr. Abbot,” Robby tosses back, gesturing to your wide and fearful eyes. Jack swallows thickly, torn.
Especially when you groan, turning towards Robby and vomiting off the side of the gurney railing.
Jack’s heart hurts, pounding heavily against his sternum. You were here. The one place he hated seeing you.
Jack knows he can help take care of you right now. Bandage you up and order labs. He can solve the mystery behind why you were suddenly so ill. Why you haven’t been feeling well lately.
He can handle that. Dr. Jack Abbot, night attending and army vet, can handle bad news.
But just Jack. Mr. Jack Abbot, loving husband and worried widower, cannot.
He can’t take another bad diagnosis.
Jack looks up at Robby who’s helping Princess clean up the vomit, and then back at you. And he makes a decision.
“Hey,” Jack says, pushing down the railing on his side of your gurney and sitting on the edge. “Hey, honey-” He takes your head in his hands, taking the damp cloth Robby hands him and helping to clean your face.
Jack sits with you, his scrub top abandoned, his hand clasped tightly over yours. He watches as the color slowly comes back into your face, helps you take a sip of juice when your hand trembles too much to hold the cup. He stays silent for it all, Robby cleaning and bandaging your scrapes, Perlah coming in to draw your blood, the hospital gown Princess helps you into. He watches it all with a wariness. An awful churning in his gut.
A fear gnawing away at him.
“Jack,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. He hums, glancing up at you from where he was sitting beside your gurney. “It’s going to be alright.”
“I know,” he whispers back. You hadn’t said much to each other. Mostly hushed whispers and clinging to each other's hand. Like raising your voices was too much for the already overstimulating hospital room.
Jack’s knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He couldn’t help it, his mind turning over the many diagnoses, the myriad of things that could be wrong with you. You gently wrangle your hand out of his iron grip, reaching over to rest it on his jostling knee. Jack stills at the feeling of your warm palm over the fabric of his scrub pants, swallowing. You smile.
“Whatever it is… we’ll be okay.”
"I know," Jack repeats again. But it's hard to really believe it.
He's been here once before. A hospital room just like this. The woman he loves loved sitting by his side. Slowly wasting away. And he didn’t even know it.
He sees the symptoms, too familiar and painful. The exhaustion and fatigue that wore you down. The migraines and brain fog, lethargicness and nausea that plagued you. He sees it and he knows. Whatever labs Robby is currently looking at holds a future he’s not sure he’s ready for.
You sigh, your hand moving upwards to run through his salt and pepper curls. They had already been mussed and messed up from his own hand raking through them. Jack sighs at the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your side. You hum, holding him close.
“I didn’t even get to do any shopping. I just… passed out in the parking lot.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jack mumbles into your gown. “I’ll order some groceries for delivery later.”
“I really wanted to get that new cream cheese to try. The one with the jalapenos.” You sigh. “Gosh, I wish they could just inject that into my iv. Maybe I’d perk up faster.”
Jack can’t help but crack a smile. You hum happily, still petting his hair.
“There he is.” Jack looks up at you, his mouth open to say something. To apologize for worrying. For being so scared.
But he doesn’t get a chance.
The door to your room opens, Robby’s familiar silhouette shadowing behind the curtain.
“Jack?”
Jack clears his throat. “Yeah?”
Robby peeks his head through the fabric.
“I’ve got the test results back.” He comes in and sits down on the stool by the foot of your bed with a grunt. You give Jack a nervous look, your hand finding his again. He takes it, squeezing gently. Grounding. Robby clears his throat.
“Well, your blood panels came back fine. No signs of infection or disease.”
“So…what is it? What’s wrong with her?” Jack asks, swallowing thickly. Robby looks down at the lab work in his hands, peering over the frames of his glasses at the two of you.
“Nothing.”
The word hits harder than Jack could have expected. Of all the things he had anticipated-
You frown, looking confused.
“Nothing,” you repeat, the question no louder than a breath of air. Robby smiles and nods.
“Well, nothing that won’t go away in nine months. Congratulations kids. You're gonna have a baby."
Both of you go very still. Your mouth falls open, Jack’s eyes practically bug out of his head. Robby sits there smugly, folding the lab results over.
“A…” Jack starts, trailing off as he leans forward. Surely he’d heard Robby wrong.
“I- a baby?” You ask, dumbstruck.
“Hmm.” Robby nods. “From what I can tell you’re roughly six weeks along. Of course, you’d need an ultrasound and larger blood panel to be able to tell more accurately.”
“Pregnant,” Jack breathes. His eyes dart around the room, finally meeting Robby’s. “But how?”
Robby raises an eyebrow.
“It’s a simple process. I don’t think I have to explain the exact mechanics on conceiving to you Jack-”
"No, I know- I mean how... I can't even...
"We aren't exactly prime candidates for conceiving," you finish for Jack.
He can feel your fingers wrap tighter around his hand, your shoulder brushing against his.
Robby gives you a look, his features softening. “I know. I know, I don’t know why. It happens. Sometimes fertility problems resolve themselves. No on can pinpoint why exactly. Could be hormonal changes, medication changes, reduced stress-”
You and Jack finally glance over at each other. He looks at you, eyes raking over your face, the glimmer of hope you were trying to hide. And it hits him.
The sabbatical, he thinks. The long overdue vacation he'd finally gotten around to taking.
Three months without either of you worrying about work or patients. Three months of just the two of you; long walks in the park, lazy mornings spent in bed. Decadent yet nutritious dinners and way too many trips to the ice cream shop down the street.
Leaving behind the worries of your every day.
The sabbatical he’d finally come back from not even a few weeks ago. Just before you had begun to get sick-
You're the first to smile. A small curve upwards, more nervous than anything.
"I'm pregnant."
Jack breathes heavily in his chair.
“You are,” Robby smiles. You take a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. “There’s quite a few things we’ll have to go over. I’m sure Jack knows this speech like the back of his hand, but it’s still customary…”
Jack is half listening as Robby goes on about the usual procedure. The prenatal vitamins you’ll need, the appointments you’ll have to set up. The safety precautions and symptoms and internal changes. The risks considering Jack was older and you weren’t very young yourself.
Jack is so far zoned out he doesn’t even realize you’re calling his name.
“Jack. Honey," you shake his shoulder, frowning. “Are you okay?”
Jack opens his mouth, looking between you and Robby. He glances once at your stomach. Hidden behind the hospital gown. Looking exactly like it had yesterday.
But it was different. There wasn’t some disease growing inside you. Some foreign thing making you sick and slowly sucking the life out of you.
There was a baby growing there. You were sick because you were making another life.
Jack is hit by the realization that for the next nine months, you were going to be going through all kinds of changes. All kinds of hurdles and milestones.
A baby.
Jack suddenly feels sick.
“I have to go,” he blurts, shaking your hand off of his shoulder and beelining out of the hospital room.
“Jack!” You call out, your voice raising with surprise.
“I just need some air!”
Jack doesn’t turn back. He can’t. He can’t let you see the utter terror written on his face.
He marches down the hall, ignoring the looks the nurses give him, the confusion Trinity and Mel share as he storms out down the crowded hallway and to the stairwell.
You find Jack outside. Not on the roof like you’d panicked he’d be.
Robby had come back, shaking his head, trying to calm your racing heart.
No. After finally convincing Robby to let you help him look, You find Jack sitting on one of the benches in the park across the way from PTMC. He’s sitting there, elbows braced against his knees, staring off into the distance.
You approach him carefully, blades of grass crunching beneath the slip on clogs the hospital provided. Your clothes feel cold against you, comforting and familiar after the scratchy hospital gown. You glance back at Robby who stands at the edge of the park. He nods, encouraging you to keep going.
As you get closer, you realize Jack’s not just staring off at nothing. You catch sight of his eyes, focused and glistening beneath the late afternoon light. You follow his sight line, watching a little family on the other side of the park. A broad shouldered man tossing a foam ball to a toddler girl, her mother laughing as her girl toddles about.
You watch Jack for a moment, staying out of his sight line. You don't have to try very hard to guess what he's thinking about. The sheer amount of worry and confusion he's feeling.
You felt it yourself. The whiplash of expecting the worst outcome only to learn you were carrying something wonderful. There was still the nervousness of what the future would look like.
The schedules that would need rearranging, the house child proofed, your office room cleared out in space for another little person. Doctors appointments and ultrasound photos taped to the fridge, onesies and books and diapers tucked away in a closet.
In spite of the excitement you felt, the confused yet exhilarating feeling of knowing you were going to be a mother, you were scared.
There was a whole person you'd have to take care of. You'd have to grow and birth. You weren't exactly a spry chicken. Neither was Jack. And there were more risks and complications that came with that.
On top of all the things that came with pregnancy.
You might not be dying from some malady. But pregnancy was no small thing either.
You finally take a step forward, placing your hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. He snaps out of his stupor, back straightening, a panic written in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be up-”
“I’m okay.” He frowns. You point to the space beside him on the bench. “Can I sit?”
Jack nods, scooting over a bit. You sit. Jack wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand; being closer now, you can see they’re red rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.
But he’s the first to open his mouth again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out if there. That was a dick move."
You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, trying to keep the well of anger rising at bay. It wasn’t hard to. The fear and anxiety laid bare in Jack’s voice. The thoughts he tried so hard to hide from you unveiled.
You nod. “Yeah. It kinda was."
He takes a breath, reaching out to hold your hand. You take it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of your knuckles.
"I just... this whole time I was worried I was going to lose you. I kept thinking about all the ways I’d have to watch you die. All the treatments or surgeries…” he chuckles dryly. “I was so worried about you. And now all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to have a kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown when I’m 70.”
You sigh, the breeze a gentle comfort as it blows against your cheeks.
“That's all you’re thinking about? College already?” You give his hand a small, loving squeeze. Teasing. A clearing amidst the stormy turmoil you both had been worrying over.
“Well,” he shrugs slowly. “You know, between wondering if the pregnancy will hold. Or birth. Or what elementary school drop offs will look like and dinners and the house and my crazy schedule-”
“I know. I know, it’s a lot.”
Jack nods. “It is… and I’m scared.”
You look at him. Your heart aches with the pure sincerity written on his face. Jack was never one to hide his feelings. But he rarely gave them away easily. Not like this.
Truth written in the glassy mist of his eyes, the worry carried in the tightness of his hand around yours.
“I know,” you nod. “I know it’s not going to be easy. Robby explained the risks.”
The long list of complications and genetic disorders and risky side effects run through your mind. You hadn’t known just how fragile pregnancy became the older you got. It was just never something that had crossed your mind. To think or worry about. But now…
You continue.
“I know this wasn’t what we had planned, Jack. Us. Having kids… and I know you may not want- may not think we can do this. But I don’t think this is such a bad thing.”
Jack’s eyes widen, his frown deepening.
“What, woah. No I don’t want you thinking that. I don’t- I don’t think that.”
“Really?” You take a deep breath, hopeful. Jack finally smiles. A small and gentle quirk of his mouth.
“Really. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I just… I didn’t think that I could have one.”
“A baby?” You clarify. He nods.
“I told you about what happened in the army. With my leg and, well, everything else. And you told me having kids wasn’t exactly going to be easy for you.” It’s your turn to nod.
Between Jack’s injury and age, your genetics and seemingly lackluster fertility, a baby had just never been a part of your plan. And you were fine with it. Life was crazy enough as it was.
“I know. But here we are.”
Jack nods, looking out into the park again. He’s watching the small family again, eyes glued to the man as he hoists his giggling daughter into his arms.
“Here we are,” he mumbles.
“We don’t have to figure everything out right now Jack. There’s still time.”
“Seven months and two weeks,” he huffs. You chuckle.
Robby makes Jack leave the hospital early with you.
Although Jack would use the term ‘make’ loosely, considering he had already decided he wasn’t staying the moment he saw you in the ambulance’s hull. You’re cleared to leave not long after Robby drags the both of you back into the ED, making sure to stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescriptions.
The prenatal vitamins and nausea medication sit among Jack’s own clutter of meds on the kitchen counter. Jack told you not to worry about groceries or the car still at the store. He’d take care of all of it in the morning.
For now, he just wanted to clean away the sterile smell of the hospital lingering on both of your clothes and get to bed.
He’s grateful, for once, that you're exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow. You’re breathing softly beneath the sheets before Jack can even pull his prosthetic off, your hand lain out on his side, like you still wanted him to hold it unconsciously.
But sleep doesn’t come for him. Jack lays awake for a long while.
The moonlight casts wispy shadows along the wall and he watches them, thinking. He plays with his wedding ring, twirling it between his fingers with mesmerizing ease.
Not the ring you'd slipped onto his left hand years ago, the dark amber band that still glistens on his ring finger. Jack plays with the wedding ring he wore a long time ago, still a young man figuring things out. From his first marriage. His first wife.
It wasn't often he pulled the ring out. Sometimes it hurt too much to even look at it; to think about and remember her. Jack fiddles with the ring now, holding it against his lips as if he could whisper all his worries into it.
The worries which still rested in the side of his ribs, changed but there all the same. Jack can’t help but think of all the things he never got to do with her. The future they’d planned cut short by an illness he couldn’t cure. Maybe it’s why he felt so scared now.
This unplanned thing laid out before him. Far out of his control.
Jack tosses and turns, his mind reeling with memories and thoughts about the future. He quietly gets up, setting the ring on his nightstand and fitting his prosthetic back on. He slips out of your bedroom, making sure you were still settled before wandering down the hall.
He’d always wanted to be a father. That wasn’t the problem. Hearing that you were pregnant had resurfaced those feelings like they’d never been buried. The idea of having a mini him, with matching curls and crooked smile. Or a mini you, with your bright eyes and pretty nose.
The problem was that desire had been locked away for a very long time. After he got injured in the army. After he became a widow. Even after he met you. Jack had begun to accept that being someone’s parent was just not in the cards he’d been dealt. But now…
Jack stands in the living room, staring around the dark room. He moves quietly, picking up a random glass and setting it in the kitchen, moving the tossed couch pillows back into their designated places. He can’t sit still when he tries. The air suffocating inside in spite of the cooling system blowing gently.
Jack ends up sitting outside on the back porch, his head in his hands.
What would she have thought? After all this time.
A baby.
Jack’s not even sure he should begin to want this. To let himself hope. There was so much uncertainty with a later in life pregnancy, of an older parent conceiving a child. The constant what ifs and complications. So much to worry about.
Jack sighs, running a hand through his mussed curls as he realizes how tired he is. Of feeling on edge. Of never feeling like he could settle. The worry of something bad happening again. Of being all alone-
A noise sounds from the bushes running along the fence.
Leaves rustle softly, twigs crunching beneath something weighty. Jack looks up, brows furrowing. He squints, standing and flipping on the porch light to illuminate the dark backyard. The rustling sounds again, and Jack inches closer.
He pauses. And then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, instantly quieting himself.
The rabbit which had ducked back into the foliage at the sound of his voice peeks it’s head out again in the new silence. Her nose twitching, beady black eyes staring straight into Jack. He lets out a breath, in awe of the rare sight. He knew there were plenty of rabbits that lived around the neighborhood. He often saw where they burrowed through your garden or ate certain plants. But actually seeing one was rarer.
Of all the nights…
He goes still when the rabbit moves. Inching slowly out of the bush. She turns back, snuffling softly and moving forward again. A baby in tow.
Now, Jack was not a very superstitious man. At least, not by nature. He laughed when Ellis chastised him for saying the “q” word in the ED, rolled his eyes when Joy and Nazely talked about karma.
But if life had taught Jack anything, it was to never ignore the signs.
He watches the pair of rabbits hop through the backyard, eyes following their path until they squeeze through the cracked boards of the fence, disappearing into the night. Jack lets out a slow and much needed exhale, the cool air of the night finally feeling fresh.
New.
Second chances that don't always happen every day.
Baby rabbit.
Baby Abbot.
He liked the sound of that. And maybe, this time, there wouldn’t be so much to worry about. Not with you by his side.
"Jaack!" You call out from the kicthen, where you're putting the first few bags of groceries away.
"Yeah?" Jack's voice echoes down the hall, the sound of more paper bags rustling.
"Did you get- never mind!" You grin as you find the tub of cream cheese you'd been dying to get your hands on, practically tearing the package open and digging in. You let out a satisfied hum as you eat a spoonful of the spicy spread, nodding in satisfaction.
Jack enters the kitchen, arms full of groceries, an amused look on his face.
"As good as you'd hoped it'd be?" You hum again.
"Better. I think your child already has great taste in cuisine."
Jack stills for a fraction of a second, then smiles. He sets down the bags and moves over by your side, pressing a kiss to your forehead, carefully around the tender cut still hidden by a bandage.
"Yeah they do."
You both put away the food and various household items you'd needed to stock up on. Trash bags and pasta, that lavender creamer you loved and Jack's protein bars he always carried in his scrub pockets.
You munch on a bagel- properly toasted and spread with your cream cheese because Jack insisted on at least being civilized about your cravings- going through the last bag. The bag crinkles as you feel around inside; you frown as your hand comes into contact with something soft. Fluffy. You peer inside.
A little stuffed bunny peers back at you. You stare at it for a moment, and then you laugh.
"Jack?"
"What?" He asks, folding the towel he'd just used to wash his hands. You smile, holding up the bunny. His ears go pink and he gives you a bashful grin.
"I just thought... well I thought it might be cute for the baby. You know, rabbits are thought to be good luck charms or something."
I FOUND IT. Oh my god I'm so glad I could find it again. I swear to god this fic fixed something in me as a supposedly infertile as well as older woman. Like I'm not saying it would ever happen but being able to put myself in the Reader's shoes here and have Jack be on the other side… It was just a balm on my soul.
Thank you for writing this, Scarlett. It is gorgeous.
Series Summary: After Bucky cheats on you, you leave the Tower shattered, humiliated, and convinced that love has only ever made you smaller. Steve comes back from a mission to find you gone - and when he learns the truth, his loyalty is tested in ways he never expected.
Wordcount: 8.4k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)
Warnings: tower fic, alternative mcu, slow burn, healing arc, hurt comfort, emotional hurt comfort, angst with comfort, infidelity angst, second chance at love, cheating / infidelity, emotional betrayal, toxic ex relationship, Bucky Barnes is OOC, forced kiss, non con elements (very light), boundary violation, sexual assault implications, emotional manipulation, jealousy and possessiveness, panic attacks / panic response, vomiting due to distress, STI scare / medical testing mention, violence / physical fight, blood mention, breakup grief, trauma recovery, found family, protective steve rogers, soft steve rogers, toxic bucky barnes, self-worth issues, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, reader has a difficult childhood, happy ending, MDNI, some chapters will have smut or explicit intimacy
A/N: Beta read as always by Cassie.
Important note about Bucky: Bucky is very OOC in this fic. I want to be very clear about that from the start: I know he is OOC, I know canon Bucky would not act like this, and I am not presenting this as my interpretation of canon Bucky Barnes.
This story uses him in a deliberately darker, more toxic role for the sake of the angst, conflict, and Reader’s healing arc. So please, before sending me an ask or leaving a comment to tell me that Bucky would never behave this way: I know. That is what this warning is for.
I will not be replying to complaints about Bucky being written OOC. You have been warned, and if this version of him is not something you want to read, please feel free to skip this fic.
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Steve woke to warmth fading from the sheets and, for one sharp second, thought the bed had emptied for all the wrong reasons.
Then he smelled coffee.
And toast.
The panic vanished so fast it almost embarrassed him.
He lay still for a moment, blinking the last of sleep away in the pale morning light that had slipped around the curtains. The room looked softer in daylight. Less like a refuge borrowed in crisis, more like the scene of something quiet and improbably real. One pillow had been left dented beside him. The blanket had twisted half around his legs. On the chair in the corner, his shirt from the night before was gone.
That fact hit him a heartbeat later.
He sat up.
His boxers and jeans lay in a small disordered trail near the bed, and he gathered them quickly, dressing with none of the hesitation he might have shown on any other morning in his life. He dragged a hand through his hair once, ran it over the back of his neck, and went out toward the kitchenette with the smell of coffee pulling him forward like a promise.
You stood with your back half turned to him, wearing his T-shirt.
That alone nearly stopped him in the doorway.
It fell to mid-thigh on you, sleeves a little too long, collar slipping just enough at one shoulder to make the whole thing look far more intimate than anything so simple had a right to. Your hair was still a little tousled from sleep. One slice of toast had already popped up and lay buttering itself slowly on a plate. You held the coffee pot in one hand and poured into two mugs with the calm concentration of someone who had already been awake long enough to become a person again.
Steve just looked at you.
He had imagined some version of domestic peace before, usually only long enough to tell himself not to be ridiculous. This – this ordinary morning image of you in his shirt, barefoot in a safehouse kitchenette, making coffee like there was anything in the world more natural – felt more dangerous than half the fantasies he had denied himself for months.
You turned then and saw him.
A smile touched your face immediately.
“Good morning.”
Steve crossed the space between you before he could think too hard about it. He slipped one arm around your waist, drew you gently against him, and kissed your temple with a tenderness so instinctive it startled even him.
“Morning,” he murmured.
He stayed there, holding you close for one extra second because he could. Because you were warm and real and wearing his shirt and he had not yet recovered from any of it.
“Sleep okay?” he asked.
You leaned into him just enough that the answer vibrated softly through both of you. “Mm-mmh. You?”
“Yes.”
That was true. More than true. He had slept better in that strange little safehouse bed than he had in the Tower in weeks, maybe months, and the reason for it was standing in his arms trying not to smile too knowingly.
Then you ruined him.
“Still want to make love again?”
Steve let out a low groan and dropped his forehead into your hair.
You laughed – quietly, but he felt the laughter all through you.
“You are ruthless when you decide to tease me.”
“That’s part of my charm.”
He lifted his head enough to look at you again.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
The answer came too easily. Too honestly.
Color rose almost at once to your face.
It was not a dramatic blush. Just a soft warmth that spread over your cheeks and made something in Steve’s chest pull tight with helpless fondness.
You narrowed your eyes at him in mock accusation. “You are far too pleased with yourself right now, aren’t you?”
Steve considered pretending innocence.
He failed almost immediately.
“I woke up,” he said, “alone for just long enough to think you’d vanished, then found you making coffee in my shirt.”
One of your brows lifted.
He bent and kissed the corner of your mouth before finishing, “So yes. I am probably a little pleased with myself.”
That made you snort softly and turn back toward the counter before the smile could fully betray you. “Arrogant.”
“Realistic.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“They can be.”
You handed him one of the mugs over your shoulder without looking. He took it, fingers brushing yours in the exchange, and the small domestic ease of that nearly undid him all over again.
The coffee was strong and not particularly good, but it was hot and real and made by you in his shirt, so as far as Steve was concerned it might as well have been perfect.
He leaned against the counter beside you while you buttered the toast and cut it into halves with unnecessary precision. Morning light pooled across the cheap countertop, caught in the steam rising from both mugs, and turned the whole kitchenette into something almost gentle. For a little while neither of you spoke. The silence felt companionable rather than fragile. You sipped coffee. He watched the way your hair fell forward and the way you pushed it back absently with one wrist.
Then, because the thought had still not quite loosened its hold on him, he said, “You really did scare me for a second.”
You glanced at him. “When?”
“When I woke up and the bed was empty.”
Your expression changed.
Not into guilt. Something softer than that. Something that understood too well why the absence might still strike that quickly after everything.
“I was only making coffee.”
“I know.”
Steve wrapped an arm loosely around your waist again and drew you a little closer to his side. You came easily, mug warm between both hands now, and rested your temple briefly against his shoulder.
“I’m not disappearing on you before coffee,” you said.
The line was light. The promise underneath it wasn’t.
He turned his head and pressed his mouth into your hair once. “Good.”
You were quiet for a moment after that.
Then, without looking at him, “So. Still want to?”
Steve nearly inhaled his coffee.
You did laugh properly that time.
He set the mug down before he dropped it and looked at you with what he hoped was dignity and what was almost certainly only helplessness.
“You are enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.”
“You know,” he said, stepping closer again until your back found the counter and his hands found the edge on either side of you, “there are easier ways to get my attention.”
Your smile went softer around the edges then, less teasing, more something else. Warmer. More private.
“I had your attention before I said anything.”
That was true too.
Steve studied your face for a second in the clear morning light. The sleep had taken some of the shadows out of you. Not all. There was still too much waiting in the day ahead for that. The results would come when they came. There were still names and consequences and the ugly fact of that he knew which name was sitting somewhere beyond these walls. None of that had vanished overnight.
But this morning, right now, you looked steadier.
You also looked like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
He gave in.
He bent and kissed you slowly, with no hurry in it at all. Your free hand rose and settled at the side of his neck, thumb brushing there once. When he pulled back, your eyes stayed on his for a beat longer than necessary.
“Breakfast first,” he said.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Steve smiled a little.
“Then we get you refunded for your heroic overpreparation.”
That made you cover your face for one second with your free hand. “Please never call it that again.”
“I haven’t decided.”
You looked up through your fingers. “Cruel.”
“Realistic,” he reminded you.
You laughed into your mug and shook your head.
He took the toast plate from beside you, set it on the little table, and watched while you followed him over with the coffee. The safehouse no longer felt quite so much like a temporary place after all. Not with the bed still unmade behind you, not with your shopping bag by the chair, not with two mugs and buttered toast turning the morning into something almost absurdly normal.
Steve sat. You sat across from him in his shirt with one knee tucked up under you, and for a minute he let himself imagine the kind of life where this could happen often enough to stop feeling miraculous.
Then you caught him looking.
“What?”
He shook his head once and reached for the toast.
“Nothing.”
You pointed a warning finger at him. “You’re not allowed to say that with that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’re clearly thinking something and pretending you’re not.”
Steve smiled into his coffee.
Across the table, you rolled your eyes – but there was a softness in them now that had not been there the day before, and he knew with sudden certainty that whatever else the morning brought, he was going to remember this exact one for a very long time.
Steve insisted that you went to shower first.
Not because he needed the room to himself, and not because he thought you looked a mess. You didn’t. You looked softer than you had the day before, sleep-warm and pink-cheeked in his shirt, with coffee in one hand and toast in the other and that look in your eyes that told him you were recovering enough to become dangerous again.
But he had already decided, somewhere between waking up and nearly choking on his coffee, that if the day was going to be simple, then he was going to help make it simple.
So he took your mug from your hands, kissed your forehead, and said, “Go shower. I’ll deal with this.”
You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your toast. “You know that sounds domestic in a way that should probably be illegal.”
Steve took the plate from the table before you could dodge him. “Go.”
You pointed the toast at him. “Bossy.”
“Still.”
You muttered something under your breath that he did not fully catch, though he was fairly sure it insulted both his tone and his age, and then you went to the bathroom with that loose, easy stride of someone whose body had finally remembered what rest had done for it.
The second the door shut behind you, Steve stood alone in the kitchenette and looked around at the small remains of morning.
Two mugs.
Crumbs on the table.
The butter knife.
His shirt gone from the chair because you were wearing it.
He let himself have one small, private smile before he got to work.
Cleaning the safehouse kitchenette was hardly a noble undertaking. There were takeout containers to rinse, mugs to wash, toast crumbs everywhere, and the toaster from your utterly unconvincing attempt at “cooking” breakfast. Still, he found he liked doing it. There was something grounding in the ordinary movement of it – hot water, dish soap, stack, rinse, dry. No strategy, no mission brief, no one bleeding, no one asking him to be a symbol.
Just a sink, a morning, and the knowledge that you were in the next room humming faintly under the shower.
That last detail nearly ruined him.
The sound reached him in fragments through the bathroom door. Not a real song, more the suggestion of one, half absent-minded and entirely unguarded. He found himself listening for it while he dried the mugs. Every now and then it stopped, then started again in another key, as if you had forgotten you were doing it at all.
By the time you came back out, hair damp and face flushed from the heat of the shower, the kitchenette looked almost respectable again.
You had changed into your own clothes this time, but his shirt had lingered on you long enough that he still felt vaguely bereaved at the sight of it folded over the arm of the chair.
You stopped in the doorway, looked from him to the cleaned counter, and raised both brows.
“Well,” you said. “You really did the whole thing.”
Steve dried his hands on the dish towel. “I said I would.”
You stepped farther into the room and inspected the sink with exaggerated seriousness. “Should I be worried that you’re this competent?”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
He crossed to the bathroom then, pausing close enough to brush his knuckles lightly against your hip as he passed. “Your turn,” you said, gesturing toward the shower. “I’ll try not to burn the building down while you’re gone.”
“I appreciate that.”
He made it three steps before turning back, because one thought had just occurred to him and was important enough to interrupt.
“Actually,” he said, “while I’m in there, look up what’s playing nearby.”
You folded your arms. “You’re letting me choose?”
“I’m supervising the categories.”
That suspicious, amused little look appeared on your face immediately.
Steve pointed at you.
“No superhero movies.”
Your expression turned wounded. “You don’t trust my taste?”
“We live enough action as it is.”
One corner of your mouth lifted. “And horror?”
“Absolutely not.”
Now you were smiling properly.
Steve pointed harder. “Last time you made us watch Insidious, I didn’t sleep properly.”
Your laugh hit him square in the chest.
“You are still on that?”
“Yes.”
“That was months ago.”
“That was enough.”
You leaned one shoulder against the wall, all false innocence. “I had no idea Captain America was so delicate.”
“I’m not delicate. I just don’t enjoy demon children crawling across ceilings.”
You laughed again, and God, he liked that sound in this room.
He shook a finger at you in mock warning. “Pick something we’d both like.”
You saluted with two fingers. “Yes, sir.”
He went into the shower still half hearing your amusement under your breath.
When Steve came out, towel around his neck and hair still damp, he found you curled sideways in the chair with your phone in hand, one foot tucked under you and the expression of someone taking film curation more seriously than the moment probably required.
You looked up immediately.
“I found one.”
Steve paused, pulling a clean shirt over his head. “That fast?”
“I’m efficient when properly threatened.”
“Let’s hear it.”
You turned the screen toward him. “Eternity. Late morning screening.”
He stepped closer, one hand still catching on the hem of his shirt as he looked. He had heard of it in passing, mostly because Tony at some point had launched into an unexpected rant about everyone being too sentimental about time travel fiction and not sentimental enough about quiet films. Steve had not followed most of it.
“What is it?”
You lowered the phone. “Supposedly romantic. A little weird. A little melancholy. Not too much action, no haunted children, no capes.”
He considered that.
Then he looked at you.
“You picked a romance?”
You gave him a perfectly calm look. “Maybe I’m broadening your horizons.”
Steve snorted softly. “My horizons are fine.”
“Mm-hm.”
He tugged the towel off his neck and dropped it over the chair. “Late morning?”
You nodded. “We have time first.”
He glanced toward the paper pharmacy bag on the table.
You followed his eyes and made a face.
“Yes,” you said. “That.”
That, as it turned out, was more embarrassing in theory than in practice.
The pharmacy sat only a short walk away, and you insisted on handling the return yourself. Steve offered twice to take over. You refused both times, with enough dignity that he knew better than to push a third.
So he stood beside you at the counter while you laid down the unopened boxes with a composure he admired more than he could say without making it awkward.
The pharmacist, a tired man with rectangular glasses and the expression of someone who had seen far too much of human life to be surprised by anything anymore, barely blinked. He scanned them, confirmed they were sealed, and processed the refund while you stood there with your chin high and your mouth set in a line that told Steve you would rather face a firing squad than discuss why exactly you no longer needed three sizes you had bought in a panic of logistical preparedness.
Steve kept his own face admirably neutral.
Mostly.
Until the pharmacist said, “You kept the right one, then?”
And you said, without missing a beat, “Apparently.”
Steve nearly choked on air this time.
You took the receipt, thanked the man as if you had just returned a sweater, and walked out into the sunlight with his hand in yours before he could recover enough dignity to object.
The second you turned the corner, he said, “Apparently?”
You looked up at him with that same maddeningly composed expression. “Would you have preferred a full post-purchase analysis?”
“I would have preferred less confidence from you in public.”
“You’re the one who can’t stop choking in front of cashiers.”
He laughed despite himself.
Brooklyn received you both in full daylight after that.
The weather had turned kind without being warm – clear sky, a little breeze, enough sun to put gold at the edges of buildings without making the sidewalks punishing. The streets around them felt lived-in in the particular Brooklyn way Steve had always carried under his skin. Brick stoops, corner delis, barber shops, laundromats, little bakeries with crooked signs, chain-link fences around tiny schoolyards, graffiti gone pale under years of weather, old trees stubbornly managing to exist between slabs of concrete.
The city was different now. Of course it was. Too many years between the boy who had lived here and the man walking beside you now. But every so often a corner would catch him in the ribs with memory anyway.
You must have noticed, because after a while you asked, “What?”
Steve looked around. “Nothing.”
You made a small skeptical sound.
He smiled. “That’s becoming your line.”
“You trained me badly.”
“That feels unfair.”
You swung your joined hands once between you as you walked. “You had the face.”
Steve laughed under his breath and nodded toward the next block. “I got into a fight down that alley.”
You turned to look.
It was an utterly ordinary narrow gap between buildings, half shadow, a dented dumpster near the back, a fire escape overhead.
“That one?”
“Yeah.”
“What was it this time?”
Steve thought back. “I think I mouthed off.”
You gave him a flat look. “Shocking.”
He grinned. “I know.”
You kept walking. Every now and then another memory surfaced and he pointed it out as if he were giving the strangest possible historical tour.
There, the corner where he had gotten blood on his shirt at fifteen and tried to scrub it off in a public restroom before Sarah found out. There, the stoop where he and Bucky once sat splitting a sandwich because neither of them had enough money for two. There, the little hardware store that used to belong to a man who always slipped Steve broken pencils and scraps of paper because he’d seen him drawing on discarded packaging in the alley.
You listened to all of it with the same attention you had given him the night before.
Not performatively fascinated. Just there with him in it.
When he showed you a stretch of cracked pavement near a brick wall and said, “That was another one,” you looked at the alley, then at him, and asked, very seriously, “How are you still alive?”
Steve laughed. “Mostly stubbornness.”
“No, genuinely. Were there no better hobbies in the forties?”
“I was small and argumentative.”
“You were a public service announcement waiting to happen.”
“That’s fair.”
At one point he pointed toward a row of old buildings and said, “Used to be a grocer there.”
You followed the line of his finger. “That juice bar?”
He stopped walking and stared at it in genuine offense. “That is not a respectable use of a grocer.”
You lost it then, laughing hard enough that you had to grab his arm for balance.
He stood there watching you laugh in the middle of Brooklyn traffic and thought, with a sharp private astonishment, that this might be the first time in two days he had heard the sound come out of you without any shadow still dragging at the edges.
That alone made the walk worth it.
By the time you wound through two more streets and crossed toward the theater, something light and easy had begun settling between you. Not because the hurt was gone. Steve knew better. He could still see it in the moments when your face fell still for half a beat too long, when your eyes drifted away, when some thought caught and passed behind them.
But you were not only that hurt now.
You were also this – dry and funny and sharper than he could ever safely relax around, hand in his, asking for one more alley story.
So he gave you another.
And another.
And by the time the marquee for Eternity came into view ahead of them, the morning had stretched into something almost ordinary, which in itself felt like a kind of miracle.
You paid for everything before Steve could stop you.
The tickets first.
Then the drinks.
Then the popcorn, absurdly overpriced and handed over in a bucket large enough to feed a family of six. Steve reached for his wallet on instinct somewhere around the sodas, only for you to shoot him a look over your shoulder that stopped him cold before he even got the bills out.
“I’ve got it.”
“Absolutely not.”
You handed your card to the teenager behind the register without so much as glancing at him. “You’ll pay when you take me on a real date, Rogers.”
Steve felt the heat hit his face so fast it was almost violent.
You knew it too.
Of course you did.
Because by the time he turned his head toward you, mortified and half disbelieving, your mouth had already begun that small, shameless curve that meant you had landed the blow exactly where you wanted it.
Behind the counter, the teenager looked between the two of you with mild professional boredom and zero sympathy.
Steve took the popcorn from him as if it had personally betrayed him.
“A real date?” he echoed, once you were moving toward the theater doors.
You shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “That was English. I’m pretty sure you understood.”
Steve muttered something under his breath that made you laugh softly, and the sound followed him all the way into the dark.
The theater was cool and half empty.
Late morning on a weekday meant there were only a few other people scattered through the rows – an older couple in the back, two college-aged women sharing contraband candy from a purse, one man sitting alone with the intense commitment of somebody who took cinema far more seriously than Steve was prepared to. The lights had not yet fully dimmed. The screen glowed with trailers and soft moving advertisements about luxury watches nobody needed.
You slid into your seat and took the drink from his hand.
Steve sat beside you with the popcorn balanced between you both and tried, unsuccessfully, not to think too hard about the phrase real date.
It should not have affected him that much.
It absolutely did.
Because you had not tossed it out carelessly. Not really. It had been a tease, yes, but not only that. It had carried within it the casual assumption of a future moment – one where he invited you somewhere openly, where you let him, where neither of you had to pretend that what had been happening between you lived only inside crisis and aftermath and safehouses.
He kept his eyes on the screen until the trailers ended because that felt safer.
Then the film began.
Eternity turned out to be quieter than Steve expected.
Not sentimental in the cheap way. Strange, yes. Melancholy in long clean lines. The premise settled over the audience almost immediately: after death, each soul was granted a week to decide where – and with whom – they wanted to spend eternity. Not what, exactly, that eternity looked like, but whom they wished to remain tethered to when all earthly urgency had burned away.
Joan stood at the center of it. Joan, who had built a life with one man and then found herself faced, after death, with the return of her first love – the soldier she had believed lost forever to war.
It should have been unbearable.
It was, a little.
Steve sat very still through most of it.
Not because the movie mirrored anything exactly. It didn’t. But war and timing and love arriving in the wrong shape at the wrong moment had a way of finding their mark in him whether he wanted them to or not. He watched Joan move through rooms full of memory and old feeling and newer loyalty, watched her face when she realized that love could be true in more than one direction and still destroy a person by asking her to choose.
At one point, maybe halfway through, you went still beside him too.
Steve noticed because he had become incapable of not noticing.
He glanced over.
The light from the screen painted your face in shifting colors – blue, then gold, then shadow again. Your expression had gone quiet and very focused, not upset exactly, but inward. He wondered what line or look or impossible choice on screen had reached into you just then.
He did not ask.
Instead he rested his hand lightly between you on the armrest, palm turned up, giving you the option without announcing it.
A few seconds later, your fingers slipped into his.
You did not look at him.
Neither did he look back at you for long.
But he closed his hand around yours and kept it there for the rest of the scene.
The movie held.
It did not hurry Joan’s decision. It did not flatter anyone involved. It let longing be messy and memory unfair and devotion something that could survive grief and still not win. Steve found himself caught off guard more than once by a line that landed too cleanly, by a silence that felt familiar in ways he could not fully untangle from his own life.
You cried only once.
Not much. Just a few tears during one conversation near the end, when Joan admitted that the hardest part was not loving two people, but knowing she had become a different woman with each of them and could not take her whole self into either eternity without leaving something beloved behind.
Steve felt the tears more than saw them, because your hand tightened in his and your breath caught very quietly and he knew.
He passed you a napkin without comment.
You took it with a tiny nod, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen.
When the credits rolled, the theater remained quiet for a few extra seconds, the way theaters sometimes did after a film that had managed to knock the air out of people without their permission.
Then the lights rose.
You let go of his hand only to reach for your phone.
And everything changed.
Steve saw it happen in your face before he even knew what you were reading.
Your mouth parted.
Your shoulders drew up sharply.
Your eyes moved too fast over the screen once, then back again, then once more as if checking that the words had not rearranged themselves into kindness by mistake. For one terrible heartbeat, Steve thought the worst. Thought maybe the clinic had written something vague and clinical and devastating all at once.
Then you looked at him.
Your whole face opened with relief so intense it bordered on pain.
“Steve.”
You were already moving before he stood.
You threw your arms around him there between the seats and the armrests and the stale butter smell of the theater, and Steve caught you automatically, almost crushing the popcorn against his side in the process. The hug hit him hard enough that he had to close his eyes for a second.
You were laughing and breathing and maybe crying a little too all at once, your face pressed into his shoulder.
“It’s clean,” you said, the words tumbling out against his neck. “All of it. It’s all clean.”
The relief that ripped through him then felt physical.
Not dramatic. Not loud. More like a steel wire cut somewhere inside his chest after being pulled too tight for too long. He exhaled so hard it nearly counted as a shudder and wrapped both arms around you properly, one hand at the back of your head, the other flattening against your back as if he could hold the relief inside you and keep it there.
“Good,” he whispered.
It was the wrong size word for what he felt. Too small by miles.
So he said it again, rougher this time, because the first had not been enough.
“Good.”
You pulled back only far enough to look at him, your eyes bright with it now – not panic, not grief, not uncertainty, just overwhelming release. Steve had not realized until that exact second how much fear he had been carrying on your behalf in some hidden clenched corner of himself. The results had belonged to you, yes, your body, your terror, your waiting. But now that the clean answer had arrived, he felt some piece of himself unclench too.
The rest of the audience filed out around you.
Neither of you cared.
You laughed once more, breathlessly, and wiped at your face. Steve did it for you instead with the pad of his thumb, a gesture so instinctive he only noticed he’d done it when your eyes softened in response.
“You okay?” he asked.
You gave a tiny incredulous sound. “I think so.”
That made him laugh under his breath.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
You walked back to the safehouse.
Neither of you suggested a cab, a subway, anything enclosed and practical. The weather had turned almost too lovely to ignore – early afternoon tipping slowly toward evening, the air cool enough to sharpen thought but not enough to bite. Brooklyn glowed in soft gold at the edges. Traffic moved around you like a distant river. Storefronts lit up one by one.
Your hand found his before you had made it half a block.
Steve held on.
The walk should have calmed him.
In some ways, it did. The relief from the test results sat warm and bright in both of you now, changing your whole posture. You looked lighter. Not fixed – God, no, not that simple – but freed from one very specific and ugly fear. There was gratitude in every glance you gave him, and something else too, something that grew as the blocks passed. Something almost feverish in its quietness.
Steve felt it answering in him.
Neither of you said much.
You did not need to.
Every few minutes your fingers tightened around his. Every so often he glanced over and found you already looking at him, that private electric look that made the whole city seem briefly incidental. Once, near a crosswalk, you laughed at something a dog did on the far sidewalk and Steve’s heart nearly kicked straight through his ribs because he realized the sound had lost its strain completely.
By the time the safehouse building came into view, the feeling had become almost unbearable in its clarity.
Relief.
Want.
The strange, breathless sense of having been granted something back from the edge of disaster and not knowing what to do with the force of gratitude except turn it toward the nearest beloved body.
Steve knew it.
He suspected you did too.
He unlocked nothing this time because you had your keys already in hand. You opened the building door, climbed the stairs beside him, let him in upstairs, and the second the apartment door shut behind you, whatever fragile civility had carried you through the walk gave out.
You were on him instantly.
Or maybe he was on you.
Later, Steve would not have been able to say who crossed the last inch first.
He only knew that the moment the lock clicked into place, your hands were at his face and his were at your waist and your mouths met with a force that felt less like a kiss than like impact. No teasing. No slow checking in. No soft morning gentleness. Just all the held-back fever of the afternoon surging out at once.
The relief from the test results seemed to have sharpened everything instead of soothing it. His whole body knew it. Yours did too. The kisses were messy in the best way – breathless, hungry, almost laughing in the spaces between because neither of you seemed quite able to believe how badly you wanted this now that fear had let go of its claim.
Steve backed you toward the wall without fully deciding to.
Or you pulled him there.
Again, later he would not have known.
He only knew the apartment spun briefly into blur – table, lamp, the folded blanket on the couch, the city darkening behind the window – and then your back found the wall just beside the door and his hands spread there around you, one at your waist, one braced beside your head, while your mouth moved under his like you had no intention of letting him think another coherent thought for the rest of the day.
He made a sound against your lips that he would, in any other circumstances, have denied under torture.
You answered by biting lightly at his lower lip and dragging another one out of him.
Your hands were everywhere at once – his hair, his shoulders, the front of his shirt, his belt, the denim at his hips. Steve’s own hands shook with restraint that no longer had much to anchor to. He touched you with urgency now, but not carelessly. Never carelessly. It was only that the care had become inseparable from the urgency, each feeding the other until he could barely tell where one ended.
You kissed down the corner of his jaw once, just long enough to undo him completely, and when he got your name out it came low and rough and wholly unlike the voice he used for anything civilized.
The wall was cool behind you. The apartment too warm. His pulse thundered in his throat. Yours jumped beneath his fingers where they found skin. You pulled at just enough clothing to make room for closeness, for movement, for the kind of immediate nearness that had no patience left for the bedroom and the bed and the slower rituals of earlier.
Steve checked once – barely more than your name and a look, because there was no room for full sentences and none were needed.
You answered by kissing him harder.
That was enough.
What followed happened in fragments of sensation more than thought: your breath catching against his mouth, his forehead against yours for one brief second as if bracing against the force of feeling, your hands clutching at him not out of fear now but out of wanting too much, the wall and the doorway and the apartment itself seeming to fall away until there was only your body, your mouth, your relieved almost-laugh turning into something else against his throat.
It was not graceful.
It was not measured.
It was intensely, fiercely alive.
And when the urgency finally broke over both of you, it did so with the same wild relief that had driven the whole thing – a kind of wordless gratitude turned physical, as if neither of you had known where to put the feeling of safe, safe, safe except into each other.
Afterward, for a few stunned seconds, neither of you moved.
Steve rested his forehead against yours and tried to remember how breathing worked. Your hands still gripped his shoulders. Your mouth was swollen from kissing. He could feel your heartbeat everywhere.
Then you laughed once – soft, disbelieving, a little wrecked by it – and that laugh finished him more thoroughly than anything else had.
He kissed you again, slower this time.
Not because he had suddenly become calm.
Because tenderness had returned now that the urgency had spent itself, and he wanted, more than anything, to show you that it had been there all along.
The wall felt suddenly unsteady behind you, and so did your legs.
Steve must have felt it in the way you swayed.
He shifted, bracing himself against the wall, then bent at the knees.
“Up,” he said, not asking, not ordering, but stating what was going to happen. “Hold on.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist without needing another word.
Steve stood, lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all. It was the serum, but it was also Steve – a strength that was as much care as it was power. He carried you away from the door, past the darkened living room, toward the light that spilled out from the bedroom. Each step was steady, deliberate.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and bent to set you down, gently, as if you might break.
You didn't. You only watched him with a look that held both amusement and a deeper, softer kind of wanting. Then, with a gentle, teasing lift of one eyebrow, you tugged him toward you with the hand still looped around his neck.
He went, catching himself on his hands above you, careful not to put his full weight on you yet, careful even now.
“Better?” he asked, his voice still low, a little rough.
You smiled up at him, slow and satisfied. “Much.”
Steve's breath hitched. He dipped his head and kissed your forehead, then the corner of your eye, then the hinge of your jaw.
“I'm not going to tire out,” he said quietly against your skin. His hands moved to your sides, sliding up under the fabric that had been pushed up in your haste. “The serum... I can keep going.”
He paused, then lifted his head to meet your eyes. His were dark with all the things he'd held back for so long, all the things he was finally allowing himself to show you.
“And I've waited too long,” he finished, the last words spoken like a vow, “to waste a single second of having you like this.”
He shifted then, settling more of his weight over you, and you arched up to meet him as if you had been waiting for exactly this. His mouth found yours again, no longer desperate but deep and sure, a kiss that promised there would be enough – enough time, enough patience, enough of whatever this was between you to outlast the night.
Clothing became less important than skin. The worn denim of your jeans scraped against his hips; the soft cotton of your shirt was a flimsy barrier he resolved to get past. He worked at your fly with a focused urgency that was worlds apart from the frantic rush by the door. This was purposeful. This was unwrapping something precious.
When you were bared to him, he stilled.
He just looked.
His gaze moved over you as if he were trying to memorize every line, every dip and curve of your body. You watched him watch you, and the air between you grew thick with a reverence so profound it was almost painful.
“Steve,” you whispered.
It was all you needed to say.
He leaned down, bracing himself on one forearm beside your head, and with his free hand, he traced the line of your collarbone, then down between your breasts, over the soft curve of your stomach. His touch was so light it was almost a tease, a promise of what was to come.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. “How long I've wanted this. How many times I've thought about you in front of me, just like that.”
He moved then, settling between your legs, the hard muscle of his thighs pressing against yours. He lowered himself onto his elbows, bringing you closer, and when he finally entered you, it was slow. Deliberate. A fullness that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with a feeling of rightness so complete it made your head spin.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he let out a choked groan against your neck.
“Okay?” he asked, the word strained.
You could only nod, your throat too tight to form words. You tightened your grip around him, your nails digging into the muscles of his back.
He began to move, a slow, steady rhythm that was nothing like the frantic coupling against the wall. This was exploration. This was learning the map of each other's bodies, finding the places that made you gasp, the angles that made you cry out.
The world narrowed to this room, to this bed, to the slide of skin against skin, the rhythm of your bodies moving together, the soft sounds of pleasure filling the space between you. It was a different kind of urgency now, not a desperate need for release, but a desperate need to connect, to merge, to dissolve the boundary between self and other until there was only the shared pleasure, the shared breath, the shared knowledge that this was real, this was happening.
When your release finally came, it washed over you in waves, pulling you under in a dizzying rush of sensation. Steve followed you over the edge moments later, his body tensing, then shuddering against yours as he emptied himself into you.
Afterward, he didn't move away. He shifted just enough to take his weight off you, pulling you with him until you lay tangled together, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was full. Full of the sound of your breathing, slow and even, full of the steady beat of his heart under your ear, full of the quiet hum of the city outside the window, a world that seemed very far away.
You lay like that for a long time, words unnecessary, the simple act of being close enough. You traced the lines of the star on his chest, the muscles of his abdomen, the scars that littered his skin – maps of a life lived at full throttle.
“Steve,” you said softly, your fingers still tracing patterns on his skin.
“Mmmh?” His response was a low rumble in his chest, a vibration you felt more than heard.
You propped yourself up on an elbow to look at him. His hair was a mess, a few strands sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes, usually so clear and blue, were dark with satiation, but also with something else. Something vulnerable.
“What is it?” you asked, your thumb brushing over a scar on his shoulder.
He watched you for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, he reached up, his fingers gently stroking your cheek.
“I'm not used to this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not used to... staying.”
Your heart gave a painful lurch, and he saw it. You knew what he meant. The quick, anonymous encounters. The relationships that never lasted, always fractured by the demands of his life, the secrets he had to keep. The feeling of being a ghost in his own life, unable to plant roots, unable to build anything that might last.
You leaned into his touch, your eyes never leaving his.
“I'm not going anywhere,” you said, the words simple, but imbued with a weight you both understood.
Something shifted in his expression then. A release of tension you hadn't realized he was holding. His fingers traced the line of your jaw, then your lips.
“I know,” he said, and for the first time, it sounded like he actually believed it.
He leaned in and kissed you, and this kiss was different from the others. It wasn't hungry or desperate or exploratory. It was quiet. Gentle. A kiss that spoke of promises not yet made, of a future not yet written, but one that was suddenly, breathtakingly possible.
When he pulled back, he rolled onto his back, bringing you with him until you lay sprawled across his chest, your head tucked under his chin. His arms came around you, one hand resting on the small of your back, the other threading through your hair.
You lay like that for a long time, the steady rhythm of his heart a comforting beat against your ear. The city continued its indifferent hum outside, but in here, in this small space, there was only the two of you.
Eventually, you tilted your head back to look at him.
“So,” you said, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “About that endurance.”
He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.
“Careful what you wish for,” he murmured, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
“I've never been careful a day in my life,” you replied, your hand sliding down his chest, your fingers tracing the line of hair that disappeared beneath the sheet.
His breath hitched as your fingers brushed against him, and you felt him stir against your thigh.
“Prove it,” he challenged, his voice already a little rough again.
You didn't need to be told twice.
You shifted, straddling him, the sheet pooling around your hips. You looked down at him, at the man who had held the fate of the world on his shoulders more times than you could count, who was now looking up at you with an expression of such open wanting it made your chest ache.
You leaned down, bracing your hands on either side of his head.
“Hold on, Captain,” you whispered against his mouth. “It's going to be a long afternoon.”
And as you lowered yourself onto him, taking him into your body with a slow, deliberate glide, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was more than sex. This was more than a physical act.
This was a homecoming.
You found a rhythm that was all yours, one that had him arching up into you, his hands gripping your hips, his head thrown back against the pillows, a look of almost painful pleasure on his face. The muscles in his arms and chest flexed with the effort of holding back, of letting you lead, and you took full advantage, rocking against him in a way that had you both gasping for air.
This was not the desperate rush against the wall. This was not the slow, tender exploration that had followed. This was something else entirely. A claiming. A taking. A fierce, almost ferocious expression of the wanting that had simmered between you for the last few days, the wanting that you were only now allowing yourselves to name.
When your release came, it was sharp and sudden, a brilliant burst of light behind your closed eyes. You cried out, your body clenching around him, pulling him with you over the edge.
You collapsed onto his chest, breathing hard, your body slick with sweat, your heart hammering against your ribs. His arms came around you, holding you close, his own breathing just as ragged.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, the only sounds in the room the slowing of your breaths, the distant wail of a siren from the street below.
Eventually, you shifted, propping yourself up on an elbow to look at him.
His eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a way you rarely saw it, the tension smoothed from his brow, the lines around his mouth softened. He looked younger, almost vulnerable.
“Steve,” you said softly.
His eyes fluttered open. They were dark, but clear, focused entirely on you.
“I told you,” he said, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
You couldn't help but smile back. “Don't get cocky, Rogers.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” he replied, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. “But I am going to kiss you now.”
And he did, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sweat and satisfaction and something like hope.
When he pulled back, you settled back against his chest, your head finding the comfortable hollow of his shoulder. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, a soothing, repetitive motion that was lulling you toward sleep.
“Don't fall asleep,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead.
“Trying not to,” you mumbled into his skin. “But you're surprisingly comfortable for a super soldier.”
He chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. “That's the least of my talents.”
“Oh really?” You lifted your head to look at him, one eyebrow raised in challenge. "Do tell."
He rolled you over with a quick, fluid motion that took you by surprise, pinning you beneath him, his hips settling between yours.
“I'd rather show you,” he said, his voice already rough with renewed wanting.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Then by all means, Captain. Show me.”
And he did.
Again and again, throughout the long hours of the evening and throughout the beginning of the night, he showed you. He showed you in the way he learned your body, memorizing the places that made you gasp, the touches that made you shudder. He showed you in the way he held you, the possessive grip of his hands on your hips, the tender press of his lips against your temple. He showed you in the way he looked at you, as if you were the only thing in the universe worth seeing.
It was a revelation, this endless exploration of each other, a night that stretched and warped, losing all sense of time. There was only the rise and fall of your breathing, the slide of skin against skin, the soft sounds of pleasure filling the room, the quiet affirmations whispered into the darkness.
Sometime in the deep hours of the night, when the city outside was finally quiet, you found yourself on top of him, moving slowly, deliberately, your hands braced on his chest, watching his face as you brought him to the brink and back, over and over, until he was writhing beneath you, his hands gripping your thighs, his eyes dark with a need so profound it was almost painful.
“Please,” he gasped, the word broken, desperate.
And you gave him what he wanted, what you both wanted, taking him over the edge with a final, hard thrust that had you both crying out.
Afterward, you collapsed onto his chest, boneless, spent, utterly satisfied.
His arms came around you, holding you close, his breathing ragged in your ear.
“Okay,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You win.”
You couldn't help but laugh, the sound a soft, breathy thing. “There was a contest?”
“With you?” he replied, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “Always.”
You shifted, settling more comfortably against him. The exhaustion was finally starting to set in, a pleasant heaviness in your limbs, a soft fuzziness at the edges of your mind.
“Sleep now,” he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead. “I've got you.”
You closed your eyes, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm in the darkness. “Steve?”
“Mmh?”
“Next time,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I want to try it against the window.”
You felt him smile against your hair. “As you wish.”
And as you drifted off to sleep, tangled in his arms, you both knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was only the beginning.
Pairing: AU!Harry Castillo & f!reader (keeping description to a minimum, but you have a name for the sake of the story)
Summary: You thought being the assistant at Parson & Co. was a safe, comfortable gig. Then Harry Castillo took over as CEO - and safe flew right out the window. Sharp suit, sharper smile, and way too hot for your sanity. Fantasies turn dangerous when you realize your new boss isn’t just looking at numbers… he’s looking at you too. And it’s only a matter of time before the line between work and desire is crossed.
Warnings: This is slow burn, but luckily Harry & you both got a filthy mind, so even when reality takes some time, your fantasies quickly go somewhere else... power dynamics, age gap (reader in her early 30s, him in is late 40s), mutual pining, smutty smut incoming, no use of y/n
Masterlist for the My Little Love Universe. These series revolves around three of our favorite fictional men, Bucky, Steve and Sam. They each get their own story and this universe starts with Bucky’s.
My Little Love
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanched!Reader “Sugar”
Series Masterlist
Bucky was no longer the winter soldier. He was living freely and working with the Avengers. You were one of his closest friends and he was head over heels in love with you. The feeling was mutual. You liked Bucky the moment you met him but neither of you were willing to say anything yet. Everyday that passed, Bucky was able to remove himself more from what Hydra had done to him. Until a mission reveals that Hydra had been creating super soldier children and Bucky happened to be the father. With you by his side Bucky will learn to love and care for his kids. The love you have for each other blooms into a beautiful relationship. But Hydra isn’t happy that the next generation of super soldiers was taken from them and they’ll do whatever it takes to get them back.
Series warnings: major angst, fluff, smut, blood, medical emergencies, hydra, bad family relationships, mentioned child abuse, kidnapping, (please check individual chapters for warnings)
A Love As Sweet As Honey
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Scientist!Reader “Honey”
Series Masterlist
Steve wanted what his best friends had. He wanted love and family and peace. That’s wasn’t too much to ask for, right? Somewhere along the way Steve befriended Bruce’s lab assistant, you. You were guarded, slightly grumpy, you weren’t afraid to say what you were thinking and didn’t trust easily. That didn’t stop Steve from seeing more to you. He liked you and you liked him. While Steve didn’t want to ruin the friendship you had, you were afraid to let him see the more vulnerable part of you. However, after a night of drinking you wake up naked and next to each other. A drunken one night stand that will definitely put a strain on the friendship. Then you get a positive pregnancy test.
Series warnings: angst, fluff, smut, tears, unplanned pregnancy, talks of abortion, bad family dynamics, more to come… (read individual chapters for specific warnings)
A Love On Broken Wings
Pairing: Sam Wilson x Engineer!Reader “Sweets”
Series Masterlist
Sam Wilson had always wanted to fly. He wanted to help people and make a difference. When he saw the opportunity to become a pilot in the Air Force he took it. That choice would change his life forever. Not only would it lead him to become friends with and work along side the Avengers, he’d also met the love of his life. You also wanted to help people. Listening to your father tell stories from his time in the military and the limitations there were you wanted to created something that would change the way missions would be handled. That’s how you met the man that would steal your heart and break it.
Series Warnings: angst, fluff, smut, tears, character death, kidnapping, torture (see future chapters for warnings)
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A/N: As always my permanent and series taglists are open. I will only add 18+ so please make sure you let me know if you are 18+ or that it’s on your blog!
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