bunch of things I like

mari • she/her • XXVII

[kosmogrl]

[kosmogrl]

I will make a beautiful life for myself no matter how long it takes. I will I will I will

[nobodys-s0n]

A QUICK FIX. 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃

‎✧˚₊‧ down bad! peter parker who fucks like he’s mindless !

it’s not like he’s touch starved for any sort of real connection; everyone who he loves doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t have anyone to go home to besides that red and blue stupid spider-man suit that mocks him from the hanger. he watches the news as people cheer for him but no one wants him.

truly wants him. peter parker, not spider-man.

peter parker is a man who is starved of touch. he can live with no connection— it was just him and his aunt for many years… but the feeling of another person’s hands on him that wasn’t some goon in manhattan trying to put him to early retirement… it was foreign to him.

it’s been four years since mj, and he hasn’t felt anything on his body… except now, his breaking point.

youre not quite sure how you ended up in his vicinity anyway, but you did. you were simply in professor banners class when he came running in at the last minute, completely sloppy looking and out of his mind to talk to the professor. you stayed back to watch him ramble to him, seeing how disgruntled he looked, the bruises on his jaw and his forearm peaking out under the empire state hoodie.

when he left, you left, and you asked for his number.

that’s how you ended up here; in his messy bed, his cock thrusting in and out of you like a piston. he’s rough with his thrusts but gentle with his hands, like his fingers are trying to mark every single inch of your body, his lips haven’t left your neck since he’s thrusted.

“o-oh god baby.” he whispers, voice cracking under the pressure of your pussy clenching down on him. your nails rake down his biceps,

you moan around him, listening to his chorus of whimpers and pleads as the wet sound of his cock forcing its way into your puffy folds fills his mundane apartment bedroom. “f-fuck peter! keep going! oh fuck!”

the apartment walls in this place may not be the thickest, but peter’s cock is, so you don’t care that your moans could probably be heard from top floor to basement.

he moans when your fingers create more markings into his body, his senses going haywire with each stroke of his dick. “feels good baby? pussy needing me s’so much, don’t you?” he whispers, sucking on his right thumb before bringing it down to your clit, rubbing tight circles on it. “never letting you go, swear to god, fucking christ…”

each one of his thrusts picks up with the speed and velocity only a man like peter parker could display. you couldn't describe it but you felt so full but so good at the time time. your eyes rolled back as he kisses your cheek, feeling his balls slap against your clit.

he kept thrusting like he had something to lose; his hands touched you like he was trying to keep a reminder to himself what a female body felt like, what another human's body felt like under his own callous palms.

he's never felt like this in four years, and now, he's a selfish man and who could blame him?

peter was a man suffering in silence, currently thrusting into you like he was personally trying to break your cervix— and you didn't mind it, feeling like heaven itself as his forearms cage your head, kissing your face even as the tears flow from overstimulation, his mouth catching each one.

he brings you closer and closer, groaning deep into your ear as you tighten around him. the bed was louder than you at some points but you didn't even try to be quiet.

if anyone truly knew what peter parker was suffering with for four years... they'd understand why he fucks like this. why he fucks like it's his last day on earth. why his cock ruins you like it's never done before... and you didn't quite understand the full extent of it...

you just understood peter parker making you cum, and feeling ropes of his hot and heavy cum filling your pussy.

and in the same night? he tucks you in and sneaks out the fire escape, because peter parker only gets temporary joy when the city needs spiderman all the time.

click here for main masterlist! 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃

AUTHOR'S NOTE: god, brand new day is gonna eat so hard. ive never written for peter, but he was so fucking fine in that trailer, so why not write for him. sadie, tom, and zendaya in the same movie + promotion is gonna be so funnnnn, I can’t fucking wait. I do not care; i will somehow get a sadie hot ones episode as well as a sadie vs tom hot ones episode because I said so.

thank you for all the support in every way possible! all support is very much appreciated! all content created on this blog is mine, do not copy or sent it through ai!

created by... nobodys-s0n! ™

[jeffbuckleymunchh]

rafe cameron x childhoodcrush!reader (part 4)

summary: when rafe’s home situation gets worse, he has no choice but to accept the invite into his childhood best friend, sam’s, home. what he didn’t expect was to reignite an old flame with sam’s younger sister, who he has fought to keep out of his mind all these years.

part one. two. three.

to your surprise, you didn’t even have to come up with an excuse to get you and rafe alone in the car.

sam, being sam, wanted to drive your mom’s car. and your mom, being your mom, would never in her life let him do so without her right beside him.

the diner you and rafe had stumbled upon an few hours into your five hour drive was genuinely in the middle of nowhere, it didn’t even show up on the gps. attached at the hip to a motel, it looked exactly how you’d expect an outdated diner to look. the old neon lights that trimmed the building flickered and buzzed loudly, a noise that would drive you mad if you worked there.

there were only about four other cars in the lot, most of which were on the motel side. you both were hesitant on eating there, but probably for different reasons. you, because it looked super suspicious. rafe, because he’s never really had to settle for a cheap meal. growing up with a rich father could leave you a bit sheltered to what reality was actually like for most people.

stepping out of the car, red flags were immediately set off when you noticed a gruff old man smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk, staring directly at you two and looking anything but friendly. rafe clung to you pretty quickly, his hand on your arm to move you in front of him as he held the mans stare with a glare of his own. once inside, rafe glanced over his shoulder through the window and the man finally looked away.

“order whatever you want, let’s just try to hurry.” he said, his voice on edge as he peeled at the torn corner of his menu.

you reached across the table to steady his fidgeting hand. “we can leave,” you said softly, but rafe was quick to shake his head.

“no no, it’s okay.” he sighed, offering you a small smile. “you’re hungry- i want you to eat.” you furrowed your brows but decided to drop it, knowing he wouldn’t be satisfied until you ate.

the waiter approached soon after, a brunette guy who looked to be around your age. his name tag read timothy.

“what drinks can i get goin’ for y’all?” he asked, a kind smile on his face as he glanced between the two of you- his eyes lingering a little too long on you for rafe’s liking.

“water.” rafe deadpanned, staring holes into timothy as he looked at you. “she wants the same, but with lemon.” rafe spoke for you. it wasn’t surprising that he had your order memorized by now but something told you that he didn’t speak for you just out of the kindness of his heart.

timothy hurried off to retrieve the drinks and you took the silence as an opportunity. “okay, what’s wrong?” you asked, tapping your fingers on the table to get rafe’s attention back on you.

he gave you a confused look and shook his head, “nothing, i’m fine,” he said, forcing a smile as he leaned back and picked up his menu, pretending to be invested in it.

before you could respond, timothy returned with your drinks and placed them down in front of you. you gave him a kind smile and thanked him- whereas rafe didn’t even bother to look up from the menu.

timothy flipped open his notepad, clicking his pen as he spoke. “ready to order?” he asked you specifically. you pointed out what you wanted on the menu to timothy, who leaned closer and quickly jotted it down. you glanced up at rafe afterwards only to find that he was already watching the exchange, fully sat upwards now and the menu flat on the table.

“great choice, that’s actually my favorite.” timothy smiled at you then turned to rafe. “and for you?” he asked, seemingly way less interested in rafe’s answer than yours.

rafe grabbed your menu and stacked it against the table with his before holding them out towards timothy. “i’ll have your favorite, too.” he said with a bitter smile. timothy just nodded with an awkward, forced customer service smile on his face as he took the menu’s and walked away.

you scoffed as rafe took a sip from his water, glancing up at you. “what?” he asked.

“what is your problem?”

rafe pushed his ice around with his straw, shaking his head. “oh nothing- probably firstly the creepy, possible serial killer outside and now the waiter who is practically eye fucking my girl.” he crossed his arms over his chest.

your eyes widened at his words, his simultaneously doing the same as he slowly realized what he said. “your girl?” you bit back a smile, tilting your head.

rafe shrugged, tapping his fingers against his forearm as he looked at anything but you. “well, yeah.. i mean- i think.” he mumbled, meeting your eyes again.

you nodded, bringing your straw to your lips. “then make it known.” you said before taking a sip just as timothy returned with your plates. he sat rafe’s down first, then yours with a smile plastered on his face.

“careful, it’s hot.” timothy said to you with a wink.

you internally cringed but had no time to react as rafe was already on it.

“hey tim, what’s a good dessert for couples?” rafe asked, smiling. timothy’s flirtatious demeanor faltered as he seemed to finally register the current dynamic.

he hesitated before offering an uncomfortable smile, clearing his throat. “well we have lava cake, banana split, large milkshakes-“

“we’ll take the milkshake, strawberry.” rafe cut him off. timothy nodded, tucking his notepad into his apron as he turned to leave. “oh- and tim?” rafe called, waiting for him to meet his eyes again before he spoke. “make it one straw.” he added a wink. timothy scurried away, disappearing into the swinging door that led into the kitchen.

you couldn’t help but let out a small giggle. “you’re actually ridiculous,”

rafe shrugged, a smile of his own growing. “think’ he got the memo?”

you reached across the table, rafe’s hand meeting yours halfway. his fingers grazed your knuckles, applying warmth to your cold skin. “five bucks says someone else brings the milkshake out.” you challenged.

rafe squinted, accepting your challenge. “i don’t think he could last that long without seeing your face.” he muttered, jealousy still fresh on his words.

you both continued to finish your meals, with rafe tossing the pickles from his burger onto your plate- disgust on his face whilst delight grew on yours.

the squeak of the kitchen door broke off your conversation, both of your heads snapping in that direction to see who won the bet. rafe huffed as an older ginger woman approached your table with a huge glass. you watched him fumble with his wallet in your peripheral as you thanked her. he slid a five dollar bill across the table towards you when she walked away. you picked it up, giving the bill an air kiss obnoxiously. “this will be timothy’s tip.” you teased.

rafe deadpanned, pulling the milkshake towards him. “you’re so not funny.” he muttered grumpily, but you just kept smiling.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” rafe said from his kneeled position, his fingers grazing across the fresh deep slash that was in one of your tires.

you hugged yourself, unease growing in your stomach as you anxiously glanced around. you didn’t want to make assumptions, but you were pretty positive on who did this. rafe stood, his hand running across his buzzed hair while he used the other to check the signal on his phone. “do you have any bars?” he turned towards you, faltering slightly when he noticed your demeanor. “hey- it’s okay,”his hand touched your arm, gently rubbing it with his thumb before pulling you into a full on hug. his face was nestled in your hair as he spoke. “that old fucker couldn’t have gotten far, i swear i’ll kill him-“

you clutched the back of his shirt. “please don’t,” you muttered, face pressed into his chest. “can we just call the tow truck and get out of here?” rafe pulled back slightly, his hand moving to your cheek as he nodded. he pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping away to make the call.

you watched as rafe popped the trunk, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear as he pushed your bags to the side and dug around for what you assumed was a spare tire.

a spare tire that you and sam definitely did not have.

he side eyed you in disappointment right as the receptionist picked up his call. “hello, yeah,” he straightened up, leaning against the open trunk. “our tire is completely flat, and we’ve got no spare- uh we’re at the diner off of.. baby, what road is this?” rafe tilted the phone away from his mouth as he asked you.

butterflies pooled in your stomach at the nickname and you quickly occupied yourself, and hid your flushed face, by looking down at the gps on your phone. you told him the road and he turned away, but not without a sly smirk growing on his face first.

asshole.

“what?” rafe groaned, avoiding your concerned gaze. “there’s nobody else you can send today? not a single one?” he pinched his bridge, heaving a sigh. “okay- yeah, no we’ll wait. thanks.” he ended the call soon after, tucking his phone into his back pocket.

you rounded the car, standing slightly in between his legs. “what is it?” you asked with a tilt of your head.

rafe reached out to you, hand sliding onto your hip as he pulled you closer. your arms fell around his neck as you looked down at him. “they can’t send anyone until the morning,” he muttered out, as if he was telling you that someone died. “she said some bullshit about it being against policy, with it being later in the day and all.” he ended with an eye roll.

your fingers danced along the nape of his neck as you were lost in thought, your gaze slowly drifting over to the old motel. rafe followed your gaze, audibly groaning as he caught on to your implication. his head fell forward on your stomach, “we don’t really have another option, do we?” he mumbled, his voice muffled by your shirt.

“i don’t think so, rafey.”

upon entering your room, the both of you were instantly taken aback by the odd smell, to say the least.

and by taken aback you mean, rafe was gagging.

“oh my god,” he heaved, fumbling with the collar of his shirt to get his nose covered as quickly as possible. he dropped his bag to the floor and moved to crack the window. moments later, he seemingly realized that his bag was on the floor and distaste grew on his face. “it’s just one night.” he looked at you with an uneasy smile, but you weren’t sure if he was trying to reassure you or himself.

so far on this trip you have discovered lots of things, one being that rafe is a huge germaphobe. he shedded the motel bed of its blankets and instead replaced it with his own (only after inspecting the sheets), he also apparently just casually carries a can of lysol with him and sprays it everywhere.

how did this man enjoy kissing so much?

after about an hour and a half of renovating a $10/night motel room, rafe was finally comfortable enough to join you in bed. his large hand looped around you and pulled you flush against him, your back to his chest. “did you get ahold of your mom?” he whispered as if he was unsure if you were awake or not.

you slid your hand over his that rested on your stomach to let him know you were listening, “i did,” you replied, eyes fluttering shut slightly as you snickered. “sam stole the phone, and made sure that we were getting a room with two beds.” rafe let out an amused scoff, his hand slowly gliding to your thigh. goosebumps prickled your skin at his touch and you inhaled a sharp breath.

rafe’s lips found your neck and he pressed a few soft kisses to your jaw. “sorry sam,” he whispered, his voice husky and low.

you turned your head slightly to catch his lips with yours, your hand cupping his cheek and pulling him closer to you. his fingers danced under the hem of your shirt, trailing dangerously close to the lace of your underwear that peeked from the top of your sleep shorts.

but just as you thought he’d go lower, his hand stopped. right there on your hip.

your eyes snapped open and you broke the kiss. rafe’s eyes opened too as he hovered over you, confusion on his face. “did you not bring…” you started, watching as rafe caught on to what you meant a few seconds later.

“oh,” he grinned. “no, i brought them alright. fresh box and everything-“ you slapped his shoulder and he chuckled. “but we’re not having sex for the firs- second.. time in some musty motel.” he said, sitting up against the headboard. you sat up too, a slight huff leaving your lips.

rafe looked at you, a small smirk on his lips. “aw, did i get you all worked up?” he hummed.

he leaned close to your ear, his hand squeezing your inner thigh. “i’ll make it up to you soon, baby.”

guys i’m SO sorry it took me so long to drop this chapter i’ve been going through IT! 😿 pls send me requests in my inbox tho cause i love writing little blurbs in my free time!!!

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[mcybank]

Good Intentions (4) — Rafe Cameron

part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part fourᵎᵎ

pairings — rafe cameron x fem!reader, topper thornton x fem!reader

summary — rafe cameron has never wanted something he couldn’t take. it’s not his fault topper’s girlfriend turns out to be one thing he can’t stop thinking about.

warnings — 14.4k words. MINORS DNI! cheating (reader cheats on topper, topper’s rafe’s best friend), toxic dynamics, super messy morals, substance use (cocaine, alcohol), addiction themes, codependency, public confrontation/humiliation-adjacent, physical violence, parental disapproval, reputational consequences and social fallout, skinship, non-sexual shower, lots of intimacy without sex, morally grey characters

author’s note — I’M SO SORRY FOR DELAYING THIS LIKE A MILLION TIMES it was so immensely stressful to write i hit my vape every 20 seconds. i hope this does feed you guys though i was kind of at a loss with where to take it and half of these scenes came to me in my dreams

Getting what you want makes you stupid. Rafe had spent his whole life lean and paranoid and correct about the worst-case; he was a guy who walked into every room already knowing where the exits were and who in it had a reason to dislike him. Three months of having you had scrubbed all of that down to nothing. He’d gone soft in the head. He could feel it happening and he didn’t care, which was the softness talking. 

Case-in-point: he was leaning against a column on the south side of the bar, shirt gone damp against the stone, doing the one thing he promised himself he wouldn’t do today, which was think. His thinking had gone greedy. He was running the last twenty-four hours the way someone counts an inventory he’s scared someone’s coming to take (every item, twice, in order). Because twelve hours ago, he’d had more of you than he’d ever had. The whole night. Nine-forty-six until sunup, a quantity of you he had no idea was orderable, hadn’t dared put in for. 

Second Heineken. He’d ducked off within twenty minutes of arriving to do two lines off the back of his phone case, less out of need than habit, the way you crack a knuckle. He kept telling himself he hadn’t seen you yet, which was a lie, because he’d seen all of you.

You on his back step at nine forty-six with your bag on your shoulder and the guilty face you got after lying about where you were going. You in his kitchen once the house went dark. You on the stairs. You in his bed, on top of the duvet, then under it, then at three a.m. with your face on his chest doing the slow even breathing that meant you'd gone all the way under, a thing you'd only started doing in the last few weeks, and which he tried not to make mean anything, and failed.

You at six at the sink, a loose piece of hair escaping the elastic he'd handed you because you hadn't brought one and the spare you'd left was on his nightstand. He knew exactly where it was. Shit like that had started living in his house, paying no rent.

You at six fifty-six, in the yellow dress, on the edge of his bed. He'd sat and you'd stood between his knees with your back to him and your hair held up off your neck, and he'd done the buttons. Small buttons, small holes, and his were not by any measure small-button hands, but he'd put the first one through the first hole with a care he didn't bring to one other thing in his life. He'd missed the sixth on purpose — through the fifth hole instead — one wrong piece of fabric sitting the wrong way against your spine, and you hadn't noticed, because you'd been watching his other hand, the one not on the buttons, which had drifted to the back of your hip and stayed. He'd done the seventh right. Doing all of them wrong was the kind of thing you'd have caught, and he hadn't wanted you to catch it. He'd wanted to send you out into the day with one small wrong thing on you that nobody knew about but him. Couldn't have told you why with a gun to his head.

In daylight he could finally see the dress for what it was. It hit just above mid-thigh, the exact color the princess wore in the movie with the beast.

“You hear a word I just said?” 

“Nah, man. Sorry,” Rafe said, not sounding it.

Kelce had been narrating the lawn, he loved doing that. He was a gossip in the full unembarrassed sense, who took the same pleasure in who’d shown up and who they’d shown up with as he did in who was playing third for the Yankees. Rafe let him, mostly. Every fifth thing was worth hearing; the other four needed a grunt and a ‘no fucking way,’ and that was the contract. He’d lost the thread somewhere in the buttons.

“I said, Top’s not drinking.”

The name went through Rafe like a draft through a door Rafe thought was shut. Something ugly turned in his chest; guilt, or the thing guilt had curdled into over the summer, which was that he'd quietly and completely started to hate the guy, somewhere around the first night he got his hands on you. He couldn't tell the two apart anymore. He'd stopped trying.

“He is,” Rafe said, though he hadn’t watched it happen. He tipped the Heineken at the club, the people, the whole pastel of the afternoon. “No shot he’s not.”

“Club soda. He got a lime in it so it looks like a vodka tonic,” Kelce said. “I asked the bartender.”

Rafe looked at him. Kelce looked back with the mild bafflement of a man who'd turned over a rock, found a fact under it, and had no idea what the fact was for.

“He’s probably hungover,” Rafe said.

“From what? We didn’t do shit last night.” Kelce’s face looked almost wounded. “You two go out without me?”

“No.”

“Because if you and Top went somewhere—”

“We didn’t go anywhere.” The words came out flatter than he intended because the ‘we’ in Kelce’s mouth was the wrong one, a different one than he’d spent the night inside of, and his body had reacted to the collision half a beat ahead of his brain. He drank to cover it. Stop talking about Topper. “He’s probably watching it. Big-boy summer. Who knows?”

Kelce accepted this completely, and then the Devreux twins came up from the dock in matching pink, which he found genuinely remarkable each time, and his attention went out like a struck match. It left Rafe at the column with the small itch the club-soda-fact had left on his skin; he declined to scratch it. Scratching meant picking the thing up and turning it over, and Rafe had gotten expert this summer at leaving certain things face-down on the table.

He found you instead, out of reflex — across the lawn by the long table, holding the listening face for one of the mothers. Somewhere under the fifth button was the wrong thing he'd built into you this morning, the flaw with his name on it, sitting warm and stupid behind his ribs. You'd worn it all day. Stood in front of your mother and the whole club with his small wrongness against your spine and never known. 

When he looked back, Topper was heading in his direction. He was walking across the lawn with his hands in his pockets at an angle that was almost lazy.

“Hey.” He clapped Kelce on the shoulder, the greeting he’d borrowed off his father at sixteen and never returned, and Kelce lit up about the twins. Topper let him run a second—nodding, eyes moving around the cluster of them, Kelce, the column, the stretch of lawn behind Rafe where you stood—and back.

“You see Whitaker’s serve?” Kelce was saying.

“Nah.”

“All shoulder now. Used to be hip.”

“He’s old,” Rafe said, on autopilot, half his head still on the warm stone at his back and the long slow tilt of the day toward evening, toward the part where everyone went home and he might, if he timed it right, steal one more hour of you before it closed.

“Hey,” Topper said, to Rafe this time, angling himself closer to him. “Can I ask you something?”

There it was. The opener he'd been answering his whole life — can I ask you something — the same three words that had come through every study door Ward had ever spoken to him from, the same ones Topper used for boats and birthdays and which restaurant for the October thing and, lately, the one Rafe had spent two months bracing for: which Christmas, which ring.

His body did the small old flinch out of habit, the low please-not-that he'd been swallowing all summer, and got ready to say yeah, man, and felt almost fond about it, relieved. Because as far as his soft, ruined, Heineken afternoon brain still believed, the worst thing Topper Thornton could possibly ask him was when to buy the fucking ring.

“Yeah,” Rafe said.

“How long have you been fucking my girl?”

Rafe’s whole head went white. The words hit him somewhere behind the neck and his teeth came together hard. The volume of Topper’s words felt wrong, for he hadn’t done a single thing a man does when he wants a question kept between two people.

He’d pitched it at the exact ordinary register he used to ask about a drink, and it went into the warm air at that decibel and kept traveling. Rafe felt the lawn behind and around him take it.

This was the gap where he had to produce the denial—what the fuck are you talking about, are you out of your mind—that he’d been manufacturing on autopilot all summer, deniability so practiced it ran without him.

He reached for the slot, and it all came up fucking empty.

Lying was the thing Rafe was good at. It was foundational and the complete floor of him. And he stood there and felt the floor not hold, felt the lie die somewhere south of his mouth, and some cold back-room part of him understood, even now, the dying was its own answer; a guy who says nothing has already told you. 

Why was he telling? Why, he had no idea.

“Don’t.” His jaw barely came apart. “Don’t do this here.”

Topper laughed, and it was more of a dry exhale as his brows lifted up. “Here’s not good for you?”

“There’s like eighty people, man.” Rafe tried to keep his voice low, kept the edge of it scrubbed down to something reasonable. It’d worked on Topper before, it was easy to get him to turn away from unreasonable by simply telling him it was. “Whatever you think’s going on, this isn’t the—”

“Don’t.” Topper’s voice came out flat, and Rafe felt his trick slide off him like water off glass, because Topper had walked over here already past the place where Rafe's voice worked on him, and that was new, that had never once been true in years. “Whatever I think. Okay.”

“Outside.” Rafe’s hand had come off the column. “You wanna do this, we do this outside.”

It was the only language Rafe had for it. It was the only shape conflict had ever come in for him; two guys, a parking lot, fists, the thing settled in the body and left there. He was offering Topper the cleanest version of it that existed, one that stayed between them, and some primal part of him was almost grateful for the offer, because a fight he understood. A fight he could lose and still be standing inside of.

“I’m not fighting you,” Topper said, almost puzzled. “That’s—nah. That’s what you want. Take it outside, I hit you, you hit me. We’re square, you go home.” His jaw moved as he shook his head. “You’d love that.”

Yeah, he would have loved that. Topper had looked straight at it and seen exactly what it was, an exit, a clean ending dressed up as a reckoning, and declined to give it to him.

Topper had never in his life been the one to see through Rafe. That was the order of things. Rafe was the one who saw, who cataloged, who knew the underside of people. And here was Topper, sunburnt and shaking slightly and reading him like a thing printed in large type.

Getting what you want makes you stupid, Rafe thought again, and this was another case-in-point.

“This isn’t—” Topper stopped, then started again, and his voice shook just slightly. “She’s not some—you can’t make this a you-and-me thing. Like she’s a—” He couldn't find the word, or found it and couldn't say it, and what came out instead was lower and worse. “She was it for me, man.”

The words went into the quiet and the dads around had stopped pretending that they weren’t listening. Rafe could feel the ring of it wielding behind him. 

“How long?” Topper asked again. “The bonfire?” His voice climbed, each word a thing he was checking off a list he'd clearly been building alone in the dark for days. “When I asked you to drive her home when she was about to fuckin’ cry?” He laughed, and it cracked apart in the middle.

You’d been talking to your mother and Carol Hutchinson about Carol’s daughter’s wedding registry—Carol had strong feelings about people who registered for cash—and somewhere mid-sentence the lawn changed its pitch, the talk thinning in a ring off to your left, and your body—the one that had been trained on rooms—knew before you did.

Your mother knew too. She didn't stop nodding at Carol, but her eyes cut, and that was how you always confirmed a thing was real: when your mother's attention moved before her face gave her permission to.

“Excuse me,” you said to no one and put your drink down on the table without checking that the table was there.

Despite everything, you knew before you crossed the grass. There was no merciful second where you could even wonder, for the picture was already finished by the time you reached it. Rafe was against the column with his beer hanging forgotten in his hand, Topper square in front of him with both hands at his sides, and between them and around them the loose arc of fathers who had stopped being men holding drinks and become, in the last ninety seconds, an audience that had not bought tickets and could not believe their stupid luck.

You forced yourself to stop at about eight feet. Closer was a decision and further changed absolutely nothing, so you stood at the distance that asked the least of you.

You thought—with a cruel form of clarity—that you’d been preparing for this. Things, situations, predicaments as tousled as this never stayed in the dark. You’d run the thing so many times in the dark—the having-been-caught, the fact of it laid out—that you’d mistaken the running for readiness. You had not prepared for shit. You’d only rehearsed the dread until it felt load-bearing, and now the real one had come and the rehearsal had turned out to be a different play entirely, and you’d memorized nothing that mattered.

It felt like the winter you were thirteen and they gave you Ophelia for the scene where her father sets her down in a corridor with a book she wasn’t reading and tells her to stand there, just stand there, like you’re praying, so the men can hide and watch what happened to her.

You’d rehearsed the standing more than any line — I shall obey, my lord — and you’d said them into the drama teacher’s clipboard a hundred times without once hearing them, the way you didn’t hear a lot of things you were good at saying.

Here it was again, surfacing now in its little Elizabethan lilt while eighty feet of lawn watched the boy you’d wrong decide who you were. You felt exactly what you did at thirteen, the strange flat calm of knowing your blocking, standing very still at the center of the thing that was supposedly about you and finding, again, there was nothing for you to do but be looked at.

You were good at this. So, so good, finding easily how your body found the mark and held it, how still you could go when something was happening to you and be praised, afterward, for how stupidly well you’d stood there.

Topper turned his head toward you, just enough. Then, he flicked his gaze back to Rafe, as though he only wanted to register your presence.

“Everybody’s always—” He stopped, and despite the distance, you could hear him loud and fucking clear, for he had no intention of keeping this private. His mouth moved, like he had no practice for this. You’d watched Topper’s mouth move for two years and it had never once reached for cruelty—never had an occasion to, it hadn’t been built for it—and now it was groping for one and coming up clumsy, and that was somehow the part that undid you. You’d driven a kind guy all the way to the edge of a country he had no map for.

“She’s so sweet. So sweet.” The word came apart a little more each time he aired it out. “And this entire time she’s been—” He moved his jaw, and he couldn’t get the rest out cleanly. “Sneaking around. Fucking you.” 

Your left hand closed at your side. You opened it and smoothed your palm flat against the green of the dress, the small managing motion your body still ran with nobody home to drive it and you watched yourself do it from somewhere far back, the way you'd watch a sprinkler finish an arc over grass that didn't need it.

Two years of training, still firing. You’d have laughed if your face had been yours to spend, but your face was the last thing out here you still owned and you weren't spending a cent of it.

The words were bitter as he mourned who he’d loved for two years. You’d made her up so well he might as well have married her in his head. Now he could talk of the theft of something that never existed, and you envied him for it. He got to miss her, and you had to keep being the one who stood in front of her, so completely that even you had half-believed it.

A muscle in Topper’s jaw ticked as he realized Rafe was remaining silent.

“Say it was worth it, at least,” he said, furrowing his brows together. “Tell me there was—something. Anything.” He laughed shortly. “You blew all of it up for—what? Genuinely, for what?”

“Why are you doing this here?” you heard Rafe say, voice as low as he could make it, the sentence having no true question in it.

Topper shook his head. “Two years I’ve been with her and I couldn’t even tell you who this girl is.” His eyes flicked up to you. “Good-fucking-luck.”

That one went lower than the others. The rest had landed where he’d aimed them, in the flat and overly-exposed places. This one went under—into the small space where you kept things you suspected were true about yourself and would not take out and look at—and Topper had reached in without knowing and pulled it up into the light.

You waited, with a cruel wanting you hated yourself for, for Rafe to say something.

You saw Topper’s right hand closing. 

“Top—” Kelce was moving in his direction. He’d been off to the side this whole time, holding his drink like he’d wandered into the wrong room, and he came alive too late, his hand coming up.

Topper’s arm drew back the small distance it needed and went, and the punch caught Rafe right across the mouth. The sound of it was smaller than you’d have thought, a dull wet knock that the lawn heard anyway.

Rafe hadn’t braced; he’d seen it coming, he must have, and he’d done nothing. He hadn’t lifted a hand or turned his head; he had stood there against the column and let Topper hit him like it was a thing he had coming, like it was the one part of this he agreed with.

His head went sideways with it and his body followed, down, one knee finding the grass as his hand came up to his face. When it came away, there was a dark start of blood on his fingers where his lip had split against his teeth—the same lip, you thought, stupidly, helplessly, that had been on your mouth hours ago in a dark room—and you stood at your distance and did not go to him, because going to him was the one thing on this lawn that could still make it worse, and you had just barely enough left in you to know it.

Topper was breathing hard and looking down at Rafe on the grass with an expression that wasn't satisfaction. It wasn't anything. He'd spent the last of it. He turned.

And you understood, a half-second before he moved, that he was turning toward you. There was nowhere to stand in the lawn that wasn’t here, at the end of the small path the fathers had opened without meaning to.

He stopped in front of you. Up close his face had gone strange, the anger still in it but something underneath the anger working harder, a man holding two stories and trying to decide which one he got to keep.

“You’re not gonna talk either.” Topper’s voice had dropped, down to a register that was aimed only at you, the one he'd used for two years across pillows and car consoles. That was the part that nearly took your knees,  that he could still find it, that it was still in there, that he'd reached past everything to use the voice he'd loved you in.

“I’m sorry,” you said, the words coming out small and automatic.

You saw the last of his kind story go out of his face—the one where Rafe had reached into his good clean life and taken his good clean girl, the one where you were a thing that Rafe happened to—and what was left underneath it was worse, because what was left was a boy looking at the person he'd picked, finding out she'd picked something else.

“I would’ve—” His voice cracked and he pushed through it. “You know I’d have done anything. Anything.” He shook his head, more at himself than you. “And you threw it for—”

He tipped his head instead of saying Rafe’s name, a small sideways nod at the grass where Rafe was. 

And you eyes went—before you could stop them—down to Rafe. He was still on one knee where Topper had put him, his hand half-down from his mouth, the blood bright at the split of his lip.

He was already looking at you. He hadn't been looking at Topper. He'd been looking at you, the whole time, from the ground, and he didn't stop when your eyes found his, he held it, that unreadable thing he did, the look you'd spent three months learning and still couldn't translate when it mattered.

“I hope he was worth it,” Topper said finally, passing you, hardly looking at you when he said it.

There was a loud ringing in your ears as you pushed the words out of your mind, eyes drifting back to Rafe.

There was a small, insistent thing in you that wanted to go check on him, and you had a feeling he realized that while looking at you, for he shook his head slowly, eye twitching like he needed you to see it was a bad idea. 

You held his eyes for a second longer than was safe, long enough to take the no he was giving you. The small slow shake, his way of pushing you off the lawn without using his hands.

Don’t. Not here. Not me. He’d rather kneel alone in front of all of them than have you make it worse by being kind to him in the open. 

The lawn rushed back in all at once. Kelce was saying something to nobody, both hands still half-raised; a woman near the bar went ‘oh, my,’ without finishing; the small wet collapse of ice resettling in someone’s abandoned glass; the band of fathers reassembling their faces like they hadn’t just watched the most interesting thing of their summer. Somebody’s child was crying somewhere off by the pool and being walked, briskly, away from all of it. 

You wanted to laugh at the idea of having done something a mother would want to hide from her child.

The heat was behind your eyes and it stayed there, held, because crying was the one thing left that people could carry home whole, and you’d already given them enough freight for the next three months.

Your mother’s hand found your elbow before you’d even registered she was there. It was the same hand she used at church when you were seven and your tights were twisted and she needed to correct the situation without making a scene about it. Two fingers and a thumb wrapped around the inside of your elbow, pressure applied in a frequency only you could hear, the frequency drilled into you for years.

“Car,” she said, and it wasn’t even a word as much as a shape her mouth made. 

She steered you off the lawn through the side gate, the one with the broken latch the club had been meaning to fix for two months and hadn’t. She steered you past the overflow parking where valets staged the cars and past the dumpsters that smelled like crab shells and something sweet and rotting underneath. The gravel was loud under your heels and your mother’s grip stayed firm and you didn’t ask her to loosen it.

The car was at the far end of the lot because she never trusted other people’s doors. She unlocked it without looking at you, and you got in. The leather was warm from sitting in the August heat and stuck slightly to the back of your thighs. She got in on her side and put her bag in the backseat, which she never did; she always put it on the floor on the passenger side. 

She settled her hands on her lap and looked through the windshield at the car parked in the front, a white Range Rover with a parking sticker from the yacht club and a small dent on the rear fender.

“Is it true?”

“Mom—”

The slap came fast but not hard the second she realized you weren’t denying it. It was almost clean—as clean as a slap could be—with the flat of her palm against your cheek then gone, like punctuation.

You sat in the stinging surprise of it, because she had never, not once, and you understood immediately that this was the measure of it. This was how big it was, how big she considered it to be; she’d done a thing she’d never done.

She turned to look at you, and her face was completely assembled. “You know how embarrassing this is, don’t you?” 

You forced a swallow, forcing yourself to look up at the ceiling of the car because, frankly, what you thought was embarrassing was staying with a guy you don’t think ever wholly loved for two years and doing nothing about it. Until you did. 

“Rafe Cameron, of all people,” she said through a breath, shaking her head. “His father can hardly stomach talking about him.”

You looked back down from the ceiling and found the dent again. Somebody had tried to buff it and made it slightly worse.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Now, you go back in there—”

“I’m not going back in there.”

The silence that followed was new, too. You hadn’t interrupted her since you were fifteen and it had gone badly and you’d learned. Her eyes moved over your face, nose scrunching as though she was disgusted.

“We have to say goodnight,” she said, slightly recaliberated. “People remember things like this.”

“Let them remember.” 

“That’s not—”

“Mom.” Your voice came out so steady, so even that it surprised both of you. The cheek had stopped stinging and what was left was the knowledge of it, the fact of it, the permanent newness of tonight. “I’m not going back in there. You can. Tell them I’m not feeling well. Tell them whatever you need to tell them.” You forced yourself to look out the window, not having enough of a stomach to look at her face. “I’ll wait here.”

She was quiet for long enough that you could hear the party behind you, the band still going, the crowd still moving through the shapes of the evening like nothing had rearranged. That was the thing about these parties.

They absorbed everything. You could set the whole summer on a lawn in front of them and within twenty minutes it was just more texture.

“He’s not going to be who you think he is,” she said, voice lowering. “Boys like that—they don’t—” She pressed her lips together, choosing the words, sorting through what she had about Rafe and boys like Rafe. “They’re gonna take from you. Then they get tired and move on. And you’re left—” She took in a breath, shaking her head. “You’re left being the girl who let them.” 

You distantly understood she wasn’t wrong and she wasn’t right and she was talking about somebody you’d told her a total of zero things about, someone she’d assembled entirely from his father’s reputation and years of Figure Eight gossip she had no idea she’d been collecting.

She was talking about the version of Rafe that belonged to the island’s collective memory and not the one who drove you home when you were crying and pulled over on a side road just to let you empty out.

For the first time in your life you could remember, you had nowhere to be. 

There was no brunch. There was no dinner. Your mother had, conveniently, withdrawn mention of any events on Figure Eight by withdrawing herself.

You could distantly remember you had to be at yet another charity benefit hosted by one of the families you could practically consider neighbours. It seemed like spending too much time with Rafe Cameron took a charitable hit to your reputation, and you had taken a charitable hit with it. 

You were on the back porch with your second coffee going cold on the railing. It was eleven in the morning, which was late for you. You woke up at seven out of compulsion rather than necessity, made the bed before the day had given you any reason to, had a list running by eight-thirty on most mornings even in summer.

The list simply hadn’t appeared today. You woke up and waited for your brain to catch up, to receive it like you received most things—on autopilot—and you laid there in the blankness of that twenty minutes before getting up to make coffee and coming out here to look at the water.

Your phone had been doing all sorts of things all week. You’d developed a system of looking at the name before you decided it existed. Your dad, yes. Madi, not yet, she’d want to know all details about it and you weren’t ready to look back at it at all, because looking back meant it’d be in the past. Topper, three times, which you’d stared at without opening because there was no version of that conversation that cost something you simply didn’t own. The group chats had gone all kinds of quiet that were louder than the noise. 

The phone lit up now on the railing next to the cold coffee. Ruthie. She hadn’t reached out, and you had a feeling she was only doing so because she had something to say. She always did. 

“Hey,” you said.

“Okay,” she said, her voice already in the middle of something like it always was, like she’d been running the entire conversation in her head for a while and you’d just joined it. “Before you say anything, I need you to hear me out.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I had no idea there was an actual thing happening—I swear I thought—” A door closed on her end somewhere. “I just told Topper that I’ve noticed Rafe looking at you for two years. I figured it was just him being—” She made a sound that covered Rafe without having to say it, and your mind was already going fuzzy.

“Two years?” you echoed out loud, then clamped your lips shut. 

“Yeah. At least,” she said. Ruthie always knew things first. It was something about her you’d spent years confusing for intimacy. “Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t notice. It was pretty obvious.” 

“I didn’t,” you said evenly. Two years. You turned the time over in your head. “When’d you tell Topper?”

“At the lunch I went with him on Saturday. I had no idea he’d find out something else—I didn’t know there was something else to find.” 

“It would’ve come out anyway,” you muttered, and the truth of it landed in you even as you said it, because that was the thing about Figure Eight, about this summer, about all of it. There was no version of it that stayed contained. You'd known that, somewhere in the back of yourself, since the truck, since the boat, since you’d laid in bed with him until the young hours of the morning. Some things simply had too much mass to stay small. “It would’ve come out.”

You parked on the road outside the front gate, the small dark space between the streetlight at the end of the long drive and the next streetlight half a mile down toward the bend. Your car was the only one on the road. You could see their house through the live oaks—gold on the front porch, one upstairs window lit, the rest of it dark—and you sat in the driver’s seat with your hands on the wheel and tried to do the math on whether Ward Cameron was up there.

You couldn’t tell. You thought about Ward opening that door—a glass of something in his hand, the button-down he wore in the evenings—and looking at you in the hoodie on his porch, your hair the way it was, the sweatpants, the sneakers. You understood, clean, that you could not be the person Ward opened the door to. You did not have the equipment for it on the best day of your life and you did not have it now.

Spending this much time with Rafe had only solidified the fact rather than change it, even a little. 

You also understood that if you sat in the car for two more minutes, the tiny piece of you that had gotten out of the house was going to run out. You’d drive home and let your mother put you on whatever plane to somewhere really, really fucking far away. 

You opened the door. The driveway was long. You had been up it a hundred times in the dark in the past three months, in his truck, with his hand on your thigh, and you had not registered the driveway as a thing in any of those times. You registered it as a thing now. The gravel under your sneakers was louder than gravel had any business being. The live oaks above you were doing their Spanish-moss thing. The cicadas were electric in the way they were in mid-August. The hoodie was very big on you. There was a small bleach stain at the cuff that you had been staring at on and off for five days, and the cuff was over your hand now, and you let yourself have it.

The walk was longer than you remembered taking from his truck. 

You picked the knocker. Two knocks, as soft as you could make them. The brass against the wood made a firm sound anyway and you flinched. You stood with your hand still on the knocker and waited.

The footsteps that approached the door weren’t heavy enough to be Ward’s. You knew this by three months of cataloguing the footsteps from Rafe’s bedroom—who is where and how they are walking—and these were lighter than Ward's. Wheezie didn't answer the door at Tannyhill. Which meant Sarah. Your shoulders came down by the small fraction they had access to coming down.

The deadbolt turned and the door opened. She must’ve been in the kitchen or the living room.

Sarah was on the other side. Pajama shorts. A t-shirt with a faded school logo on it. Her hair was up in something that was not a hairstyle. She had a book in one hand with her finger marking the page. She had not been expecting anyone. She opened the door a few inches wider when she saw you.

“Hey,” she said, her voice quiet like she was talking to a skittish animal.

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yeah, I’m okay.” You tried to force a small smile on your face.

Sarah nodded and chose not to press, let the words stew as the placeholder they were.

“Um—?” You didn’t know how to ask about him. 

‘Is Rafe here?’ just sounded wrong. ‘Where is he?’ sounded desperate. You closed your mouth, then opened it again.

As if she could sense the turmoil in your head, “He hasn’t been home in a while.” She let it sit, then added, “He’s probably at Barry’s.”

You had never thought about Barry. Barry was a piece of Rafe's life you had not pictured. Barry was on The Cut. You knew that, abstractly.

You nodded. “Okay—thank you.”

You turned to go, and you were at the top of the porch steps when you stopped. You turned back.

Sarah was still in the doorway. 

“Where does Barry live, exactly?”

Whatever she saw in your face—you in the hoodie at Tannyhill at almost ten at night, the small bleach stain at the cuff of your hand, your hair and the way it was—was enough for her to decide that she was going to tell you. 

She stepped back into the entryway. She set her book on the side table by the door and picked up her phone. She unlocked it. She found the address. She relayed it to you carefully, giving you a rundown of how far it is and the turns you’d have to take even though you could simply put it onto your phone. 

“Thank you.” 

Sarah nodded. You turned again. You were going to walk down the porch steps and down the driveway and back to your car and drive to Barry's. You were almost at the first step when she said, behind you, “Hey. Wait.”

Her face was careful, about to say something she wasn’t not sure she should say. You waited.

“I think Rafe’s got it pretty bad for you.”

You weren’t sure what to do with this. Your face moved in a way you couldn’t feel from the inside. The crying that had been on the other side of the wall for five days made a small sound against the wall for the first time. You wouldn’t cry on her porch. You were not going to cry on her porch. But your throat was doing the thing it had been doing on and off for five days, and you had to swallow once before you could say anything. 

She continued, “But—I don’t know.” She laughed without any humor in it, as though she was now regretting saying the words altogether. “I don’t think you should let that decide for you.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that either. You could tell she wasn’t issuing out a warning, nor was it a rebuke. She was likely saying it because she had nothing else to offer you right now, when it was abundantly clear part of the reason you looked forlorn was her brother, and what she could offer you was the thing she had learned.

To not let that decide for you, what Sarah thought, was to write your own equation, something that had always felt theoretical. You’d spent your entire life letting things that weren’t about you decide for you anyway. The boy who asked and the mother who approved. The future that was already being planned in someone else’s calendar before you’d thought to check your own. To decide for yourself felt like something that happened to the girls in other zip codes who knew how to want things that hadn’t been cherry-picked for them before they could even get to the first stage of their formative lives. 

Ruthie had said two years. Sarah had an inkling of whatever Rafe felt. You stood with both of those and tried to put them somewhere that wasn’t a small pressurized container behind your sternum that was getting closer and closer to its structural limit.

You’d only ever noticed The Cut from the passenger seat of other people’s cars. There was a point on the bridge road where the infrastructure of Figure Eight simply gave up; the median plantings, decorative lampposts, and small reflective markers all stopped being maintained at once, for the island had drawn a line and decided one side of it was worth the county's money. You’d been driven past the line before, but you’d never driven past that line yourself. There was a difference, you realized, eyes on the blue dot of yourself crawling along a road that the map had rendered in the same grey as every other road and that the windshield rendered in a dark you had to lean forward slightly to see into.

The houses got closer to the road. They got closer to each other. The lots started being yards, and the yards had things in them. A swing set, a boat on a trailer with a tarp, a basketball hoop with no net, a dog that you heard instead of saw. The map said you were four minutes away and then it said two and then it said that you had arrived, in the bright assured way the map said things, and you slowed the car and looked at a house that did not look like a house someone arrived at.

It was a one story house with a porch that ran the front of it with a roof that sagged a little at the center. There were people on the porch; you could see the small orange coals of cigarettes moving—two of them, maybe three—and you could hear the low shape of music coming from inside, and under the music a sound that was people. Enough people that the house had a hum to it. 

You saw Rafe’s truck in the driveway, the same way you’d grown used to noticing it at parties. And seeing it there did something to your chest. It was just there, and that meant Sarah had been right and he was inside this house, and you were going to have to get out of your car and walk past the orange coals on the porch to find him. If you even wanted to, you still weren’t sure if you did. 

You stepped out of the car, and the orange coals on the porch turned toward you as you came up the small cracked path. You forced yourself to keep your eyes on the door; you had spent your whole life being looked at people in a way you had learned to absorb without acknowledging. This time, though, the people doing the looking did not know you and had no reason to be kind, and one of them—a girl, you registered in cutoff shorts with her legs crossed at the ankle—said something to the person beside her, low, and laughed. You felt the temperature of it land on your skin and you kept walking. 

The board at the top of the porch gave a little under you. You knocked on the screen door because your hand was already up, and even though the door was already somewhat open. 

The shape that came to the door was far from Rafe and was not, you understood immediately, anyone you were going to have to be afraid of. He looked just a year or two older than you and he had a beer in one hand and an expression on his face that was almost amused. 

He looked at you through the screen door for a moment before he pushed the door open; it caught on a brick and he nudged it aside with his foot. He looked at you properly, in the dark porch, with the yellow light of the house behind him so that he was mostly a silhouette with a beer. 

He looked over your shoulder, and you assumed his gaze had snagged on your car. 

“I’m—” Your voice came out exactly as wrong as you assumed it would, low and folded-up and almost strange. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I’m looking for Rafe.”

A slow grin started up one side of his face. “Are you, now?”

You assumed this was Barry. “Mhm.”

His grin had gotten worse, or better, depending. “Sweetheart, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for somebody to come here looking for Rafe.” You pushed down the urge to roll your eyes. “C’mon, then. And don’t be alarmed. I think he’s on somewhat of the most annoying fucking bender of his life.”

He turned and went in without waiting to see if you’d follow, and you stood on the step for a second with the music coming out at you, and then you went in, because the alternative was driving home, and you surprised yourself with how much you preferred this to the latter. 

Inside it was yellow and lower-ceilinged than any house you’d spent time in, and you could smell cigarettes, weed, and something cooked or recently cooked. There was a couch with a sheet over it. There was a TV on with the sound off, throwing its light at nobody. There were people—fewer than the hum had suggested from the porch, five or six of them, scattered, a guy and a girl folded into an armchair together, two more at a small table doing something with a deck of cards, somebody you couldn't see in the kitchen running water—and they looked up at you when you came in, and then most of them looked away again, because you were not, in the end, very interesting to them. You were just a girl, and they did not know whose girl.

Barry cut through the front room and you followed half a step behind him, closer than you would normally walk behind a stranger, because he was the only thing in the house you had a relationship with and the relationship was ninety seconds old and you were holding onto it anyway.

“He’s been real unpleasant,” he went on, pleasantly, ducking under a hanging plant that had died some time ago. “You know he told me I talk too much today? Three days on my couch, eating my food, and he’s shitting on the host.” He glanced back at you, and there was the grin, but there was something thinner under it now, something more careful. “Don’t know how you deal with him.”

Did Barry even know the extent of your situation with Rafe? You couldn’t tell. You’d spent three months being the most carefully hidden thing on Figure Eight, and now a stranger was strolling you toward him like it was a thing everyone had known. 

“You could’ve done a lot better than that guy. You knock on a door looking like that, you’ve got options.” The grin came up one side of his face, easy, not really meaning anything by it. “Door’s always open for—”

“You do talk a lot,” you said, raising a brow. 

Barry waved both his hands to the side, like he was waving off your words. “I guess you two deserve each other after all.” 

He didn’t know half of it. He pushed the screen door open and the night came in all at once; the cicadas were loud, a wall of them, and there was a green wet smell of whatever grew behind the house, and a heat that was somehow softer out here than the heat had been on the front porch.

“Out here,” Barry said, and stood aside, holding the door for you.

It had been a porch once and still mostly was—a back porch that someone had half-screened and never finished, the mesh sagging out of the frame on one side, the dark pressing soft against it. There was a string of cheap lights along the top that did the work of one weak bulb. There was an old couch that had been left out here long enough to belong to the nature now. 

There were a few people: a girl sitting up on the porch rail with her feet on the cushion of a chair, a guy beside her rolling something with great concentration, another guy lower down on the steps with a beer hanging off his fingers, all of them turning to look at you the loose unbothered way the front room had looked at you, registering you, deciding you weren't theirs to think about, turning back.

And on the couch, sitting up loosely, was Rafe.

You’d spent the last three months unconsciously learning him, the build of his shoulders, the way his hands sat when his phone or a cigarette wasn’t in them, the constant vigilance he carried even asleep, even in his bed, that made it deeply obvious Rafe was always waiting for something. 

He was in a grey t-shirt that didn’t look like something that belonged to him; it was too big on the shoulders, like it was handed to him from a pile in the corner. He hadn’t shaved, and you could see three days—maybe four—coming in uneven along his jaw. His hair looked like he’d been sweating into it and pushing it back with his hands and not once looking in a mirror to see what any of that had done.

The bruise was on the right side of his face, along the cheekbone, where Topper’s fist had landed on the lawn. It had had days to come into itself, and it had used them, purpling at the center and going a sick green-yellow at its edges, the color of an injury that nobody had iced and nobody had asked about. 

A part of you—a part larger than you’d ever intended—felt a short ache in your chest at the thought of him letting the bruise bloom without ever doing something about it. 

There had been a version of these four days where Rafe went home, where someone iced his face, where the shirt got changed by somebody who loved him. Rafe wasn’t handed that version, or maybe he’d chosen to not choose it. 

He’d chosen Barry’s back porch and a stranger’s grey t-shirt and the bruise left to do whatever it wanted, because some part of Rafe Cameron had decided, after the lawn, that he was not a thing worth collecting. You were distantly aware of how you’d learned his frequencies or, at least, believed you had. 

You hardly felt Barry step out onto the porch beside you, and looked at Rafe on the couch, and then looked at you, and whatever he'd been carrying on his face the whole walk through the house, the grin and the tour and the ease of it, he set it down.

“Country Club,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue easily. “Look what the tide brought in.” 

Rafe looked up, and it took him a moment. His gaze came up off the boards between his feet, slow, snagged on Barry, and then moved the last small distance.

You watched his face move, and you attested that to the fact that three months had made you the only real scholar of it (the managed one, the one he wore at the country club and across Ward’s table; the other one, the one that only ever came out in his truck with the engine ticking down, in the dark, at the bad hours). Tonight, he’d run out of whatever he built the first one from. You watched his face settle in pieces, because even truth and reality was slow for him, it seemed. You watched him see you, then land it was you. And for a second, his whole face went open, and a moth-shadow swung across it, and he looked, for that second, like a person who had never once in his life braced for a door.

“What—” His voice came out scraped down to nothing, the same place yours had been living in the past five days. He came forward on the couch, elbows to knees. “What are you—you shouldn’t be—”

The cushion he’d been sitting on stayed dented in the shape of him. Somebody’s bottle was sweating a ring onto the arm of the couch by his hand. You pressed your lips together as his sentence hung loose, unfinished, in the cicada noise. The look on his face found the old place in you anyway, suddenly feeling too exposed and too wanting, and your shoulders came in, the hoodie taking you. 

You took half-a-step back, body moving before your mind could register it’d been alarmed, and your sandal found the lip of the screen-door track.

A flinch pulled inward on his face as his mouth opened into the shape of a sentence, perhaps a full one. You’d seen him in light worse than this. And once again, the two things reached you nearly together; that maybe he doesn’t want you here, that you’d made a huge mistake even thinking this was the right idea—Rafe didn’t want you here, no. This wasn’t how the two of you worked, and it was never going to be. And then, hard on its heels, you thought that maybe he did want you here. 

He pushed himself up, the time on the couch had clearly unlearned the movement out of him. He got a hand on the arm of it, knocking the sweating bottle which left it spinning slowly, and came up wrong. All of his height delivered upright at once, and none of it was organized. 

He crossed the porch to you two steps too fast, which you thought was faster than the rest of him could carry.

His face scrunched up slightly, hands hovering up by his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them as he gave you a once-over, shaking his head. “You good?” he asked, voice rough. 

You tugged your lip between your teeth and raised a palm to cover the lower half of your face, shaking your head. “Sorry—I don’t know why I’m here. I just—” Your shoulders came up to your ears in a shrug, body suddenly feeling too stiff all at once. “I haven’t seen you since—and.”

He was nodding before you could even finish your sentence like he was going to accept anything you were saying. Then, before you could process it, his arms got around you and your face went into his chest. An exhale left him, long and slow. His chin came down on top of your head and his arms tightened once, adjusting, as one hand spread flat between your shoulder blades and the other went to the back of your head, fingers finding your hair.

He tipped his head sideways so his mouth would be closer to your ear. “What are you doing here?” he asked again, except this time the words had been taken apart and put back together softly.

And it seemed so backwards—him asking you that, him, with his arms locked around you like you were the thing keeping him upright and not the other way around—that something almost like a laugh moved through your chest, small and disbelieving. 

“What are you—” Your voice didn’t make it through the whole sentence, voice coming out against his chest as the words came apart halfway. “You’re the one who—what are you doing?”

It went the way ice goes, in stages; the shoulders first, coming down out of where they’d been living, somewhere up near your ears; and then the spine; and then something lower and more structural than either, something that had been braced since the lawn, since the foyer, since the slap and the not-looking that came after it, and that you had not once set down because there had been no one in five days to set it down in front of.

The laugh came up, the small disbelieving one, and it got out of you, wet and surprised, the realest sound you'd made since the country club lawn, and it ran on a beat longer than the moment had handed it.

“I think I ruined my life,” you said in a whisper against him.

You felt him go still around your words. “Nah,” he said, the word low and scraped. His arms tightened, the last of the uncertainty gone out of them, something decided arriving where it had been. “That one’s on me. I did that to you.” 

You shook your head against his chest, a small motion, barely anything, but Rafe felt it. His arms registered it and held on through it as though he was aware you’d argue and had already decided he wasn’t going to let you.

“Stop,” he said quickly, as soon as he heard the shape of your mouth open against his chest. “Don’t do that.”

You started anyway, and he let you get half a breath to it before saying, “I’m serious.” His arms tightened. “This one’s mine. I did it.”

You were too tired to push it and he wasn’t going to budge and you knew that; you’d come across Rafe staying in one spot a hundred times, refusing to budge. So you let the lie stand, and you let him have it. You let him hold you in a way he never had before, most likely to ease his own misplaced guilt, the one Rafe likely didn’t know what to do with. 

It was Barry who broke it, in the end. “Three days,” he said from somewhere behind you, pitched for the whole porch. “Couldn’t get this kid off that couch, and now he’s doing fucking laps.”

“Shut up, Barry,” Rafe said into your hair quickly. 

Barry put both his hands in the air, a man thrilled to lose ground. “Mhm. Forget I noticed.” When you caught his eye over the top of the moment, he only raised a brow at you, like the two of you held the same piece of information now, and he was glad, on the whole, that you’d been let in on it.

Rafe pulled back enough to get his face out of your hair and look at you. His hands slid to your arms and stayed there, as though he was afraid you were going to lose balance. You watched him take you in up close; the hoodie, the hour of you, whatever five days had done to your face that you hadn't checked a mirror to confirm. Something moved through his expression that he didn't have the equipment, tonight, to hide.

“You want me to—” He cleared his throat, eyes dangerously trained on your face. “I can take you home?”

The word came out of him already flinching from itself. It was the thing he was supposed to offer, the decent thing, drive you home, and the whole of him stood behind the offer waiting for you to turn it down. You heard both halves of it. Three months had taught you to hear both halves of everything Rafe said.

His hand tightened on your arm when you didn’t respond. 

“Yeah. No.” His jaw worked, and you felt his hand move slightly down your arm, an attempt of soothing. “Let’s go to Tannyhill. I need a shower anyway.”

He'd found the one version of the offer that could hide inside an errand of his own. I need a shower. As if Tannyhill were a thing he had to go do anyway, for reasons that had nothing to do with you, and you would simply, incidentally, be there too. It was the affair's old grammar—plausible deniability, the offer smuggled inside something deniable—except he wasn't using it to hide something secret anymore. He was using it because it was the only way he knew how to ask.

“Yeah,” you said. “You do.” The words came out before you could stop them. 

Rafe laughed. It was small and there was only a single huff of it. Still, it made it all the way up the climb, and it was the first sound he'd made all night that wasn't scraped down to the wood.

“Okay,” he said. “Mean girl.”

Rafe gave Barry a small pat on the back, a meager acknowledgement, but one nonetheless. Over Rafe’s shoulder, Barry mouthed a small ‘thank you’ to you. 

The mean part inside you said that he had nothing to thank you for. All you’d done was cause this to happen. 

Rafe was already moving, one hand on the small of your back as if he couldn’t trust the floor, and you let him steer, through the screened porch and back into the yellow of the house, past the card game that had resumed without you, past the girl in the armchair who didn't look up this time, through the front room and its sheet-draped couch and its TV still throwing light at no one. Barry trailed you as far as the front door. He held the screen with one arm and the brick scraped and the night came in.

“Drive safe, Country Club,” Barry said, a grin etching his face again. 

Rafe lifted his hand off your back long enough to knock it once on Barry’s shoulder on the way past and then the screen door clapped shut behind you and Barry's house went back to being a lit square in the dark, and it was just the yard, and the warm night, and the dog three houses down that had finally given the whole thing up.

His truck sat in the drive and he angled toward it on instinct, his weight already shifting that way, his hand leaving your back to go digging for keys.

You raised your hand and it hovered above his own searching ones. “I should drive.”

He looked at you and opened his mouth to argue it, the old reflex that had driven you home from so many dark places with one wrist hung over the wheel, and you watched it fail to find any fuel. He looked at his truck. He looked at you, at whatever your face was doing, at whatever he already knew about the state of himself. 

He grumbled something under his breath you didn’t catch, then said, “Probably.”

The locks thunked and the dome light came on when you opened the door, lighting up your sunglasses in the cupholder. There was a receipt curled on the passenger seat and a hair tie looped around the gearshift. You swept the receipt off the seat. Rafe folded himself down into the space where it had been.

You got in and pulled your door shut. The dark closed over the two of you, and the noise of Barry's house went behind glass, and for a moment you just sat there—keys in your hand, engine off—in the first private, enclosed, unwatched quiet you'd been given since the lawn.

You heard Rafe blow out a breath as though he’d been holding it in for his entire life. He threw his head back against the seat and turned his neck to face you, eyes hardly open. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” you said, raising your brows slightly. “So do you.”

He huffed and let his eyes drift all the way shut against the seat. “Yeah, I know.”

For a while, neither of you said anything. You'd carried the question across the whole island. You'd had it the whole five days, really, curled up small under everything else, and you hadn't let yourself take it out, because taking it out made the answer real.

Your hands tightened on the wheel.

“Rafe?” Your voice came out wrong, low and narrow. You kept your eyes ahead, on the chain-link in the windshield, because you couldn't ask it and watch his face at once. “On the lawn, when Topper said—all that.”

You felt him shift slightly against his seat beside you.

“Did you believe him?” The words came out smaller than you’d built them, as if you hadn’t been agonizing over the answer over the past five days.

The silence went a beat too long, and you turned your head, because you had to know what his face was doing in it. For a second you read the furrow of his brows as a yes, as though he was trying to say it in the most gentle way possible. 

“You think I believed him?” He raised one brow, albeit lazily at you. “That’d be pathetic if I got punched in front of everyone over the kind of girl he said you are.”

“Don’t.” You were already shaking your head.

“I’m serious.” His head had come off the seat. “That’d make me the dumbest guy on that fucking lawn. Worse than him.” He let the words sit for a second, worse than the guy who’d been cheated on. The math was unsurprisingly ugly and entirely Rafe. “And I’m not. I’m a lot of shit but I’m not that.”

You nodded, even though you didn’t have it in yourself to believe him. 

As if he could sense that, he said, “Don’t even think about that. Not worth the time.”

“Okay,” you said.

Rafe let his head go back against the seat and closed his eyes again. 

“Drive,” he said quietly. “I really do need that shower.”

The bathroom light was too white and overhead, and under it, Rafe looked worse than he had on the porch and the car. The porch had given him the dark to hide in. The car had given him the seat that he could let swallow him. The bathroom gave him nothing, and so you got the whole of him at once, the bruise, the four days of no shaving on his jaw, and the way he was standing like he didn’t have that left in him. 

“C’mere,” you said. “Arms.”

He lifted them, most of the way at least. You got the hem of the borrowed grey shirt and worked it up, and he tried to help and that was the thing that caused the problem, for his elbow caught the collar dragged over the bruise and he hissed, a short ugly sound through his teeth. You said to stop, and to just let you. He stopped and he let you. 

You could see what four days had done. The bruise had had time to come fully into itself and it had used the time, gone the deep wrong colors at the center, and his jaw was rough and his hair was a thing he'd been sweating into and shoving back.

“Sink,” you said, because your voice was the only thing holding and you needed it to keep doing that.

You steered him the half step back against it so he had something to lean on. He put his hands on the edge of it on either side of his hips and let his head hang, and you crouched to get at the laces of his shoes because he was plainly not going to, and he watched you do it from up there with his eyes barely open.

“You don’t have to—” he started.

“I know that.” And you’d continue doing it, because you hadn’t done much of anything these past few days for the first time in your life. Taking care of Rafe, for some twisted reason, felt right. 

You took off the first shoe, then the second. You pulled off his socks and set them on the top, and the whole time you were aware of the strangeness of it. In three months, you’d taken off Rafe’s clothes more than you’d let yourself count, but it’d never once been this. It was never careful. He was just a person who couldn’t, and you were just a person who could; the gap between those two things was the whole reason you were both in this room.

You reached up for the button of his jeans and his hands came off the sink, unsteadying his balance slightly. They got in the way of your hands and accomplished nothing, just two sets of fingers and no progress, and he groaned like he was embarrassed. 

“Rafe.”

His hands stopped, and he sighed. “‘M sorry,” he said, voice a whisper, low enough that it almost didn’t reach you. 

You did the button. You did the zip. You worked the denim down and he managed the small cooperation it needed—one foot, then the other, a hand landing hard on your shoulder for balance and staying there after the balancing was done. You let his hand stay for a moment. 

He had nothing left to be done with him, so you stood up, knees cracking, and for a second, the two of you just stood there. Him with no armor left, literal or otherwise. You still in the hoodie. Both of you too tired to pretend this was anything other than what it was, which was the most undefended either of you had ever been in a lit room together.

His hand came off your shoulder, got a fistful of your hoodie, and pulled, as though he wanted to make sure you stayed in the bathroom. There was nowhere to go and nowhere else you wanted to be, and you ended up close enough that you had to tip your head to keep his face in view.

His fingers messed around with the zipper of the hoodie, trying to pull it down. It got stuck less than a quarter way down, and you brought your hands up to stop him. You guided his hand down in the right direction, because you wanted his hand to stay close to you. You undressed the rest of the way the same, which was quickly. You’d been undressed in front of Rafe more times than was wise to tally, and it had always been charged. This was just two bodies and a bad light and a long night, and you stepped out of the last of your clothes and felt, instead of exposed, something closer to unburdened, like the clothes had been one more thing you were tired of holding up.

You got the water going; it ran cold for maybe half a second before it started warming up. You put your hand under it until it was right. You guided him in the same way you’d done for the sink with a hand on his arm. Rafe went where you put him with the awful pliancy of a person who had run all the way out of his own opinions.

Under the water he looked, somehow, even more like himself and even less. The bruise went darker, wet. His hair flattened. He stood there with his head down and his shoulders up and his hands not knowing what to do. 

You stepped in behind him, grabbing the small blue bottle of shampoo and squeezing it out in your hands, lathering it. You reached up to put your hands in his hair. 

You felt the whole length of him stiffening under your hands because gentle was the furthest thing Rafe’s body knew to receive without first checking it for a catch. You kept your fingers moving slow against his scalp and waited him out. You worked the water through. You were careful, so careful, around the right side, around the bruise, your touch going feather-light every time it neared the place Topper's fist had been, because you could not wash his hair without the lawn being right there under your fingers, without the whole reason for all of it sitting purple on his face four inches from your hands.

It went all out of him at once. His shoulders came down. His head tipped forward, into it, into your hands, the full weight of it surrendered, and he let you hold his head up the way you'd let him hold the rest of you up on the porch, and a breath went out of him that was too long and too uneven to be only a breath. The water took most of it. You let the water take it.

“I should’ve just ended it,” you said, letting the water wash off the shampoo. The words came out of you low, half-lost under the water, and you weren’t even sure where they’d been summoned from. “Should’ve just ended it properly instead of doing that to him.”

Rafe lifted his head out of your hands, enough to look at you, his hair dripping. “You think he would’ve let you?”

You opened your mouth to answer it and found that you couldn't, because the answer was no, or at least, he wouldn’t have let you do it easily. He’d have been kind about it, even. He would’ve been so reasonable and so wounded and so, so kind that ending it would’ve taken months, cost you hundreds of conversations, and you’d have lost all of them. 

“I guess,” you said, shrugging your shoulders slightly.

His hand slowly came up and pushed your wet hair out of your face. His thumb went along your temple once, getting a strand you hadn’t noticed was stuck there, and tucked it back. His hand came to rest at the side of your neck after, his palm flat and warm.

You stiffened, just slightly, as he leaned down to put his mouth to your forehead and held it there a second. You felt the breath go out of him against your hairline, and you understood that he had just done the plainest tender thing there was, because he had finally run all the way out of the other ways.

You closed your eyes under it, and then, because the question had been sitting in you, and he had worn down whatever that kept it tucked in, you asked, “Do you regret it?”

You felt him pull away just slightly, his breath still ghosting over your forehead. “Fuck kind of question is that?” It came out with no edge, almost tired.

“Rafe.”

He dragged a breath in and kept his head bowed against yours, as if the answer was easier to give without looking at you. “No,” he said to your hairline, between the small wet space between the two of you. “Alright? No. Do you?”

You owed it the truth and the truth had parts, and you had to find them one at a time. “I regret what I did to him,” you said, voice quiet. “Topper. My mom. His mom, too, I guess. All of—” Your hand made a small motion in the water, at everything, the whole detonated shape of it that was waiting past the bathroom door. “That’s not what you’re asking.”

Rafe shook his head. 

“Then—” Your throat closed up, like you were admitting you were, in fact, guilty. “No. Not the part you mean.”

Rafe lifted his head then and looked at you, at the water running off the both of you. “We really did fuck this up, though.”

You felt yourself let out a chuckle that was devoid of all humor and let your head drop against his chest. “I know.”

You felt his hands, slightly unsteady, reach up to the back of your head, putting a slight pressure as if he wanted you to get even closer to him, hide yourself in him. Involuntarily, you thought about Ruthie’s words, the timeline of them, and felt your body go still against him. 

“What?” he asked immediately, hands stilling at the back of your head.

“I just—I heard something,” you started, burying your head against his chest. He hummed, and you felt the vibration of it go through you. “How—well, how long? Have you—” 

He went quiet for a moment, then his hands resumed the same slow motion at the back of your head. “Long enough,” he said roughly.

“Rafe—”

“Been long enough that it doesn’t matter when exactly,” he said evenly, aimed at the top of your head. 

You lifted your head off his chest to look at him, water running down his face, the bruise, the jaw. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting right now.” His thumb moved at the back of your skull, once. His eyes held yours for a second, then he tipped his chin down, pressing his mouth to your forehead and leaving it there. “Does it really matter?” he asked against your forehead, and then added, “Took me long enough to get you here. Not gonna ruin it just yet.” 

You moved your head slightly to meet his eyes, and his eyes were darker and closer than you’d registered, the water still running down his face in slow lines. His jaw was set and he was looking at you as he shook his head. “Don’t make me say it yet.”

Your lips caught between your teeth and you nodded. “Okay.” 

His jaw loosened a degree and his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth, then your throat, then back up. 

His thumb pressed in at the back of your skull, and then his hand slid down your neck, your spine, the flat of his palm moving slow and certain over each vertebrae like he was counting them, learning you in the water, and you felt every single inch of it, the warmth of his hand against the cooling water. His other hand found your hip and his fingers curled slightly at the bone, thumb sitting in the small, soft hollow beside it that he’d found sometime in June and kept finding ever since. You pressed your forehead against his chest again.

You’d changed into the shirt he’d folded at the end of the bed, a soft worn one that had been washed enough times that the neckline had gone slightly loose, and you’d gotten under the covers on the side that had become yours sometime in July without any conversation. The pillow smelled like him, which you’d stopped being able to pretend you hadn’t noticed somewhere around the fifth time you’d stayed, and you lay on your back watching the dock light move on the ceiling as you listened to the sink water humming in the bathroom.

It ran for a long while, enough that you assumed he’d simply been standing there without actually doing anything. Then, you heard the drag of the cabinet, the third floorboard from the door, and then the bathroom light went out under the door.

He came out, crossing to his side and sitting down at the edge of the mattress. He placed his elbows on his knees as his head dropped forward, hands hanging between his legs doing nothing. The dock light came off the marsh in its slow pattern and moved across the muscles of his back.

“So fuckin’ tired,” he said to the floor. 

Your eyes snagged on the line of his shoulders as they came down, and you could practically feel the tension easing in him in your own body. He sat there for a moment, then turned his head to look at you over his shoulder. 

Your body pulled itself in slightly under his gaze and the covers came up half-an-inch. Rafe wetted his lips as he watched you do it, then he stood up off the edge of the mattress, and you tracked him across the room in your peripheral vision as he came around to your side. You tipped your chin up to follow him and found he was already close, already right there, looking down at you in the light with his hair still slightly damp at the ends and his jaw carrying its four days.

He reached and pulled the covers back a few inches you’d pulled them up, and he got a knee on the mattress and his hand found your jaw before he tilted it the last degree it needed. He closed the inch between you slowly, as though he was testing it all over again, and his thumb ran along your jaw while the weight of him settled on the mattress beside you and then over you. 

“Rafe,” you said against his mouth. 

He let out a short breath, fingers climbing up your jaw and behind your ears to gently tug on your hair. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” 

You brought your hand up to his face without thinking, your palm against his unshaven jaw and felt the rasp of it against your fingertips. The weight of his face leaned into your palm so easily that your eyes went slightly wet and you blinked it back because you weren’t going to it, not right now, not with his mouth this close.

“‘M here,” you murmured, your voice coming out smaller than intended.

“Mhm.” His thumb moved over the hinge of your jaw.

His fingers were still in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and you could feel each individual one of them against your scalp, the specific pressure of his hand cradling the back of your head like he'd decided it was something that needed cradling.

You turned your face up further into it. His other hand found the hem of the shirt and his palm slid underneath it, warm and slightly rough, and he spread his fingers wide against your hips. 

You brought your free hand to his chest and felt his heartbeat under your palm, fast, faster than his face was giving him credit for, and you pressed your fingers flat against it and felt him register the pressure, felt his breath shift against your mouth.

You moved your lips to his jaw. The corner of it, where the muscle jumped when he was holding something in, and you felt it jump now under your mouth and felt his fingers tighten in your hair. You followed the jaw down to his neck, mouth finding the warm skin below his ear, and he made a sound low in his throat that he swallowed before it finished, which was the thing, which was always the thing with Rafe, the sounds he almost made.

“Wait —” His hand stilled on your ribs, and his face moved to the side, then he let out a small, humorless chuckle. “Hold on.”

With his palm under your shirt, he pushed you back against the bed and slid off of you, the whole heat of his body leaving yours gradually. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at you sideways, then tilted his head to your phone laying on the bed. 

You glanced over to see Topper’s name, the same way it had been coming up on your phone for the past five days.

Rafe shook his head, the corners of his lips curving into something less relaxed, more annoyed. “Should’ve probably asked if you guys are actually over.” He lifted his shoulders in a stiff motion. “That’s my bad for assuming.” 

You swallowed, brows furrowing. “We’re over.”

He gestured vaguely to your phone. “Does he fuckin’ know that?” 

“I don’t think he’s planning on—” You shook your head, suddenly startled by Rafe’s tone. “Don’t think he’d want anything to do with me after I cheated on him.”

Rafe raised his brows and pressed his lips together. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured. 

“Okay,” you said, voice coming out slowly. “I’ll call him back later.”

“Call him now,” Rafe said. 

When the phone lit up again a minute later, Rafe reached over and held it out for you without looking at you, his eyes on the screen and jaw set. Your eyes flickered down to the phone, the patience of Rafe’s gesture, and you took it from him. You pressed the phone to your ear.

Rafe lay back against the headboard in one slow motion and his arm opened and you went into it, back finding his chest, and his arm came over you, settling across your front. His chin found the top of your head. 

“Hey,” you said into the phone.

There was a pause on the other end, and you heard Topper inhale a sharp breath. “Hey,” he said carefully. “Wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”

“I know.” You forced a swallow. “I’m sorry it took me—”

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t okay, you both knew it, and he’d said it anyway because it was him. You pressed your lips together as he continued, “I’m—I’m not happy about the lawn. But you—” He let out a breath, and it sounded something forcing it to be a laugh. “It really fucking sucked that it was true, okay?” 

“I’m sorry,” you said, pinching your eyes shut. “I’m really sorry—I know it doesn’t change anything, but.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “Did it have to be him?” 

You opened your eyes and looked at the ceiling and felt Rafe’s heartbeat under your shoulder blade, and you thought about how to answer it honestly without being cruel. You turned your neck slightly to look at the guy in question, and he was already looking down at you, jaw set. He tipped his chin up in question, and you shook your head against him.

“I didn’t do it right,” you settled on saying, turning your face away from him. “I should’ve done it differently.”

“Like by breaking up with me before you fucked my best friend?” 

“Yes,” you said, forcing down the sharpness in your chest and answering plainly, because he’d asked so plainly. “Yes. That’s exactly what I should’ve done.” Then, you added, “I’m sorry.”

Topper exhaled. “Stop apologizing,” he muttered. “It doesn’t change it—fuck.” 

Your mouth opened to do exactly that on instinct, then you closed it. The line went, just like that without a goodbye or final word. You held the phone up against your ear for a second longer, just to be sure, then you lowered it. You lay there in the after of it and felt what had just happened settle over you, the specific weight of a thing that was done now, finally, actually done, the door closed from the other side and not by you which was its own thing to sit with. You’d wanted to be the one to do it properly and instead he'd been the one to end the call and somehow that was the most Topper thing that had ever happened. Giving you the last word and then not waiting for it. It was the least of what you deserved from him.

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[bloomcissa]

you’re having his baby?

꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ drunk!jason todd x fem!reader, fluff, talks of pregnancies, art by ciricearts

“Sweetheart, we’re gonna have a baby?” he mumbles, lifting your shirt to press messy kisses up your stomach. You’re not sure where he got this idea from. The two of you have never talked about kids, mostly because you’ve been afraid to bring it up.

You learned early on that the future was something you didn’t mention around him. Every time you made an offhand comment about a ring, or how cute babies were, you’d see his shoulders tense, his throat bobbing.

Now, at his words, your heart speeds up. “Uh…”

“I hope she has your eyes and your nose and your pretty smile,” he slurs.

“Jay, what are you—”

He cuts you off when his nose brushes your stomach softly. “Our baby,” he adds. 

When he looks up at you, his blue eyes are glassy, cheeks dusted in pink.

You can’t bring yourself to shatter the moment. Especially not when he’s looking at you like that.

“That’s…nice, honey,” you hum, fingers threading through his black curls, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

He sighs like a puppy. “You feel nicer.”

Your lips curve up at that. "Come on, let's get you to bed," you whisper as you try to pull him up.

But the man's too stubborn. He stays rooted and grunts in disapproval. 

"Not done talkin' to her," he tells you, arms wrapping around your hips.

“her?” you repeat softly. “How do you know it’s a her?”

"Father's intuition," he says it like it should be obvious. 

You laugh and he pouts when he feels your shoulders shaking. "You really want a baby?" you ask him. 

He tilts his head. And he's never looked so unguarded before. 

"Wanna give you everything." 

Maybe in the morning you'll find the courage to ask him again. But for now, your expression softens. You don't know what to say, so you kneel with him and throw your arms around his neck. He smells like gunpowder and leather, and this time a tang of alcohol clings to him. 

he’s always smelled like home.

"Princess?" he whispers.

"Yeah?

"what're we naming her?" 

Instead of replying, you just hug him tighter.

masterlist

[in2imacy]

jason's upset.

he knows it's petty. yet, that does nothing to abate the furrow of his brows and the pout on his lips.

your mii is refusing to date his mii. the stubby big-headed character he poured way too much effort into making it look like you using the face paint and tinkering with the facial placement— though it is but a pittance compared to the real deal. not to mention the fact that he had to make you based off memory since he had been too shy to confess that he made both of you as miis on his island and wanted a reference.

the only two residents on his island, in fact.

and he's still getting rejected.

if he was lucky you'd let him talk to you whilst sitting together on the fountain. only for his mii to vaguely ask to hang out and make things awkward.

he had even made place holder miis, before unceremoniously removing them, until he got the island expansions! the restaurant. photo booth. pawn shop. hell, even the ferris wheel! yet, no juice could be made from the fruit of his labor.

your mii had been adamant in constantly rejecting his advances, even having the gall to fall in love with one of the placeholder miis.

and after every rejection, his own mii kept falling back in love after a trip to europe to subside his despair. after the first few times the love bubble inevitably popped up, jason had told his mii-self that it was too soon to ask your mii out only for that equally big-headed bunch of pixels refuse his advice and ask you out anyway. rinse and repeat.

perhaps it was a cruel joke on him for even trying. was it because your mii wasn't accurate enough? jason swears to himself that he'll keep a small photo of you in his wallet from this day forth.

perhaps it was poetic. that, no matter what happens to him, he'll always come to love you.

[railingsofsorrow]

one number away

[Dean Di Laurentis x reader]

[requested]

summary: You and Dean figured that breaking up was the best decision for the both of you. But he is always one number away and you're still his favorite contact. or… in which there are 3 times you need each other and 1 time you stop running from it.

pairing: dean di laurentis x reader

w.c: 3.6K

warnings/content: exes; lots of feelings; fluff fluff; angst with a happy ending (sort of); canon divergence.

A/N: I really liked the song and it gave me huge angst vibes. this is a 3+1 one shot. I barely write in his format cause I never gave it a chance, but now I decided to give my writing a challenge. I liked it a lot. it's kind of little short drabbles but that still connect. aaaaand yes I changed my moodboard style again cause apparently I can't follow a pattern. gifs offer so much more to imagination, am I right?

⤹

[ 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 . . . 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝐛𝐲 𝐥𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐬 ]

⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻

navi

masterlists

off campus masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⛸ ━━━━━━━━━━━

I. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑪𝒂𝒓 𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒔 𝑫𝒐𝒘𝒏

The Cranberries’s Linger was playing softly through the radio as you drove back from visiting your parents. It was a three-hour drive, maybe two if there was no heavy traffic.

It became five though, because your car stopped and it didn't turn on anymore. It would have been a perfect weekend if your car hadn't broken down on the road.

“C'mon.” You kicked the tire after raising up your phone to get reception. There weren't even that many trees around. “Fucking hell.”

You stared at the phone screen, the little No Service icon mocking you. Of course because when things started going wrong, everything went wrong.

As soon as you got one bat of reception, you placed your phone to your ear. You only realized the number you dialed when he picked up.

“Hello?”

You stared blankly at the ground. What the fuck had you just done?

“Dean?”

A sigh on his end. “Did you butt dial me?”

“No.” You rolled your eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat. “You're my only chance. I only got one bar of reception and my battery is dying out—”

“What? Where are you? Is everything okay?”

“I'm fine.” You cut in to not lose your short time with your working phone. “My car broke down on the middle of fucking god knows. I… I wouldn't ask it if I didn't need it.” Pride was a hurtful thing that twisted at your chest and it clawed at your insides. Pride wasn't the only feeling. “But I need—”

“Send me your location.”

“Uh, okay but if you're busy—”

“I'm not.” You could hear a car door closing. “... inside your car?”

You sent the location to him and put your phone back to your ear again, having heard only partially of what he was saying.

“Hi, what? I didn't hear.”

“Are you inside your car? Is there anything else close by, like a.... a establishment?”

Your brows furrowed as you looked around, your gaze finding that old diner so you told him that.

“Is it open? Are there people in there?”

You squinted through the windshield, seeing the warm, yellow glow spilling out from the windows and the silhouette of a truck parked out front. “Yeah, a few people.”

“Alright,” he said, the sound of his turn signal clicking on through the phone. “Listen, go in there. Take your bag, make sure your car is locked and take your keys with you. Grab a booth or something, order a coffee, I don't know. I'll be there in about fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“Or… I can just wait inside the car.”

“It's getting dark.” Dean said in a deadpan tone that made you roll your eyes. “Can you just not stay in the middle of the road for my peace of mind?”

You should've said no. Why would you should give peace of mind to your ex? But since you didn't want him to give up from saving you…

“Fine, I'll go in.” You said between balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder while you got your purse from the backseat.

The waitress, Marge, was kind and funny. When the rest of the customers left, she started talking to you and asking about the car trouble she saw you facing on the other side of the street. Both of you held a long conversation until the diner door jingled. You let go of the straw you were sipping your strawberry milkshake with to look at the newcomer.

Blonde. Red jumper. Slightly wet hair. Extremely hot.

And your ex. You had to remember that.

He slid next to you, offering one of his charming smiles to Marge, who smiled politely and asked if he wanted to order something. He said he wanted a latte. God, he's such a sweet tooth. “Your favorite?” He pointed to your milkshake.

You pulled it closer to you, glaring at him. “It's mine.”

“I just asked a question!”

“You always steal it.” You mumbled with the straw in your mouth.

“Yeah cause that's my favorite.” Dean pushed his hair back when a few wet strands had fallen on his forehead. “You never order strawberry.”

You snort, pulling the half finished cup away “What? Yes, I do. Why wouldn't I if it's my-”

“It's not your favorite.” Dean pulled the glass toward him, watching your reaction as he slowly put the straw in his mouth.

“It is though. You're just gaslighting me.” You ignore that he has taken your strawberry milkshake. Every time you ordered, you never finished it because you thought it was too sweet. And it was his favorite. Maybe, unconsciously, that was why you ordered the strawberry one every time. Our brains do have trouble with letting go of old habits, they seem to seek the ghost of what it was.

Marge came back and placed Dean's latte in front of him.

“You're a cute couple.” She said, casting a knowing glance at you while she cleaned a stain on the counter with a dishtowel.

“Oh, no, we're not—”

“Thank you.” Dean cut you off, didn't even bother to correct her or anything. After finishing your milkshake, he grabbed his latte and took a sip.

Your jaw snapped shut and your body, as usual, betrayed you in the worst way possible. You felt it as your cheek heated up.

Setting the empty milkshake glass down with a soft click, he shifted his focus to his own drink. "By the way," he started, blue eyes meeting yours "I called a tow company on the way here. They’re about forty minutes out. Since my car is already blocking yours and there’s no point in us standing out in that downpour….” he sipped his latte. “we’re going to be here for a bit.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Forty minutes?”

"Probably closer to an hour with this weather," he added, lifting his latte. He didn't look at you as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from the cup. “You hungry?”

You pondered the question, turning to check your car outside and the pouring rain, which was coming down in sheets now, turning the world outside the window into a blurred, gray painting.

“I guess I can eat while we wait.”

“Mhm, do you want the pancakes?”

When you looked back at him was already checking out the menu. You could hear Marge leave the room with a little laugh.

“I remember you loved those when we came here last year.” He added, looking up at you when you didn't answer his question.

You remember a lot about me. Guess two years dating would do that to two people.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

II. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑯𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 

The bass from the house party was so heavy it made the windows vibrate, a dull thud thud thud that followed Dean out onto the porch. The cool night air hit him as soon as he arrived outside, his sneakers crunching on the dead leaves, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the muffled, sounds of the party inside. 

He just let out a long, shuddering breath when you picked up. In his defense, he expected to be ignored. 

"We won," his voice was raspy and he sounded tired but relieved. "Double overtime. I swear to god, I thought my lungs were going to give out, but we pulled it off.”

Dean paused, tilting his head back to look up at the dark, empty sky, his thumb nervously rubbing the edge of his phone screen. "I know I shouldn't be calling. I told myself I wouldn't. But you were the first person I thought of." He let out a short, hollow laugh that quite reached his eyes. "The only person, really.”

You could hear him shift on the other end, the faint sound of the wind rustling past his microphone, and for a second, you imagined him standing there in the dark, looking just as lost as you felt.

"I heard," you said, your voice small. Guilt creeping in because you should've been there to see him win but at the same time you did the right thing by not going. "Everyone's talking about how great you guys were... congratulations, Dean."

On his end, the line went deathly quiet. You could almost feel the weight of his exhale, a long, shaky sound that carried the exhaustion of the game and the cure phone call.

“Thanks,” he finally whispered. “Why didn't you come?”

No, don't ask me that. You inhaled deeply before answering. A bad excuse you had come up with. 

"I was studying. My finals are coming up." You still had a whole month for your finals, actually. 

"It's just one night." Dean insisted. "You wouldn't fail your finals because you watched one game—"

"Dean, seriously?” you snapped. "Don't do that. Don't act like it's just a game, and don't act like you don't know exactly why I wasn't there.”

"I know why." His voice had dropped its softness. Now, it was guarded and clipped. "I just thought, after all this time, maybe we were past the point of avoiding each other.”

The silence that followed was different now. It was definitive. Reality setting in for what it truly was. Two people realizing that if they didn't pull the plug, they were going to fall right back into the same old habits that didn't belong to them anymore.

"Dean, we're not doing this. We're not avoiding each other. We're not doing this because we’re done. Remember?”

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head because he just realized how stupid he was for dialing your number. "I remember. I don't know why I called. It was a mistake."

"It was," you agreed, though the words felt like they were scraping your throat raw.

“I'm gonna go back to the guys.” You could hear him shift, the crunch of gravel under his sneakers as he turned back toward the warmth and noise of the house. “Have a good studying section for your finals.” 

“And you have a good party.” 

“Oh, I will.” 

The first thing he did when he entered the noisy house was to go upstairs, throw his phone on his bed and close the door. Better not have any chances when he's drunk to the point of calling his ex. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

III. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝑩𝒂𝒅 𝑫𝒂𝒚

“Why do you keep answering my calls?”

You were sitting on the cold floor of your dorm room, knees pulled up to your chest, wearing an oversized shirt that swallowed your frame. Your hair was held together by a fraying elastic. 

“Seriously, Dean, why haven't you blocked my number?” 

His line went silent for a long second and you thought he had hung up on you. But he speaks. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” His tone is amused and you hate him even more for that. 

“It would make it easier. It wouldn't even ring.” You said, picking at the fabric of your shorts. 

“You can also just not call.”

“You're the only one who gets me when I'm like this.” You admit, voice cracking up as much as you force yourself to sound strong. 

“Bad day?” 

“I really bad one.” 

“Wanna tell me about it?” 

In a perfect world, you would say no and hang up. It was the right thing to do. But this wasn't a perfect world and you were far from perfect. 

You spent an hour on the phone with your ex boyfriend, crying and sobbing and just letting out every fucking shit that had crashed on you during the week. Dean listened because that's what he does best. 

“I feel like an idiot,” you admitted after you vented, the shame of the last hour finally settling in.

“Don't,” he cut in, his tone firm. “You’re a lot of things, but an idiot isn't one of them. You’re just exhausted.”

Your back complained as you stood up, having spent more than two hours in the same position. 

He let out a short, quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh when he heard your groan. “You’re getting off the floor now, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, slowly uncurling your legs and standing up. Your joints ached, and your head felt like it had been put through a grinder, but the suffocating panic had ended.

“Feeling a little better?” 

“Yes.” The twitch in your lips that resembled a smile was only there because of him. Dean was still the only person who could pull that reaction out of you on bad days. “Thank you.” 

“You're welcome.” He mumbled and you heard what sounded like him yawning. 

“Go to sleep. Thanks for picking up.” 

“I'm never ignoring your call.” He repeated, voice even lower now, muffled by the pillow he was likely pressing his face into.

You closed your eyes, the quiet of the dorm room feeling safer now. When you did that it almost felt as if you were beside him. 

“Goodnight, Dean.” 

“Goodnight, b—” He stopped himself right before the crime was done. Goodnight, baby may just have been the nail in the coffin. “Goodnight, sleep well, okay?”

“You too.” 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

IV. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑯𝒆'𝒔 𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒅 

Behind him, the noise of his teammates was a constant, distracting hum. Logan was complaining about one of the new guys on the team, while Tucker and Garrett were arguing about where to head next. But Dean barely heard them. His focus was entirely on his phone. 

He pulled it out of his duffel bag, his thumb finding your contact with a muscle-memory familiarity that he hadn't been able to break.

He didn't have to hesitate on calling you anymore because you had reached a common ground. No need to avoid each other like the plague, you could now be friends. Who said you couldn't be friends with your ex clearly hadn't met the two of you. Two mature people who definitely could be around each other without bringing up the past. 

A few steps back, Tucker nudged Garrett, his eyes darting toward Dean’s profile. 

That small, secret smirk had taken root at the corner of his mouth before the phone even reached his ear.

“There it is,” Tucker murmured, his voice laced with a knowing, tired sigh like a dad with a difficult child. “The look.”

Garrett and Logan followed his gaze, watching Dean intentionally fasten his pace, letting the gap between him and the rest of the group widen. 

“Always the same,” Logan muttered, shaking his head, though there was no teasing to it but a hidden concern for a friend who wouldn't let go of his ex-girlfriend. “He’s calling her. Again.”

“Bro, we're headed off!” Garrett yelled so Dean could hear since he had walked a significant distance away from them. 

“I'll meet you later!” Dean yelled back and his attention went right back to his phone when you picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey,” he said the moment you picked up. “I'm off the ice.”

“Oh? And how was practice?” You sounded careful not to raise your voice and he wondered if you were in the library. 

“Good. Yeah. Are you at the library?” He reached the building where he suspected you were in. 

“Mhm. And Miss Stewart is glaring at me.”

Dean let out a low, rough chuckle that vibrated through the speaker. “Sounds like she’s just jealous you’ve got something better to do than organize dusty archives.” 

“Don't do her dirty like that.” 

“Sorry,” he said, though he wasn't sorry at all. “Are you sitting at that corner spot?”

“How'd you know?”

“I don't know. I guess I know you a little too well?” His smirk grew into his dimpled grin as you looked up and caught him walking toward your table at the farm corner of the library. Miss Stewart staring daggers at his back. 

You froze, your fingers hovering over your keyboard. “What are you… God. you can't live without me, can you?” You teased him, quickly recovering from your heart's doing a strange, stuttering skip.

When he reached your table, he didn't sit. He just leaned over, his hands braced on the wood, effectively blocking your view of the rest of the room and creating a small, private pocket of air that smelled faintly of ice and cedar. He lowered the phone, but he didn't hang up.

“Why should I when I have the choice of not to?” He clearly didn't want to provoke the librarian any longer since his tone lowered to slightly more private. “What you studying?” He pulled a chair to sit next to you, leaving his duffel bag on the floor.

“Nothing.” You offered him a tired smile, not letting slip how good he looked in that outfit. Dean knew how to dress, more than half of the population in Briar University was plenty aware of that. But it wasn't just the clothes, he walked with a confidence that inevitably made him more attractive. “Just finishing up answering emails for the students I'm tutoring.” 

“How many left?” 

You looked down at the laptop and press send on the last email, shutting it off. “I'm done.” 

Outside, the campus was bathed in the bruised purple and gold hues of early evening. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings. 

A few students blurred past on bicycles, others sat by a tree enjoying the end of the afternoon. No one was rushing to get to class — well, except for the ones who had evening lectures, of course — so the campus carried a calmer atmosphere. 

“That was awful, oh my god.” You made a face as Dean recalled Drunk Shakespeare from last week. “Garrett cannot dance for the life of it.” 

“Well the public was very happy with it, they didn't complain.” Dean pointed out. And it was true. 

“His dance was terrible but people have eyes, Dean.” 

He turned to you, an expression of disbelief. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

You laughed at how much he sounded offended. 

“He's hot. Y'all are. Now, moving on…”

“No, absolutely not.” Dean opened the door for you to get in first. “You think Garrett's hot? He's not even your type.”

“Who told you I have a type?”

“Baby.” 

The smirk that had been dancing on his lips vanished, replaced by a look of sharp realization. He hadn't meant to say it and that's what caught him off guard. 

You stood in line. A short one, three people. The two of you awkwardly looking anywhere else but each other. 

Baby.

It was a slip. A reflex.

He made sure to put a mental note on not calling you that because friends definitely don't call each other baby. Well, he did call Logan that sometimes but it didn't mean the same thing obviously. 

“I hear Summer is coming here this weekend?” You asked him, fingers tapping against your coffee cup. 

Dean sighed as if the thought itself of his little sister arriving at Hastings would be too much. “Yeah, I'll pick her up from the airport. My parents are cooking every favorite meal of hers.”

“Aw, she's the baby of the family. Let them do that.” 

“Favorite child, I guess.” Dean shrugged, lips tugging down in a pout. “They would never do that with me.”

“Oh, shut up.” You rolled your eyes, lifting your cup to your lips. “They totally would. Whenever they come to a game, they scream the loudest and smother you with kisses when they find you. It's cute.”

Redness crept up his neck, blooming dark and warm against the pale color of his shirt, quickly climbing to his cheeks. You covered your amusement with the rim of your cup.

“Wait, how'd you know Summer is coming?” 

You shrugged. “We still talk. She told me.” 

“You and my sister still talk.”

“Yes, Dean…” You drawled out. “Is that bad?” 

“Well, I don't know. Summer loves to talk shit about me.” Dean was still thinking about that information actually. 

You chuckled, head tilting to the side. “Mhm. We do that together now.” 

Dean let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that drew a few looks from the people heading into the coffee shop. He sat up straighter, his smirk deepening into a look of genuine, albeit mock, betrayal.

His smile turned softer. “Summer always liked you,” he said quietly. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact he’d known for years. He leaned back, his shoulders relaxing, gaze lifting to find yours again. “I don't know how or why ‘cause she never warms up to anyone that fast.”

“We bonded over Heated Rivalry.” 

He gave you a puzzled look. “Is that a dish?”

“Let's call it that.” You shook your head, chuckling. “I… um. I like what we're doing.”

He stayed silent for a long beat, his thumb unconsciously rubbing against the heel of his palm as he studied you like you were something worth losing time with. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“I like it too.” 

“I've missed you.” You don't look at him as you say it, deciding that staring at the rest of your coffee is best. 

“Hey.” He tugged at your wrist so you'd look at him. “I've missed you too. It's nice having you around again.” 

You offered him a mirror of his smile, a small, shy curve of your lips. You wondered then if that little bubbling in your chest meant healing. Maybe it could happen. Being friends with your ex. You and Dean were doing a good job at that, right?

[newobsessionweekly]

Three times is a pattern

Main masterlist | Off Campus masterlist

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Fandom: Off Campus

Summary: You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.

Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: not proofread yet, probably shitty because I haven't written anything in months, mentions of toxic/controlling relationships, stalking, anxiety, graphic violence, Protective!Dean in full force

A/N: I don't know how good it is because it's been a while since i've last written something and tbh I didn't finish the first season, only read the books 5 times. But I hope you like it and after my finals I will be back with more fics. You can totally spam my box with requests if you's like. But I won't be writing anything for like 3 whole weeks. I am so stressed I can't even exist. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love! What do we think of a part 2?

Words: 2.6k

Requested here!

The booth at Malone’s was designed to comfortably fit six people. Currently, it held four massive hockey players, Hannah, and you. Which meant you were practically sitting in Dean Di Laurentis’s lap.

Not that he was complaining.

"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."

"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"

Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."

You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.

When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.

Twice.

The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.

You’d drawn a hard line.

Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.

"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."

"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.

"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."

"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.

"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."

"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."

He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."

You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.

"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"

You frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."

The buzz from the vodka evaporated.

Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

He’s here.

You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.

Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.

"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."

The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.

You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.

Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.

You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.

You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.

"Move," you choked out.

Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"

"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.

A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.

The night was officially over.

The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.

Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.

"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.

Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.

You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.

Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.

Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"I’m an ass," Dean said.

His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.

"Dean—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."

You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.

"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."

His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."

"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."

Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"

"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."

Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"

You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."

Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.

"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."

You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."

The air in the kitchen completely changed.

The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.

Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.

"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"

You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."

"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."

Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.

You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.

"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."

He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.

"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."

The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.

A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"

A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."

It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.

You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.

The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.

One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.

He had actually enrolled at Briar.

Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"

You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.

Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.

Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.

"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.

The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.

But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.

That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.

Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.

Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."

Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.

Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."

Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.

The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.

The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.

Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.

"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"

Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.

"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.

Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.

Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.

His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.

"Come on," Dean murmured, his voice warm and perfectly calm, acting as if he hadn't just committed assault in front of a dozen witnesses. "Let's go get some lunch."

[whorelaud]

BONER ALERT – dean di laurentis ¡

pairing dean di laurentis x graham!reader

summary your brother's best friend gets a boner when you sit on his lap

contains boner alert... mature content, dry humping, coming in pants, sexual tension, forced proximity, public sex (kinda...), reader is a tease, wc 2k

a/n this is not supposed to be realistic... at all... just fun and horny yay!! 

Fitting eight people into one car isn't very ideal.

You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?

The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost. 

Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.  

Jesus Christ. 

You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable. 

Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together. 

As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air. 

He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos. 

"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space." 

An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett. 

"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever." 

"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car. 

Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention. 

The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes. 

"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit." 

A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are. 

"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze. 

"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"

"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard. 

"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap." 

You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap. 

Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling. 

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.

"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction. 

Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant. 

Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot. 

You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.

"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride." 

Fuck. 

Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position. 

Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes. 

You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe. 

This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world. 

After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame. 

This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever. 

You can get used to it. 

But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you. 

A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you. 

You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real. 

"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control. 

Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard. 

You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats. 

You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him. 

It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts. 

"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue. 

"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please." 

How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel. 

"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length. 

His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else. 

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach. 

"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response. 

This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control. 

Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling. 

You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock? 

Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch. 

Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.

His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little. 

"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone. 

Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone. 

Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good. 

"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."

"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come. 

His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone. 

He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process. 

"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby." 

You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught. 

That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had. 

The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session.  It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting. 

Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.

You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.

Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold. 

And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material. 

"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer. 

You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips. 

"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up." 

And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance. 

Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner. 

a/n lowk rushed towards the end but hey i wrote most of this at a gathering so it's something 😓 oh and i havent written in a while so i'm trying to get used to it again this is hard man my bad if this sucked i can't write smut to save my life 💔 also this was lowk lowkkkk inspired by that one scene from off limits it made me miss writing it sigh

[p1stach-io]

Hi I was wondering if you could do a dean x female!reader where the reader and dean are in a established relationship. And the reader has a heart condition and she has to check her INR due to blood thinners (thinning of the blood) and dean gets the notification of if it’s too high or low. And freaking out if the reader cuts her self or sees a bruise on her. And him coming with her to her doctor appointments. (I have this condition) I’ve seen fics on Garrett and Logan based on other conditions and I thought dean needed on too!

drive, di laurentis!

summary: when a bruise sparks his usual protective panic, dean proves his devotion by tag-teaming your cardiology check-up. (1.8k)

pairing: dean di laurentis x reader

content: reader has an established heart condition and takes blood thinners, so there are mentions of bruising, needles, fluff, mild anxiety, medical inaccuracies (maybe), established relationship, dean being an anxious but devoted bf.

authors note: this is definitely the most interesting request i’ve recieved in a hot minute. i did as much research as i could and i can only hope it’s even an ounce of what you were looking for!! i also don’t know why this is being put under mature content but hey what can you do!

dean knew he was being completely ridiculous.

he knew it, and yet, the second he spotted the faint, blooming shadow on the soft skin of your inner forearm, his entire body went rigid.

all the easy, easy warmth of a quiet tuesday afternoon evaporated in a single, ragged breath.

you didn't notice at first.

you were completely in your zone, hunched over your dining room table with your legs tucked up under you.

the space was a beautiful, chaotic map of your mind. you had two open anatomy textbooks, your laptop, a stack of heavily annotated flashcards, and a half-empty glass of apple juice in front of you.

you had a massive exam in forty-eight hours, and as far as you were concerned, the cardiovascular system on your screen was the only one that required your full attention today.

"what's that?" dean asked. his voice was entirely too grave for a sunny afternoon in your apartment.

you didn't look up from your laptop, your fingers flying across the keys as you finalized your study guide. "it's a diagram of the circle of willis. do you know how hard it is to memorize these arterial junctions? and i still have a whole other chapter to look over before thursday."

"not the screen, baby. your arm." he pointed a dramatic, accusatory finger at your wrist, his brows furrowing deep.

you finally blinked, breaking your hyper-focus, and glanced down at your forearm. "oh. i banged it against the library turnstile yesterday because i was trying to balance a stack of research books, my laptop case, and a bagel. it's fine."

dean stared at you like you had just confessed to wrestling a bear on the campus quad. "the library turnstile did that?"

you snorted, flipping a page in your binder and reaching out to playfully swat his thigh. "dean, it's just a bruise."

"well it's a giant bruise."

"it is literally the size of a quarter. now please shush, i need to finish this outline before my lecture tomorrow."

but dean was already crossing the room, completely ignoring your mild protests.

he didn't care about your study guide, or the fact that you were currently top of your class and perfectly capable of managing your own life.

he knelt right beside your chair, his calloused hands—the ones usually wrapped tightly around a hockey stick—were surprisingly gentle as he lifted your arm.

he inspected the dark mark like a detective working a high-profile case, his thumb softly brushing the edge of the discoloration.

ever since you had explained your heart condition and the routine blood thinners that came with it, dean had become absurdly, beautifully attentive.

he wasn't overbearing—he never tried to stop you from going to your hot yoga classes, he never complained when you dragged him to the quiet floors of the library for grueling study sessions, and he never babied you when you were stressed about keeping your gpa up.

he respected your independence completely and loved how fiercely dedicated you were to your goals. but he worried about you. constantly.

the first time you had mentioned inr levels and how thinning your blood actually was, he had gone back to his shared house and researched them for three hours, much to his teammates' utter confusion.

and when your cardiologist had offered to add him to your patient portal notifications for emergencies? dean had accepted so fast he had nearly cracked his phone screen.

"you're making fun of me," dean muttered, his thumb gently tracing the unbroken skin around the bruise.

"always," you smiled, your expression softening completely as you reached out with your free hand to ruffle his messy hair, tugging him closer until he rested his chin on your knee. "but i'm okay. promise. now let me finish this section so i can beat your ass at mario kart later."

the tension finally left his shoulders, replaced by that cocky, familiar smirk that always made your stomach do backflips. he leaned up, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your kneecap through your ripped jeans. "you're not beating me, sweetheart. keep dreaming."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the next morning was your routine cardiology follow-up. it was a beautiful wednesday, and honestly, you had planned to swing by the clinic on your scooter between your morning lecture and your afternoon study group at the library.

naturally, dean insisted on driving.

"dean," you sighed, adjusting the passenger-side visor to check your earrings. "you know you don't have to skip your morning practice for this. it's literally a fifteen-minute check-in."

"i didn't skip it, i rescheduled with the guys," he lied smoothly, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while his other hand reached across the console, wrapping tightly around yours and resting them over the gear shift. "besides, i want to be there. i like hanging out with you, even if it's in a boring waiting room."

your chest tightened, a warm, heavy feeling blooming in your throat. you squeezed his hand back, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his shoulder. that was the thing about dean. he never made your condition about him. he didn't treat you like you were fragile or broken.

he just showed up. which was more than you could ask for.

the appointment itself was entirely mundane.

you spent the first ten minutes chatting with the nurse about a hilarious argument your professor had gotten into with a student earlier that week.

you sat on the crinkly paper of the exam table, swinging your legs in your favorite boots, while dean watched you from the corner chair, his eyes bright with that effortless affection he only ever showed to you.

then, two phones buzzed simultaneously.

your phone chirped. dean's pocket practically vibrated off his hip.

you both looked down.

"oh no," dean whispered.

"what?"

"your inr," he said, staring at the screen like it was a ticking bomb. "it says 1.9."

you blinked, letting out a soft laugh. "dean—"

"isn't that low? your target is 2.0 to 3.0. 1.9 is low."

"it's slightly low. but it's totally fine."

"it’s fine according to who? the app hasn't given a green checkmark!"

before you could defend your body's right to be a single decimal point off, the door swung open and dr. evans walked in, flipping through your digital chart. "alright, everything looks great in the lab work—"

"the inr is 1.9," dean interrupted, sitting up so straight in his chair he looked like a soldier reporting for duty.

dr. evans stopped, looking between the two of you, a slow, amused smile spreading across her face. she was very used to dean's presence by now. "yes, mr. di laurentis. it is."

"and? is she at risk for a clot? do we need to adjust the dosage? should she be cutting back on her study hours this week?"

"dean, stop interrogating her, i'm fine," you hissed, though you couldn't help the fondness tugging at your lips as you reached out to nudge his leg with your boot.

"it's a perfectly fair question," dr. evans reassured him, tilting her laptop toward him so he could see the graphs. "1.9 is slightly below target, but given how active you are with school, and how well you're managing your stress and diet, it's completely stable. no medication changes needed. just keep doing what you're doing. go to class, pass your exams, live your life."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the moment the clinic doors slid open and the crisp afternoon air hit your face, dean let out a massive, lung-emptying exhale that made his broad shoulders drop three inches.

you bumped your shoulder against his arm as you walked toward his car. "you know, normal boyfriends don't try to take over the appointment from a woman with a medical degree."

"i promise i wasn't taking over. i was just gathering data."

"dean, you were panicking over a 0.1 difference."

he stopped walking just before you reached the passenger side, reaching out to catch your waist and pulling you flush against his chest.

his thumbs brushed over the fabric of your sweater, his fingers warm and reassuring through the material. the teasing, confident facade dropped away for a split second, leaving only the raw, vulnerable boy underneath.

"can you blame me?" he asked quietly, his eyes looking down into yours, entirely devoid of his usual arrogance.

you looked up at him, your heart aching with pure, unfiltered affection. because there it was—the truth beneath every overreaction, every extra first-aid kit he kept stuffed in his gym bag, every panicked look.

dean wasn't afraid of numbers on a screen.

he was just fiercely, terrifyingly in love with you, and the thought of anything ever hurting you made him feel entirely powerless.

"no," you softened, wrapping your arms around his neck and stepping fully into his space until there was no distance left between you. "i don't blame you."

"i know you're a badass," dean murmured, his head tilting down, his breath warm against your cheek. "i know you run circles around me, and you've got your classes and your whole life handled. you don't need me to protect you. but sometimes... i just get scared."

"i know," you whispered. you leaned up on your tiptoes, cupping his jaw, and pulled him down into a slow, lingering kiss right there in the hospital parking lot.

it was sweet, tasted like the mints he had chewed anxiously in the waiting room, and carried all the deep reassurance you couldn't put into words.

when you finally pulled away, dean blinked, a soft flush on his cheekbones as he looked slightly dazed. "that was unfair."

"what was?"

"you know i can't keep being a dramatic protective boyfriend when you kiss me like that. it completely wipes my brain."

you grinned, turning to unlock the passenger door. "sounds like a skill issue, di laurentis."

his jaw dropped. "a skill issue? i am literally devoted to your health and wellness!"

"you called a paper cut a 'medical emergency' last week when i was trying to open a package of highlighters."

"it looked deep, i swear." he shouted defensively, though a gorgeous laugh broke through his voice as he climbed into the driver's seat.

you laughed, leaning your head back against the headrest as he started the car, feeling entirely safe, entirely seen, and completely yourself. "and yet, you love me."

dean shifted the car into reverse, glancing over at you. his expression softened into that warm, effortless smile that was reserved only for you, his hand reaching over to rest comfortably on your thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles.

"yeah," he said, his voice thick with affection. "yeah, i really do, sweetheart."

he began to back out of the space, but just as he cleared the lane, his eyes darted down to the edge of your shirt sleeve. "wait. what is that dark smudge on your wrist?"

you groaned loudly, throwing your hands over your face. "it is ink, dean! from a ballpoint pen!"

"are you sure? because it looks kind of blue, like a new bruise—"

"oh for goodness sake, drive the car, di laurentis!"

off campus taglist: @bookluver114 @anyasthoughts

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

figure skater x dean where she goes on a date and realize she still loves dean

I have a LONG list of fics to write and I'm so excited about it! Tucker and Garrett are on that list if you were wondering

Summary: You and Dean broke up. You get in another relationship in the hope of getting over him, but when The Fifth Line announce that Dean gets injured at a game, you run to him

Warnings: mention of naked men, implied cheating

You thought you were doing the right thing. You thought seeing other guys would help you get over him. But as you sat at a fancy restaurant with one of Briar’s most promising football athletes, you had never been as uninterested as you were right now. He was good looking, sweet and attentive, but he didn’t make you want to stop time. 

You actually wanted the night to end. 

The waiter set down your plates, wishing you a nice evening before leaving. 

‘’Are you coming to the game on Friday? My dad is gonna be here, so I was thinking we could go eat somewhere after. You, me…and him.’’ 

Your fork stopped halfway to your plate. ‘’You want me to meet your dad?!’’ 

‘’Yeah,’’ Miles replied simply. ‘’Do you not want to? Is it too soon? I would understand if—’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’No! I want to,’’ you said, forcing a smile. 

Miles smiled back at you. ‘’Then it’s settled.’’ 

Fuck. What did you get yourself into? 

You leaned back slightly in your chair, suddenly very aware of how tight the restaurant felt around you. The soft piano music, the clinking glasses, the warm lighting — it all felt too much for a night you didn’t even want to be in anymore.

Miles was still smiling, eager that you were going to meet his dad. He had been thinking about showing you off to his family for weeks. A talented, beautiful girl like you. It was a massive upgrade from the last girl he brought home in high school. 

‘’Friday’s gonna be big,’’ he added, cutting into his food. ‘’Coach is already talking about the playoffs. If we win, we pretty much lock in our ranking.’’ 

‘’Right,’’ you said automatically, picking at your food.

Miles noticed the shift in your attention.

‘’You okay?’’ he asked, reaching over the table and stroking your hand. ‘’You’ve been kind of…far away tonight.’’ 

You blinked, removing your hand and hiding it under the table. ‘’Yeah. I’m fine.’’

He didn’t look convinced. ‘’You sure? Because it kinda feels like I’m talking to you, but you’re somewhere else.’’

You gave a small laugh that didn’t land right. ‘’I’m just tired, Miles. I’ve been at the rink all afternoon.’’ 

‘’Sorry. I forgot. How is the new program going?’’ 

Back when you were with Dean, you loved talking about your program and all the different figures you had to learn or perfect for the next showcase. He surprisingly knew the difference between a lutz and a flip. Sometimes, you would skate together after everyone left the arena, showing off figures and having races around the rink. It often ended with heavy kissing against the boards…with a little groping or shower sex, but that was a secret. 

‘’Good.’’ 

The answer came out flat.

Miles waited, like he expected more. 

When nothing followed, he smiled awkwardly and took another bite of his dinner.

You hated yourself a little for it. He was trying. He was always trying. He remembered your competitions. Asked about your classes. Showed up with coffee when you had early practices. Any girl would be lucky to have someone like him.

When you began seeing each other, conversations were easy and you were genuinely looking forward to spending time with him. You weren’t thinking about Dean anymore. Only Miles. 

But that changed when you saw him at the arena a few days ago. He was laughing with Tucker as they headed to the locker room to change into their practice gear. His blue eyes crossed yours and you almost walked into a glass door… You even had a dream about him last night. 

An uncomfortable silence settled between you as you continued to eat quietly. Miles was trying to find something to talk about, but he could feel that you weren’t entirely with him. 

Your phone buzzed against your thigh.

The sound nearly made you jump.

Without thinking, you pulled it out, seeing a notification from The Fifth Line’s Instagram.

The Fifth Line: #66 Di Laurentis taken off ice by medics 🚨🩺 Doubt he’ll be back for the rest of the game!

Your heart sank to your stomach. Medics. That meant Dean was hurt. Small injuries were common in hockey — a nosebleed, a fall that turned into a bruise, etc. —, but if Jules wrote that he won’t be back to finish the game, it must be serious. 

You went to text Hannah about the game, trying to know more, but remembered she was working tonight and not attending. 

Still, your thumb was already opening Instagram. The post had only been up for three minutes. A blurry photo showed Dean being escorted down the tunnel by the team's trainer. Even from a distance, you could see blood smeared along the side of his face.

Your chest tightened.

‘’Everything okay?’’ Miles asked, raising an eyebrow.

You looked up so quickly that you nearly dropped your phone. ‘’Yeah.’’

The lie came automatically.

His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘’Are you sure?’’ 

No. You weren't alright.

Because the possibility of Dean being hurt had completely derailed your evening. Because you had spent the last hour pretending you wanted to be here. Because Miles was talking about introducing you to his father while all you could think about was another guy bleeding in a medic room.

‘’I have to go. I’m sorry,’’ you declared, standing from your chair and grabbing your jacket. 

Miles blinked, clearly caught off guard. ‘’Wait, what?’’

You were being unfair. Horribly unfair. But staying here felt impossible.

‘’I'm sorry,’’ you repeated, already slinging your purse over your shoulder.

His chair scraped against the floor as he stood too, about to follow you, but you ran out of the restaurant before he could, the image of Dean being led off the ice burned into your brain.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

When you made it to the arena, the game was over and people were leaving. Your concern for Dean clouded your judgement as you headed to the locker room. 

Please be okay. Please be okay.

You pulled the door open and slipped in, laughter, music and the smell of sweat and equipment hitting you immediately.

You opened your mouth to call Dean’s name, but stopped in your tracks. The room was full of naked hockey players. Some had a towel wrapped around them, but some had their dick on full display. 

‘’Oh my god.’’ 

A few of them turned, but not many bothered hiding their nudity. 

‘’Bunnies are not allowed in the locker room,’’ one of them said. 

‘’She’s not a bunny, she’s Di Laurentis’s ice princess,’’ another one corrected, recognizing you.

‘’Garrett!’’ you called, catching him come out of the shower with, thankfully, a towel around him. 

His head snapped to you and he walked over. Judging by your dress and heels, you hadn’t been in the stands cheering for the team. He ran a hand through his shower-damp hair. ‘’Hey, what are you doing here?’’  

Before you could say anything, a  voice came from the showers. 

‘’Hey, G, did you steal Birdie’s shampoo? He’s moaning about it.’’ 

And there was the man you were looking for, half-dripping wet with a towel slung low on his hips. Upon seeing you, a cocky smirk curled on his face. 

‘’Well, this is a surprise,’’ Dean pointed out, standing before you with his glistening wet chest. ‘’I haven’t seen you here in a while.’’ 

Your eyes stopped at his face where a steri-strips bandaid was taped on his right cheekbone. The skin around it was red and irritated, a faint trace of dried blood visible along the edges of the cut. Was this what had caused all that blood on the ice? Had you rushed to the arena over a cut that barely seemed serious?

‘’I know. I saw what happened on the ice. I just…wanted to check in on you,’’ you replied, suddenly feeling foolish. 

Dean raised an eyebrow. ‘’You were at the game? In that dress? I don’t think so.’’ 

He caught you there. 

You sighed. ‘’Okay, fine. I wasn’t at the game.’’ 

‘’Where’s Mike?’’ 

‘’Miles,’’ you corrected. ‘’And that’s none of your business.’’ 

‘’I take it Mr. Football doesn’t know you’re here.’’ 

‘’Can we not talk about Miles—’’ 

‘’What are you doing here, princess?’’ Dean asked, stepping closer and lifting your chin. ‘’Because no one runs off from their boyfriend to see their ex without a reason.’’

Fuck. 

How did he even know you ran here? 

‘’Look, I’m not going to call Giles and snitch on you. I just want you to tell me why you’re here —  no bullshit —, because I think we both know what you’re avoiding to say.’’

‘’His name is Miles—’’ 

‘’It doesn’t change anything.’’ 

You held his gaze for a moment, refusing to look away first. The stubborn certainty in his eyes only fueled your frustration, until the words you'd spent months swallowing rose to the surface.

‘’You’re right,’’ you snapped, the confession tearing out of you before you could stop it. ‘’Because no matter what I do or who I see, it always comes back to you. I can’t get you out of my head. Is that what you want to hear, Dean? That I never stopped loving you?’’ 

The locker room fell silent.

Even the guys still half-naked and toweling off froze, eyes darting between you and Dean like they had just walked into a dramatic movie scene.

The corner of Dean's lips twitched, looking pleased like the cat that caught the bird. Then, barefoot on the wet tile and blond hair dripping from the shower, he leaned down and kissed you.

Behind you, the team was forgotten. Miles? Erased from existence right then and there. All noise in the world was drowned out by Dean’s mouth on yours and the familiar scent of his expensive shampoo. You pulled him closer by his shoulders, his chest flush against you as waterdrops were falling on your jacket and dress.

══════════════════

Off Campus taglist: @f1rewhiskey @formula1-motogpfan @schinug @skyesthebomb @mads-writes-vibes @harls-sturn @fangirl93 @parker-barnes-af @thedarkqueenofavalon @kootiestillidie @taliescapes @kmc1989 @glndacore @aestramjackson @ilocuras24

[cameronsfawn]

pairing: dean di laurentis x nerd!reader

summary: after you continue to avoid him, dean finds you tutoring a random guy in your year.

a/n: ask inbox is open <3 thank you all for the love on the dean fics. above 1k notes on both is insane. i love you guys🥹

🏷️: @downbadwellread @cruelsummer01 @hagarsays @kkkkisworld @ihatepeanutss @purplerainx1 @la-28 @mlt2000 @gaebestie

dean only found out you were a tutor because he was skipping class.

if anyone asked, he’d deny it immediately. he had every intention of attending the lecture that afternoon. he really did. unfortunately, beau had convinced him to leave halfway through with the promise of coffee and food, and dean had decided that sounded significantly better than sitting through another hour of listening to a professor talk about material he’d never remember anyway. he was cutting through one of the academic buildings when he happened to glance through an open doorway, and suddenly the rest of his afternoon ceased to matter.

you were sitting at a table near one of the windows, completely surrounded by textbooks. there were highlighters scattered everywhere, color-coded notes spread across the tabletop, and a half-finished coffee sitting beside your elbow. dean had seen you in plenty of situations by now. he’d seen you nervous, embarrassed, flustered, and desperately trying to avoid him. he’d never seen you like this. you were talking confidently, explaining something while pointing at a page in a textbook, and for the first time since meeting you, there wasn’t a trace of uncertainty in your expression. you looked comfortable. completely comfortable. honestly, it caught him off guard enough that he stopped walking altogether.

then he noticed the guy sitting across from you.

at first dean didn’t think much of it. obviously there was another student there. tutoring generally required at least two people. but the longer he watched, the more annoyed he became. the guy wasn’t paying attention to a damn thing you were saying. every time you pointed toward the textbook, he’d look for maybe half a second before his eyes drifted back to your face. every time you smiled politely, he smiled like you’d personally handed him the greatest gift of his life. after a few minutes it became painfully obvious that he wasn’t there because he needed help studying. he was there because he liked you.

the worst part was that you clearly had no idea.

you just kept talking.

dean watched you spend nearly ten minutes explaining some concept while the guy stared at you like you hung the moon. every now and then you’d push your glasses back up your nose or laugh softly at something awkward he’d said, and each time the guy looked even more interested. meanwhile, you remained completely oblivious. dean honestly couldn’t decide whether it was adorable or infuriating. probably both.

he should’ve left.

a normal person would’ve left.

instead, he stayed.

the tutoring session eventually ended, and dean found himself lingering in the hallway outside the room. he wasn’t entirely sure why. maybe curiosity. maybe annoyance. maybe something significantly more embarrassing that he wasn’t interested in examining. whatever the reason, he remained exactly where he was as you started gathering your notes and shoving books into your bag.

the guy, unfortunately, made no move to leave.

instead, he leaned against the table and smiled.

dean immediately hated him.

even from across the room, he could tell what was happening. the guy wasn’t subtle. he was leaning closer than necessary, smiling too much, finding excuses to keep the conversation going even though the tutoring session had clearly ended. you looked slightly confused but polite enough to keep answering him. dean watched the entire thing unfold with growing irritation.

then the guy asked you out.

dean couldn’t hear the exact words, but he didn’t need to.

your expression gave everything away.

you blinked at him.

laughed awkwardly.

then answered in a way that clearly suggested you hadn’t realized he’d been flirting.

the guy tried again.

somehow you still didn’t get it

dean actually rubbed a hand over his face.

it was unbelievable.

you could analyze books, ace exams, tutor half the campus, and somehow remain completely incapable of recognizing when somebody was interested in you.

the guy tried a third time.

that was apparently dean’s limit.

before he could think better of it, he pushed open the door and walked inside.

you looked up immediately.

your entire face changed the second you saw him.

surprise.

confusion.

then suspicion.

dean ignored all three.

he walked straight over to your table and stopped beside your chair. the guy looked annoyed by the interruption. good. dean hoped he was annoyed.

“there you are,” dean said casually

you stared.

“dean?”

he smiled down at you before looking at the guy.

the guy looked back.

something immediately shifted.

it wasn’t loud or dramatic. it was just one of those silent male conversations that happened entirely through eye contact. dean knew exactly what the other guy was thinking because he’d been in his position before. who the hell is this? why does he know her? why is he standing so close?

dean enjoyed every second of it.

“you ready?” he asked.

your eyebrows furrowed.

“ready for what?”

for a second, dean thought he’d have to explain himself.

then understanding flashed across your face.

slowly.

very slowly.

you finally realized what he was doing.

the guy noticed it too.

“wait,” he interrupted. “you two know each other?”

dean almost laughed.

know each other.

right.

he looked down at you.

then back at the guy.

“yeah,” he said. “she’s my girlfriend.”

the lie came out far too easily.

the second it left his mouth, the room went completely silent.

you froze.

the guy froze.

dean remained annoyingly calm.

the student’s expression visibly fell apart. disappointment hit him so hard it was practically painful to watch. dean would’ve felt bad if he wasn’t too busy enjoying himself.

“oh.”

that was all the guy managed.

just oh.

dean nearly smiled.

you were still staring at him.

he could feel it.

could practically hear the questions bouncing around inside your head.

what are you doing?

why are you doing this?

have you completely lost your mind?

all reasonable questions.

dean planned on ignoring every single one of them.

the guy awkwardly gathered his things, muttered something about seeing you later, and practically fled the room. dean waited until he disappeared completely before finally looking back down at you.

the second your eyes met his, you narrowed them.

“your girlfriend?”

dean shrugged.

“seemed effective.”

“effective?”

“he left, didn’t he?”

your mouth actually fell open.

for a second you seemed genuinely speechless.

then realization hit.

dean watched it happen in real time.

the way your eyes widened.

the way your expression changed.

the way you suddenly looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

oh no.

you’d figured it out.

“dean.”

“what?”

“were you jealous?”

he laughed immediately.

mostly because the alternative was admitting the truth.

“don’t start.”

“you were.”

“i wasn’t.”

“you absolutely were.”

you sounded delighted.

which was unfortunate.

because you were right.

dean leaned against the table and looked away for a moment, already regretting every decision that had led him here. the worst part was that he’d walked into the room fully intending to play it cool. somehow he’d ended up pretending to be your boyfriend in front of another guy and exposing himself in the process.

meanwhile, you looked happier than he’d seen you all week.

your smile was impossible to miss.

and suddenly dean couldn’t remember why he’d been annoyed in the first place.

he just knew he was staring at you again.

staring long enough that your smile slowly faded.

long enough that the teasing disappeared from your expression.

long enough for the air between you to become something else entirely.

neither of you spoke.

you simply looked at each other across the table, surrounded by forgotten textbooks and scattered notes.

for the first time since walking into the room, dean realized he didn’t regret what he’d done.

not even a little.

because pretending to be your boyfriend had been surprisingly easy.

a little too easy, actually.

and judging by the way you were looking at him now, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

[pinknoisebaby]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ → Rafe Cameron x reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ → Rafe didn't realize that this would be the last conversation the two of you would ever have

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ → dying!reader, hospital, mentioned death

ᴀ/ɴ→ English is not my first language

Rafe sat on the edge of your hospital bed absentmindedly playing with your cold, pale fingers

He hated hospitals

They smelled like disinfectant and something else he couldn't quite name. Something that reminded him of fear. Something that reminded him of helplessness

“You look awful” he muttered adjusting the blanket over your legs

You rolled your eyes “So do you”

A faint smile appeared on your lips

That was a good sign. You had been smiling less and less over the past few days

The doctors talked a lot. Too much. Test results, complications, more examinations. Rafe barely listened to half of it. Why would he? Everything was going to be fine. It had to be. You'd be home soon and everything would go back to the way it had always been. Because there was no way you could leave him Right?

“I should go” he said after a moment “Ward's gonna lose his mind if I don't show up to that meeting tomorrow”

“Mhm”

“I'll be back first thing in the morning. Promise me that if you need anything, you'll call me, okay? I'll bring you your favorite donuts from that bakery around the corner tomorrow. You deserve something better than this hospital food”

“Mhm...”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead adjusting your pillow at the same time

“I love you”

“I love you too”

He didn't notice how long you watched him after those words. How your eyes became glassy with unshed tears. As if you were trying to memorize every detail

Every line of his face, every freckle, every breath

“Don't look at me like that” he laughed softly

“Like what?”

“Like you're never gonna see me again”

You only smiled “I love you”

He didn't know why, but something tightened painfully in his chest

“I love you too. Goodnight, sweetheart”

Then he turned around and left and he didn't look back

He didn't know those would be the last words he would ever hear from you

—

The phone rang at 4:17 in the morning

Rafe answered, half asleep and irritated by the loud sound that had dragged him out of bed

A few seconds later, he was sitting bolt upright

“What?”

Silence

"No”

More silence

“No, no, no, no, no.”

Not even five seconds passed before he had his shoes on and he was running to his truck. He was breaking every speed limit imaginable.

But he was too late

When he burst onto the hospital floor the doctor only looked at him with sympathy

“I'm sorry”

And for the rest of his life Rafe would hate himself for simply walking out of that room thinking he would see you again in the morning

[gutsby]

Cherry

Pairing: dad’s archnemesis!Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: Fucking your dad’s biggest enemy has consequences, whether you want to admit it or not.

Warnings: 18+. EVERYONE SHUT UP I HAVE AN ERECTION. Protected-turned-unprotected p-in-v (with consent). Sex on the hood of your father’s ‘75 Aston Martin V8. Improper disposal of a condom. Creampie. C*mplay.

Word count: 2.2k

And the Worst Daughter of the Year Award goes to…

“You,” with gritted teeth, you bit out, “motherfucker.”

It was almost annoying how good Jack Abbot was.

More infuriating was the fact that he was your father’s sworn enemy, and somehow, you’d let him slide nine inches inside you today, the day before, and the day before that—going all the way back to last Halloween.

No more than two or three weeks ever passed where you weren’t sucking, fucking, or tonguing the sick bastard, and when you did, he always gave you rounds.

Occasionally, you felt a pang of remorse.

After all, you were your father’s favorite kid.

But that didn’t change the fact that you had needs, and Jack was an easy target; he’d been living next door to your family the last several years, and for as long as you could remember, you’d had a crush on the man. You just could never act on it until now, when you were already out of college, no longer living at home, and almost wholly free of the…dicier ethical considerations.

Was it wrong? Absolutely.

Were you often in the habit of thinking about that when Jack had you bent over a table and was hammering you senselessly, in secret? Hell no.

“Oh, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” you whimpered in a low, broken refrain. You clamped your legs tighter together.

And behind you, probably grinning from ear-to-ear, Jack squeezed your hips in either hand and chuckled.

Then, shortly, he ordered, “Get up. Now.”

The orgasm that had been growing and coiling and swelling inside you for the last five minutes—and what had very nearly come to fruition a moment ago—was stolen from you just as fast. Jack pulled out, and he turned from the old, rickety table he’d just been plowing you on. He strode in the other direction.

You were holed up in your garage. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d told your mom you would go and grab the cake—your dad’s birthday cake, for his 50th celebration. About five minutes after that, Jack had announced he was going to get more refreshments for the party.

This was meant to be a mid-event quickie, and now your neighbor was walking over to one of your family’s cars. Patting the hood affectionately and beckoning.

“No fucking shot, Abbot.” You shook your head, resolute. “We are not fucking anywhere close to that.”

The man must’ve had scrambled eggs for brains if he thought you’d even consider having sex on your dad’s 1975 Aston Martin V8. The thing was a classic in mint condition and your father’s prized possession. His baby. Frankly, aside from your mother and your siblings and you, that vehicle was his pride and joy. If someone so much as breathed too hard next to it, he’d have a meltdown. And that wasn’t an exaggeration.

Now Jack was stroking the hood underneath his palm.

Inwardly, you winced and wished you made better decisions in life. Maybe, someday soon, you would.

But that day was not today, apparently.

“Get your cute ass over here, sweetheart.”

Like clockwork, you took your cute ass over there. You only grimaced twice when your backside hit the bright, unblemished, blindingly cherry-red surface of the car and when Jack dragged you by your legs to the edge.

You spread yourself wide, let him flip the hem of your gingham dress over your hips, and shit—he felt good.

Twice as nice as when he was hitting it from the back. Now, gliding in until the firm, round globes of his balls kissed your rear, and the thatch of mostly gray hairs at the base of him tickled your skin, he felt like a dream.

Jack knew it.

He communicated as much when he planted a hand beside your hip on the hood of the car and started thrusting relentlessly. When he plunged in so deep the tip of his cock hit your cervix and you couldn’t keep a loud, shuddering cry from slipping out between your lips and he leaned in and kissed you, mouth smiling.

Between the breakneck speed of his thrusts and the wet, sloppy kissing, the man somehow managed it:

“Whose pussy is this?”

At first, you pretended not to hear him.

The arrogant prick already had an ego the size of Alaska and didn’t need any further encouragement. Plus, you were about to come, and you needed this.

So you let your head loll back a little, and you stopped kissing. You closed your eyes. Rolled your lower half furiously, feverishly in time with each maddening stroke, and you grabbed Jack’s shoulder for leverage.

In return, you felt him grip your chin abruptly.

He tilted up, forcing you to snap your gaze back open.

Your ankles had just crossed behind his back. He was canting his hips even harder than before, plunging to the furthest depths of your body and scraping your insides with an unspeakable, near-dizzying pleasure. Each thrust hit straight through to your core, and you could feel your warmth leaking out from where he stuffed you. Sweet essence trickled down his cock.

He tightened his hold on your face, “Whose is it?”

At the same time, a knot constricted in your stomach. Your toes curled, your breath hitched, and by the feeling that had started up from the base of your spine, you sensed your climax was as near as it ever was.

Fuck it.

With your eyes locked on his, you parted your lips.

Still bouncing on his cock, now reaching for his other shoulder with your free hand and then lifting yourself slightly off of the car, you held tighter onto Jack, too.

And you couldn’t help it: you had to smile a little when you said it, body all but bursting at the seams with your pleasure, “It’s yours, Jack. This pussy is yours.”

“All mine?”

“All yours.”

“Then let me come inside her.”

Fuck, if that didn’t take you by surprise.

Leave it to Jack to propose the most batshit thing.

You’d never let any man inside you without a condom. Never wanted to take that risk. It would be incredibly stupid for you to do it now, with your next door neighbor who was as old as your father—and was hated by your father, only invited to this party because your mother had made you ask—between your legs.

Again, you didn’t think. You made the bad decision.

You mumbled, ‘OK, whatever’ and then watched Jack Abbott withdraw, take off the condom, sling it somewhere over your shoulder, and push back in.

Your body welcomed him gratefully. Shaking when his cock made contact with your velvety walls and there was nothing in between you but the warmth and your own shared, sticky fluids, you almost couldn’t breathe.

He sawed in and out, again and again. Went mindless with it, apparently, as his brows drew in closer, and his whole expression tightened. The next groan strained.

“Aw, baby,” Jack said, almost mournfully. “Pussy’s fuckin’…chokin’ me. I’m gonna lose it in a second.”

You were, too.

You didn’t give him—or yourself—the chance to second-guess this braindead move and simply let him rut deeper inside. Kissed him messily and moaned.

Strokes went quicker, harder, wet and loud and frantic.

You felt him twitch; that was when you hit your end.

Your climax landed with a force you didn’t expect, and half your body seized at once. You shrieked. Your cunt spasmed around Jack, effectively milking his own release from his now-throbbing cock, and you felt every rope spit thick and heavy and warm through your walls. He coated your insides with his seed, and then he kept right on fucking you like the only awareness he might have possessed was in the tip of his member.

Jack grunted, and he fucked his spend deeper.

“That’s my girl,” he said softly. Kissed your forehead.

Still floating somewhere in the ether, you nodded back.

It went without saying another word that you were his.

“You ever let one of them…stuck-up, dick-for-brain boys your own age blow a load inside you like this…” And as if to emphasize his point, he pulled out and let a little white trail of semen spill out from where he’d been. “You and me are gonna have a talk, young lady.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were too tired.

When Jack told you to push more of it out, you did.

Five, six, seven slow pulses of your walls, and his seed came oozing out, trickling from a spent and sated hole.

Straight onto the fresh red paint of your father’s car.

You knew you had every reason to be humiliated at that, so you moved to stand, shortly. Tried to shake the thought out of your head. Smoothed the skirt of your dress down, then looked around, momentarily forgetting where the refrigerator in the garage was at.

Right.

There.

“You know,” Jack called as you started the other way. Yanking his jeans and his boxers back up, the buckle of his belt jingling as he did. “This car’s just as old as me.”

Mid-stride, you had to fight to keep from wrinkling your nose. You stopped in front of the fridge, swung it open, and grabbed the cake. Kicked the door shut.

“1975,” Jack stretched the sound of the number, grinning when he met your gaze and you drew closer.

Don’t make me kick your teeth in, Abbot.

You’d barely made it within spitting distance of the vehicle again before the man was pulling you to him, arm looping around your waist. You held back the cake.

“You’re gonna make me drop it,” you warned him.

Jack’s grin stretched wider. “Hate to see that.”

Just like your father would surely despise knowing what you and his archnemesis had done to sully his car. The look on his face, the raw, unmitigated ang—

“Hey.”

You meant to stop Jack with that word.

It didn’t work—he was already prying the lid off the cake’s container. Taking it off and flinging it sideways.

“Jack, that’s Dad’s fucking birthday cake!”

“Just taking a little off the top, OK? Relax.”

Before you could try and stop him, it was too late. The man dragged his middle finger through a big, thick, ivory-colored corner of the buttercream-frosted cake. Thankfully, the whole thing was so large, and the icing’s pattern so ornately, crazily drawn, that you really couldn’t tell where Jack had snagged from.

Still, you shot him a look that could kill.

“Are you crazy?!” you hissed. “Trying to get us cau—”

“Open.”

At Jack’s voice, your eyes widened a bit.

You didn’t notice it at first, but now you saw it plain as anything: your neighbor had lowered his hand to the hood of your father’s car. Swiped the finger loaded with icing through the mess of his cum still sitting on it, then lifted that hand again. Up toward your mouth.

“Ew, Jack, get the fuck out—”

You wanted to be grossed out by it.

“Open wide, sweetheart.”

You really, really, did.

“C’mon. That’s it.”

Your lips parted.

“Right there.”

You let it in.

“Good girl.” Jack grinned, seeing your mouth close around his finger coated with frosting and his come.

You swallowed and swore you’d start making smarter choices tomorrow. Seriously, no more fucking around.

The two of you started back for the party.

Right before you made it out, Jack pivoted.

“Shit. Almost forgot.” Jogging back to the car.

And, as if this afternoon couldn’t get any more depraved and disgusting, you watched your neighbor peel the condom you and him had used off the windshield of your father’s car. He waved it a second, taunting, before resuming his path back to you.

Out of habit, you jumped a little.

“Don’t even think about it, Abbot.”

But, luckily for you, Jack stopped short.

Instead of offering you another coital-flavored refreshment, the man paused at the car’s gas cap.

You groaned as soon as you saw him do it.

Smirking, Jack flipped open the metal door, and, without hesitating a second, he threw the used rubber in the place where a gas pump was supposed to go.

He shut it again.

You called him a lunatic.

As you strolled outside, back into the party and all of the noise, Jack took the cake so you wouldn’t have to carry it. Ever the gentleman and a strictly platonic friend who was trying his damndest to hide the fact that he’d just come inside his enemy’s daughter and had her eat it, he wrapped a casual arm around you.

He squeezed your shoulder. Leaned in close, once. And, as quietly as he could manage it, he whispered:

“Between you and that precious car of your dad’s, it looks like I’ve popped both of his cherries now, huh?”

[thatcorporategirlie]

You Oughta Know (joel miller x f!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

joel miller x f!reader Word Count: 5.3K Rating: E

Summary: You and Joel return from a double date, and you find out he’s jealous of your colleague, Frankie  

Warning: established relationship, emotional argument, frankie morales mentions (a lil’ crossover), angry & possessive joel, jealousy, angst (there’s plot, you know?), descriptions of explicit smut (slutty flashback), language, stubbornness from both joel and reader, PTA moms, slightly jealous!reader, flirting, fluff-ish, witty banter, make-up sex, dirty talk, mentions of oral sex (f – receiving), overstimulation, praise, unprotected p in v sex, 1 punani slap, smidge breeding kink, creampie, loverboy!joel

A/N: This is my NSFW submission for my own 'Never Have I Ever' challenge. I gave myself the prompt: never have I ever been jealous of my significant others colleague. I’m pretty sure everyone’s weakness is jealous!joel…right? Also, I’m forcing that last picture in my moodboard to be Joel, cause that’s what Joel looks like when he’s about to go to bed and have hot make-up sex with YOU. Aka fuck the shit out of you.

Joel walked into the house, the sound of the door creaking behind both of you, tossing his keys on the table, trying to shake off the night he had just had. It was supposed to be a double date, but all he could think about was that damn colleague of yours, making fucking eyes at you. You had set up your best friend Marlene with a pilot from your airline. Francisco Morales—also known as 'Frankie'— who had recently moved to Austin about a year ago.

He cracked open a cold beer, plopping down on the couch with a heavy sigh, the cushions sinking under him. He flicked on the TV, but the screen just flashed a bunch of nonsense he couldn’t fucking care less about. His mind was too busy replaying the way Morales leaned in a little too close when he was talking to you and laughing a little too hard at your jokes.

You were a flight attendant and while it wasn’t typical for you to be on the same flights with the same pilots all the time due to different schedules and crew rotations, he had heard of the asshole’s name in the last year. You two had flown together a few times. At first, he thought nothing of it, since you always shared stories about your various flights and the different crews you worked with. But after meeting the man tonight, he never wanted you to fly with that piece of shit ever again.

Joel’s brow furrowed, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a weight. You stood watching Joel as he sank deeper into the couch, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

"Hey. What’s up with you tonight?"

He grumbled. "Just tired." he shot back, his tone sharper than you expected. But you weren’t backing down.

"No, Joel, it’s more than that. You’re acting like you’ve got something stuck up your ass,"

He had the nerve to grumble yet again, causing you to roll your eyes.

"Seriously, what’s going on?" you pressed.

"Well excuse me if I’m not fuckin’ thrilled that I watched another man flirt with you all night long,"

You blinked, taken aback by the comment. "Who are you talking about?"

"Morales," he spat.

"Seriously?" you replied, incredulity lacing your tone. The way Joel’s jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed told you he was dead serious, and it took you a moment to process that he was actually upset.

"I don’t know how you can’t see it. He was all over you like a fuckin’ dog with a bone," he growled, his brows knitting together.

"Joel, he was not flirting with me. He was on a date with Marlene, remember? He was just being friendly. Just like I was being friendly," you countered.

"Yeah, well maybe you were being too friendly," he dryly huffed as he stared at you unamused.

"Are you kidding me?"

"You know I’ve always known that passengers on your flights are probably starin’ at your ass and shit. I mean, I don’t blame them. Look at you. But, now, I gotta fuckin’ think about this guy tryin’ to actually fuck you during a layover or somethin’?"

"You’re right Joel, I think most airlines have rules requiring that the flight attendants and pilots have sex with each other during their layovers," you replied, sarcasm dripping off your words. "I mean do you actually hear yourself right now?"

His eyes darkened, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Yeah, I do, and I’m right. You oughta know, he wants to fuck you."

Joel was usually so secure, so it really surprised you to see him like this. In the two years you’d been together, you had never seen him worked up like this over a male colleague of yours. Or any man for that matter.

"I don’t want you to pick up trip routes if he’s the pilot on them," he demanded.

You felt your anger bubble up, the absurdity of his words igniting a fire in your chest. You crossed your arms defiantly. "I’m sorry, did I just step back in time? Is it the 1950s? So now you’re telling me who I can and cannot work with?"

"I don’t like the way he fuckin’ looks at you," he growled, his fists clenching at his sides.

You laughed. "Okay, I don’t have time for whatever insanity you’re conjuring up in your head."

"Oh, sure, because the aircrew staff ain’t ever havin’ any fun at 30,000 feet. It's all just endless coffee and turbulence, right?"

"Come on, Joel! You're being ridiculous. That's just something you see in porn. Real life doesn’t work like that," You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you had heard stories of some pilots fucking flight attendants in the cockpit. But…that was beside the point.

He sighed heavily, leaning back and rubbing his temples. "I don’t like the fuckin’ guy. You can alternate or swap out the damn shift. You’ve done it before,"

"That’s not the point! I’ve done it before when I wanted to do it. Not because you decided that I had too. I mean do you seriously not trust me?"

Rationally, Joel knew he was being unreasonable, he knew he was letting jealousy twist his thoughts into something ugly. It had clawed its way up from his gut to his throat, making it hard to breathe.

Joel's eyes darted around the room, unable to meet yours. "I trust you… it's him I don't fuckin’ trust,"

"That’s bullshit," you snapped. "I hate it when people say that. Seriously who fucking came up with that line? Because quite frankly, it feels like you are saying you don’t trust me at all Joel, and that’s hurtful,"

Then, raising his voice in a way he never had before, he shouted, "Well, I can’t fuckin’ shake the feeling that this guy is after you!"

You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off, not wanting to hear what you had to say just yet. "I’m gonna step out for a bit. Take a breather," he said. "I just need to cool off,"

 "Joel, please—"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head. "Just…give me a minute, okay? I can’t think straight right now.”

He pushed himself off the couch, the cushions releasing him as he made his way toward the door. He could feel your gaze on him. But he needed this. He needed to clear his head.

The door clicked shut behind Joel, and the silence that followed felt like a heavy weight in the air. You stood there for a moment, still feeling the heat of the argument coursing through you. You couldn’t believe how quickly things had escalated.

With a huff, you turned away from the door and made your way to the kitchen. There were a few plates piled in the sink. Cleaning was something you could control, a grounding task that would help you channel the energy swirling in your chest. You rolled up your sleeves and turned on the hot water, letting it fill the sink as you grabbed the first plate and started scrubbing.

As you worked, your mind replayed the argument over and over again. Sarah was off at a sleepover, so thankfully, she hadn’t been here to hear the fight.

After a while, you moved to the counters, wiping them down with a cloth while glancing at the clock. You didn’t know how long Joel would be gone. You then paced the living room, glancing at the clock, again. It had been well over an hour since Joel stormed out, which was something that had never happened between the two of you before.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, you grabbed your phone and shot him a quick text.

Hey, just checking in. You okay?

You waited, biting your lip, your heart racing as you hoped for a reply. A few moments later, your phone buzzed with his response.

Yeah, I’m with Tommy.

You could imagine them sitting in a bar. The mental image of them sharing a couple of drinks made you sigh.

When will you be back? You hesitated before hitting send. You didn’t want to seem clingy or overreact, but the idea of him not coming home freaked you the fuck out.

I’ll be back when I’ll be back.

His response was curt. Your chest tightened.

You and Joel didn’t fight often, but you thought this would have ended more like the last time you two had a major argument. With apologies and really hot sex.

Joel had once accepted a contract that required him to work over a particular weekend. He thought it was a great opportunity to make extra money. However, he forgot to check your shared calendar and accepted work on the same weekend you had planned a special weekend getaway for the two of you. You were so pissed, telling him that you had a shared calendar for a reason, but he just never bothered to check it. You also felt hurt, feeling like he didn’t care about all the effort you had put into planning that trip.

At the time you two didn’t live together, so Joel showed up at your apartment with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and your favorite takeout. He assured you it would never happen again and that he would handle rescheduling the trip.  

The apology ended with your ass high up in the air as Joel pounded into you from behind and the wet sounds of his cock slamming into your weeping pussy. You were too fucked out to forms sentences. His breath was hot, and he was panting in your ear while a litany of filth and praise fell from his mouth.

Wanna feel every inch of you.

Take it. So fuckin’ perfect. Baby, you feel so good.

Show me how much you fuckin’ love it.

Gonna come so hard and fill up this messy fuckin’ pussy.

With that fucking foul mouth of his—you couldn’t help but cry out loudly as stars blurred your vision, and you fell apart for him. Joel made a strangled garbled noise at the fluttery feeling of your cunt squeezing around him, his thrusts turning erratic, and cock throbbing as his release filled you.

It was a good apology. And since then, he reviewed the shared calendar religiously.

When the clock finally ticked past midnight, you found yourself standing staring at Joel’s empty side of the bed. You slipped into your signature pajamas—a comfortable old t-shirt of his that practically swallowed you whole, paired with a simple pair of lacy panties.

You crawled under the covers, the weight of the blankets a small comfort, but sleep eluded you. You rolled onto your side, staring at the wall, your mind racing with thoughts of Joel wondering if there was something you could have said differently.

The house was too quiet, every creak and groan echoing into the stillness, and you found yourself wishing for the sound of his voice. The minutes dragged on, and despite your exhaustion, sleep remained just out of reach. You stared at the ceiling, counting the specks of paint as if they could distract you from the whirlwind of anxiety swirling in your chest.

Just when you thought you might be able to drift off, you heard the familiar sound of the front door from downstairs clicking shut. The faint sound of footsteps padded down the hall, and you closed your eyes, trying to look asleep.

As he moved quietly around the room, you could hear him taking off his clothes, setting his belongings down, and using the bathroom. When he stepped back out, the soft rustle of fabric told you he was changing for bed. The bed dipped slightly as he slid in, the warmth of his body radiating toward you, and you couldn’t help but relax just a little. You felt the familiar weight of his arm draping over you, pulling you closer as he settled in. You could feel him breathing, the rise and fall of his chest a rhythm that had always soothed you.

And while you were fucking furious with him, there was comfort in his touch—and knowing that he was back.

You woke up in the morning to find Joel's side of the bed cold and empty. You walked down the stairs to find Joel in the kitchen, already dressed and nursing a cup of coffee. He looked up as you entered, and an awkward silence hung between you.

"Mornin'…"

"Morning," you replied, taking a seat at the table across from him.

After a few moments, you both started eating breakfast—basically in silence. When you picked up Sarah from her sleepover to take her to her Saturday morning soccer match, the car ride had been similarly quiet. She chattered away about her night, oblivious to the tension in the front seat.

Now, as you sat on the bleachers, watching Sarah practice her soccer drills before the game started, you felt frustration. Your gaze drifted from Sarah to where Joel stood with Esther, the soccer coach. You could see the two of them animatedly discussing something—Esther gesturing with enthusiasm while Joel just nodded along. 

You were horny, frustrated, and pissed off at him. But…however, angry you were at him, it didn’t take away from the fact that you wanted to sit on his face. He was wearing a T-shirt that hugged him in all the right places. His broad shoulders and defined chest were on full display. He exuded an air of rugged masculinity that was impossible to ignore. It was all very conflicting. Your pussy forgave him since she was a weak bitch. But, your head was still so mad with him.

It wasn’t long before another woman joined them, and your focus sharpened. She was really beautiful, and you wondered if Joel noticed. She had one of those smiles that made you wonder if she needed braces as a child. Her tits made you feel like yours were non-existent. You couldn’t hear the conversation, but you noticed the way she laughed, and how she playfully touched Joel's arm, her manicured hands lingering a second too long.

What the fuck?

Joel remained mostly facing Esther, but every time he turned slightly towards this woman, you caught a glimpse of his profile. She was leaning really fucking close, tossing her hair back over her shoulder with a casual flick, and you caught her biting and licking her bottom lip while maintaining eye contact with him.

You wanted to slap her across the face.

What you didn’t know was that Joel wanted to blow his fucking brains out. He had been trying to concentrate on Sarah's soccer drills from the field, but one of those fucking PTA moms, the type who strutted around like she owned the place, interrupted him and Esther. He couldn’t help but cringe at the obvious and painful looking implants this woman had—it was a botched boob job. And that laugh? It was like nails on a chalkboard. Joel's patience wore thin as whatever-the-fuck-her-name-was continued her relentless chatter.

"Y'know, I think I’m gonna take my seat," he said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. She didn’t seem to take the hint. No, she just kept on chattering about some PTA meeting that he had zero interest in attending. Fuck that shit.

Joel took a deep breath, said his goodbyes, and with a final dismissive nod to the woman, he turned away and made his way back up the bleachers. He took a seat next to you, the familiar scent of your shampoo filling his nose.

"Who’s that? I’ve never seen her before?" you asked casually.

"You know that kid Sarah did her most recent science project with?" he replied gruffly, a little shocked at hearing your voice since you two had barley exchanged words since waking up.

"The dipshit?"

"Yeah, that’s his mom,"

"She’s pretty," you muttered, glancing back toward the woman.

"I guess, if you’re into that kinda thing," he scoffed.

He caught the way your lips pressed together into a thin line, a telltale sign that you were irritated. It was something you always did when you were trying to brush something off.

You were still watching the field, looking sexy as hell wearing just a t-shirt and jeans. You were a pretty sight to look at all the time—he couldn't believe his luck being with someone like you. Not just cause of how gorgeous you were. You were sharp, didn't take shit from people, and damn it, you were the sweetest person he'd ever come across.

His mind drifted back to the first day he met you. Sarah was 10 and about to fly alone for the first time, heading off to spend two weeks with his parents. He remembered how anxious he had been—the kind of anxiety that made him nearly ready to bolt back to the check-in counter and buy a ticket for the same flight. The thought of Sarah navigating the airport and flying solo was almost too much for him.

He was pacing back and forth in the terminal, glancing at the clock as if it would move faster. Every minute felt like an hour. Sarah, on the other hand, was bubbling with excitement, her small suitcase clutched tightly in her hand.

That’s when he first saw you.

You were the assigned flight attendant that was going to accompany Sarah since she was an unaccompanied minor. You approached with a warm smile, and he could tell you had a way with kids. You crouched down to Sarah’s level, chatting with her about the flight, making her giggle with stories about the sky and clouds.

You must have sensed his anxiety with the way he fidgeted with his hands, so you offered him your number, breaking the rules for him.  With Wi-Fi available on the flight, you promised to text him updates, to keep him in the loop during the flight, and to let him know as soon as you landed safely.

It was a simple gesture, yet it meant the world to him.

That day had changed everything—a simple exchange at an airport had led to this moment, this life together. You moved into his house about six months ago.

Fuck, he really messed up last night.

Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand on your thigh, letting his fingers run gently along your thigh, tracing circular patterns. It was a familiar gesture, one that made you putty in his hands.

"What?" you asked, turning to look at him, surprise dancing over your face.

"Just admirin’ the view," he replied with that signature smirk of his. "You oughta know, your tits look nice in that shirt,"

You couldn’t help but snort. "Seriously, Joel?"

"Hey, don’t knock it. It’s effective," he winked, appreciating the hint of cleavage you were showing off this afternoon.

Before you could retort, he leaned in closer. "Just bein’ honest," And with that, he closed the distance, capturing your lips with his in a soft kiss.

His hand slid further up your thigh, fingers curling possessively into your skin. You melted against him, returning the kiss, and there was no denying the flutter in your stomach. Joel always had a way of making you feel like a teenage girl who was ditching last period to make out with her boyfriend in the high school parking lot.

As Joel pulled away from the kiss, the feeling of his lips lingered on yours, and the playfulness from a moment ago was gone as he tilted your head up to look into your eyes.

"Listen here," he began, "bout’ last night… I’m sorry. I was a real prick. I shouldn’t have suggested you switch flights just ‘cause of my stupid jealousy. Ain’t fair to you, and I know that. You got every right to work with whoever you please,"

He reached out, his hand covering yours on your thigh. "I trust you," he continued. "but it’s just that… seein’ Morales with you... I couldn’t help but feel like he was lookin’ at you like he had a chance. Made me feel like I was losin’ somethin’. Like, hell, I don’t know how to put it. I just… I don’t ever wanna lose you."

You bit your lip. "I felt the same way watching you with that woman earlier. I wanted to rip her hair out, and if you felt even half of what I was feeling just five minutes ago, then I’m so sorry for how I reacted last night,"

He would have laughed if you didn’t look so uneasy. He couldn’t believe that you were jealous. Sure, he was a man, and by nature, he had eyes that could appreciate beauty. He’d seen plenty of beautiful women in his life, but they rarely registered beyond a passing glance since he met you. He simply didn’t care. His thoughts were consumed by you and only you. And definitely not some plastic barbie PTA mom.

He nodded. "I shouldn’t have let my anger take control. I just… I hate the thought of anyone disrespectin’ what we got. But I should’ve communicated that better instead of jumpin’ to conclusions."

With a sigh, you leaned in closer, closing the distance between you once again. "I shouldn’t have dismissed your feelings either,"

Joel’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand. "We’re both a lil’ crazy for each other, ain’t we?"

A small smile pulled at your lips. "Yeah. Just a bit."

The referee blew the whistle announcing that the game was starting.

Before you knew it, his lips were on yours again. This time, it was more intense, he was parting your lips to dive his tongue right in. You let out a surprised squeak, since Joel usually wasn’t exactly the shove-his-tongue-in-your-mouth PDA kind of guy.

"Joel…" you whispered urgently, glancing around. Your eyes landed on Mrs. Adler and her disapproving glare. She looked like she was ready to report you for public indecency.

Joel was clearly unfazed by the watchful gaze of the older woman. "What? Can’t a man kiss his girl?"

"She looks like she’s about to have a heart attack,"

"Let her," he shrugged. "She’s been round’ these parts long enough,"

Just then, the whistle blew again, signaling the kickoff, and you both turned your attention to the field, where Sarah and the other players were getting into position. Joel’s hand found yours under the bleachers, fingers intertwining as he squeezed gently.

"Alright, I’m makin’ me a bet," Joel said, his voice hushed and conspiratorial to make sure the other parents sitting not too far from you wouldn’t hear.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? What’s the bet?"

"I’m bettin’ that Tess is gonna be the most obnoxious parent out here today. You know she can’t resist hollerin’ at the referee like he’s done gone and insulted her mama,"

You laughed, shaking your head. “No way. I’m putting my money on Jesse. He’s always got something to say, and god forbid he doesn’t get the call he wants. He’ll be out there throwing a fit like a toddler."

"Well, that’s a bold move, darlin’. You sure you wanna take that bet?"

"Absolutely," you replied, crossing your arms confidently. "I’ll take that bet any day."

"Alright, how much we bettin’?" he asked, leaning back.

You thought for a moment. "How about… the loser has to give the winner a massage? A full 30 minutes. No backing out."

Joel raised an eyebrow. "A massage, huh?"

"Why not? I could use a little extra attention,"

"Oh my god," you gasped brokenly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. The pleasure was building, it was the third time tonight he was coaxing an orgasm out of you, and you were starting to feel overstimulated.

He was greedy with his movements, thrusting up into you, silently claiming you as his, grabbing your ass with his hands to help you move. "Did you miss me in your sweet little pussy?"

"Yes, Yes, Yes!" you chanted, feeling your mind going blank. You two hadn’t had sex in a few days, and it didn’t help that you didn’t take advantage of the empty house yesterday because of the fight you had.

Admittedly, you had sort of jumped Joel as soon as you got home after grabbing dinner to celebrate Sarah’s game—they won. Maybe you were still a little jealous (okay maybe you were still very jealous).

You lost track of time when he yanked your soaked panties to the side and hungrily lapped and sucked at your hole while your knees were planted on either side of his head. He told you to get his face nice and wet, and you did. You could barely catch your breath as he groaned into your cunt, admiring the taste of your release. He continued to worship you giving you no opportunity to come down from the high, and you weren’t able to do much more than hold onto the headboard and clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle your next orgasm since Sarah was a couple doors down.

He currently had his feet pressed into the bed to drive himself upward into your cunt, fixated on your chest and the way your perfect tits bounced as he fucked up into you. You felt your eyes rolling back at the angle he was hitting. Joel always knew what you needed, when you needed it, and how to give it to you.

"You’re mine. All — thrust— fucking — thrust—mine,"

It wasn’t like Joel didn’t usually speak to you like this during sex. But he just wanted to remind you—a little extra right now.

"All yours," it came out as a whine. You had no pride what it came to this man. He truly had ruined you for anyone else. He owned you and your fucking body.

He took your breast into his mouth, sucking and nipping at the pebbled flesh. "Need you to give me one more," he growled, his breath hot against your chest.

"I don’t know if I can," you warned, considering how sensitive you still were.

"You fuckin’ can and you will," he commanded, and suddenly you felt a sharp flash of pain, a quick slap to your clit making you cry out his name, and then he started rubbing circles over it as he continued his punishing pace.

He was aware that he was testing your limits, yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. Maybe he was still a little jealous (okay maybe he was still very jealous), but the way you were clenching around his cock fueled a primal urge deep within him. It was a fierce acknowledgment that you were his. The low, wet sounds of your cunt filling the room and your shaky sobs was music to his fucking ears. It spurred him on. Your pleasure was his pleasure. Morales could fantasize about you all he wanted, but Joel was the only one who would ever fucking touch you and make you feel good.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

"Fuck, Joel—fuck, you feel so good," you managed to whimper, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you felt the pressure building within your belly. The world around you faded away, as you focused solely on the rhythm of his thrusts, the intoxicating heat coiling tighter and tighter.

"That’s it, baby, say my name." he groaned at the way your pussy was squeezing him. He wanted you so badly, even while he was having you. He felt like a madman, his eyes fixated on your face. "I wanna hear you say my fuckin’ name when you come on my cock."

You lost yourself in the intensity of it all, the intensity of his fingers on your clit, the intensity of taking the devastating blows from his cock, and just accepting that your mind was reduced to mush at this point. So, you buried your face in his neck to muffle your moans to avoid having Sarah be traumatized for the rest of her life. His lips brushed the shell of your ear and then suddenly without warning, your orgasm ripped through you, and it was as if your whole body was lit on fire.

Joel turned your face and guided his lips to yours so he could catch the scream of his name that ripped from your throat. He could feel your walls tightening around him, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he continued to fuck you through it. He pulled your face from the kiss to force you to look at him, keeping his hands on your jaw while your thighs trembled with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

You were a sweaty sticky mess at this point, and you felt a little bad for Joel since every part of you was still tingling so badly and he hadn’t come yet.

"Good girl," he grunted, running both his hands up your thighs and along your waist, coming to rest them on your breasts, squeezing softly, his thumbs ghosting over your nipples. He quickly flipped you both, so you were underneath him, pinning you down, one of his large fucking hands keeping one of your hands above your head while he started to establish a brutal pace.

"L-love you," you stumbled over your words, utterly spent and boneless, so fucked out. "Love y-you so much,"

"God, baby," he sounded strained, your dripping cunt gripping him harder and harder. "Fuck. I love you. I love you,"

You were a babbling mess. Telling him how full you were. Telling him how big he was. Telling him how deep he was. "N-need you—need to feel you—I w-want to feel you come," you begged.

He nodded, pressing his forehead to yours as he panted. "Yeah? Gonna be my good girl, gonna fuckin’ take it?"

"Please, I w-want it so bad," you mumbled, your words choppy from how hard he was driving into you.

He loved it when you begged for him to finish inside of you. Even though he knew you were on birth control, a tiny part of him sometimes wondered if it would ever fail. It always surprised him that the thought didn’t really scare him. You with his kid—would just be undeniable proof of who exactly you belonged to.

His hips began to stutter at the thought, the urgency building in him as he quickened his pace, his thrusts becoming sloppy to chase his own release. He felt himself twitching and released hard into your perfect cunt, the hot ropes of his spend coating your walls. His groan was so loud that you had to place your free hand over his mouth to drown out the noise.

"Jesus Christ," he exhaled, once you took your hand off. He carefully pulled out of you with a huff as he caressed your arms lovingly. Your legs fell open, his eyes darting down and glued to the trail of his release dripping down your thigh. You pouted when he stood up, and he quickly grabbed a towel from the bathroom to delicately clean you up.

"How are you feelin’ pretty girl?" he asked after throwing the towel in the laundry hamper. He gently bowed his head, placing delicate, loving kisses along your collarbone.

You always felt giddy whenever he called you that. "Frisky,"

He huffed out a staggered laugh. "Uh huh, yeah, I got that. I was just walkin’ in our room and you already were rippin’ off my belt and had your hands down my pants."

"Did not," you argued weakly.

He pressed his lips into your hair, inhaling the sweet smell of you. "Trust me, I’m not complainin’ sweetheart,"

"Joel?"

"Yeah, baby?" he grumbled.

"That wasn’t a massage,"

Jesse was asked to leave the match after his daughter received a yellow card. Enraged by the decision, he started yelling at the referee and turned his anger towards Esther. He accused her of not defending his daughter, creating a fucking wild scene. Esther remained composed and explained the situation, pointing out that his daughter had committed a foul, which warranted the yellow card.

"Listen, I’ll give your back my undivided attention soon enough. But first…" His voice dropped, his teeth nipping at your shoulder. "you oughta know that I'm gonna love on you for a second."

Joel laid his head on your chest, his hands finding a home at your waist, pulling you closer. You melted, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. "Just let me hold you for a bit," he murmured. He always craved this part with you after sex. Just touching you and feeling your skin against his.

You would never admit this to Joel, but the next time you had a flight where Frankie was the assigned pilot—you traded the shift. You would like to think you did it just for you—but maybe you did it a little because of Joel too. But he sure as hell didn’t need to know that.

So instead, you got to enjoy the sting of Joel’s cock that day—and as always— he made you feel like you were flying.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Low key, I think the backstory of how they met is cute. By the end of writing this, I wondered if that’s what the one-shot should have been about. Oops.

Joel’s face when he’s talking to PTA moms:

[thatcorporategirlie]

you got me all twisted up

18+ account - minors do not interact

jack abbot x f!reader Rating: E

Summary: Jack was no better than Robby when it came to relationships. He moved through life after his divorce using intimacy as a distraction rather than a connection. And then… he met you.

Warning: (MDNI 18+) acquaintances to lovers, wealth advisor reader (girl boss and very successful), starts off slightly angsty (jacks deployment and leg), mentions of infidelity, emotionally constipated jack, he fucks an original character (not descriptive at all, allusions of smut only), fuckboy/commitment phobe jack? language, competency kink (jack is very turned on by your intelligence), flirting, sexual tension, jacks intense eye contact, alcohol, feelings, mutual pining, reader has a dog, mentions of men threatened by success (your ex sucks), pet names, making out like teenagers (they cute and horny), some lite sexual touching / heavy petting, dirty thots, mentions of sexy time, fluff alert, domesticity, I think that’s it

A/N: There’s totally a joke/interaction in this fic that I saw on this post, and I want to emphasize how funny this is. I did not come up with this. Full credit to @tanley GIF by @pittgifs found HERE.

Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.

For 5 years, Jack had been a husband. He wore the ring, paid the bills, and was building a life with his wife.

His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.

He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.

That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.

The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.

She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.

"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."

He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"

She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."

The words hung in the air.

"W-what?" he stuttered.

"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."

Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. He was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.

The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.

He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.

But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.

Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.

Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.

He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.

And then… he met you.

The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.

Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.

On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.

"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.

"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.

She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.

"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."

"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"

"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."

He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.

The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.

"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."

Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.

"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.

"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."

"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."

"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."

Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.

"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."

"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.

Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.  

"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.

Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.

"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."

Ellis groaned.

"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.

"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."

Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."

As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"

Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them

"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."

He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.

He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.

Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"

Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.

 "…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.

You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.

Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"

Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.

"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."

People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.

What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.

Ellis smirked.

The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.

"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."

Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.

"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"

A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.

"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."

The room laughed again.

"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."

Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.

"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."

The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.

"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"

You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.  

"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."

A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.

"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"

"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.

The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.

You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.

"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.

MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+

AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000

The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.

"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.

"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.

You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."

Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.

The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.

"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."

"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."

You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.

"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."

You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"

Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.

"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.

You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.

"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."

"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?

He decided to change topics.

"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."

"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."

"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.

"Incredible, thanks for asking."

He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.

"Who was the nurse?"

"Dana Evans."

At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.

"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."

The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.

"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"

"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.

"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.

"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."

"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."

Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.

"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."

"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."

"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."

Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.

"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:

Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management

"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."

He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.

"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."

"It's on the house."

He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."

"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.

You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.

You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.

You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.

And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.

You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."

He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.

"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."

When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.

Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.

Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.

"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.

You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."

He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Sure."

"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.

Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.

"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."

You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."

"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.

You leaned back in your chair.

"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.

He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love caramel frappuccinos—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—pickleball, and your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."

You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.

"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.

"I-I was hoping that—um—I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.

"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Good. That's... really good."

You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.

"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."

You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"

"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"

You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right? 

She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."

"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."

You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."

"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."

"I guess," you muttered.  

The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.

The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.

"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."

"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."

"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."

You snorted.

"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."

"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.

You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it

"Come home," she would say.

The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.

You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.

Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself

"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.

"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."

You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.

She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."

Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.

You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."

Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."

You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.

"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.

"What do you mean?"

"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."

Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"

"You just what?" you pressed.

Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."

You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."

He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"

"Yeah," you shrugged.  "I guess I do."

He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.

"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."

Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.

In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with men until they hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.

"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."

You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.

He heard you.

Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.

Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.

"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.

Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.

"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."

Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.

"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."

Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.

"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.

Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.

The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.

The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.

"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.

"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."

Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.

High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.

But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.

Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.

Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.

Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.

There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.

His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.

Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.

You had changed.

The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.

You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.

"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."

"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"

"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.

So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finished talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.

"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."

He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."

Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?

Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.

"Bottom's up."

You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."

"What happened with your ex?"

You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."

He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."

The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."

"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I got a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."

You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.

"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.

"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. "A real man doesn't ask his girl to dim her light so he can feel big—he feels proud as hell watching her shine."

"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they’re drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.

Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."

You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.

"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."

"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."

You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."

Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.

"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."

He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."

"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.

"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."

He blinked slowly.

"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."

You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.

"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"

"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."

You snickered.

"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."

Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.  

You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was both softer and more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.

Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.

"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.

"Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.

You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.

"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.

His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"

After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.

But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.

He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.

"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.

He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."

Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.

"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”

"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.

"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."

You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."

Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.

The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.

"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.

Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.

Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.

"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.

Remmy barked in agreement.

Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.

Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.

You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.

"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.

Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.

After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up in his car, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.

It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.

You hadn't seen Jack yesterday—he was currently off for 3 days. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.

"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.

"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."

"I wasn't talking about the food."

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."

"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."

Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.

"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.

"I'm being honest about my intentions."

"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"

A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.

So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?

"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."

Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"

You were adorable.

"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."

"You weren't boring the other day when you—"

"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."

"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"

"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."

"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"

You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."

"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."

He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.

"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.

"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."

Girlfriend?

You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.

"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."

He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.

"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.

This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)

He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.

After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let dinner settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.

Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.

I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.

That said, this absolutely works as a standalone if you prefer to read it that way!