Unconcealed (2579 words) by inexplicifics
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: WiedĹşmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Lambert (The Witcher)/Milena de Roggeven (Accidental Warlord Series - inexplicifics)
Characters: Lambert (The Witcher), Milena de Roggeven (Accidental Warlord Series - inexplicifics), Original Male Character(s)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Peril, Monsters, First Meetings, Canon-Typical Violence, Rescue
Series: Part 41 of Inex's Not-Quite-February Ficlets
Summary:
Milena's godsmark means she'll never be married, but being sent off to a Temple might actually be the best thing that's ever happened to her. Or, of course, it could lead to deadly danger.
idk if ur still taking requests but olivia rodrigos new album is tearing me apartttt thinking of the song âmaggots for brainsâ specifically im thinking of deeply anxious reader whoâs kinda needy about jack because he makes her feel safe 𼲠they have opposite work schedules so its been making it hard for them to see eachother lately and the straw that breaks the camels back is overhearing some nurses talking about âdr. silver foxâ when you come in to surprise him one night đââď¸
Ik thatâs long and tragic but pls feel free to ignore if it doesnât spark you! you just write angst and longing so beautifully! xoxoxo
maggots for brains
summary: overwhelmed by the emotional distance of your careers, you seek a brief moment of comfort from husband amidst the chaos of his hospital shift. (2.4k)
pairing: jack abbot x reader
content: established relationship, mild intimacy mention, angst with happy ending, implied age gap, hurt/comfort, anxiety.
authorâs note: with these types of requests i try my hardest to not make reader come off as like completely dependent on jack etc. which is quite hard to do for some reason. but i hope you like this anon (i did swap the night to earlier morning but i hope thatâs okay) and thank you youâre too sweetttt!!
the dashboard clock of your lexus read 7:05 am.
in exactly fifty-five minutes, twenty-one kindergarteners would come bursting through your classroom door.
they would be ready to submerge themselves in a world of neon finger-paint and bright construction paper while you watched on.
you loved your job, and you were good at it; you were the vibrant, patient anchor who spent your days sorting counting bears and gently managing full-blown morning meltdowns over a dropped box of glitter crayons.
but right now, sitting in your car, your own chest felt incredibly tight.
a persistent wave of anxiety had trailed you all morning, starting the moment you woke up to an empty mattress, and you had finally hit a wall.
your yellow school tote bag sat heavy in the passenger seat, stuffed to the brim with flashcards, your green lanyard, plastic math cubes, and a half-finished fiction manuscript you hadn't found the energy to touch in three weeks.
writing used to be your escape, but lately, the words wouldn't come.
you were exhausted, and when your thoughts started to spiral like this, jack was always the one person who could talk you down and make the world quiet down.
you didn't do this.
you never did this.
visiting jack at work was a boundary you both respected; his shifts were a meat grinder, and your own career kept you firmly in your own lane.
but three months of time wasting had finally worn you down to a raw nerve.
you had left early under the guise of needing to prep your classroom, but you had driven here instead.
you just needed to see your husband for five minutes. thatâs all you needed.
see the thing was the intimacy between you hadn't died; it had just been compressed into tiny, desperate fragments. it was a hunger that never quite got satisfied, a constant, low-burning longing that made the edges of your vision blur with frustration.
it felt incredibly cruel, considering the two of you were newly married.
you had bought a huge house together, a beautiful, sprawling place with high ceilings and endless natural light.
you had both fallen in love with it initially, but lately, you were starting to really hate it.
all the spare rooms felt completely unlived in, a stark, hollow contrast to the explosion of color and life in your classroom.
at home, the silence echoed off the pristine, neutral walls in a way that felt incredibly heavy.
in moments like that, surrounded by too much empty space, your mind would wander to strange places.
you would think about how easy it would be to fill those rooms with the sound of a full-of-life little girl sprinting down the hallway, or a quiet, shy son reading a picture book in the corner of the living room. or both.
but the thought always dissolved as quickly as it came. the truth was, neither you nor jack wanted children.
you just wanted each other.
you wanted the house to be full of him, not empty square footage that reminded you of his absence.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
the heavy diamond and matching gold band sitting securely on your ring finger were a constant, beautiful reminder of the commitment you had made, but the physical reality of marriage had lately felt like passing notes in the dark across a giant, quiet home.
on the rare nights your schedules miraculously aligned, the air in those high-ceilinged rooms always felt thick with a quiet, starved urgency. the only night you had shared a bed in weeks happened three days ago.
you had been asleep for hours when the mattress shifted, the heavy, now unfamiliar weight of jack sinking into the sheets beside you.
even in your deep sleep, your body instinctively sought his heat, rolling over until your forehead pressed against his bare shoulder.
"hey," he had whispered, his voice a gravelly, midnight rumble. his hand had slid around your waist, pulling you against him. "i didn't mean to wake you."
"you didn't," you lied, blinking through the darkness, your hand coming up to trace the stubble on his jaw, your wedding ring cold against his warm skin.
the anxiety that had been simmering in your chest all day evaporated the second his skin touched yours.
you became entirely needy in those quiet hours, craving the sheer volume of his presence. "just missed you."
jack hadn't answered with words.
he had just shifted, his thighs tangling with yours, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath your ear.
the lovemaking that followed wasn't fast or frantic; it was deliberate, and heavy with a quiet devotion.
in the dark, jack moved over you like a man trying to imprint himself into your very skin, his fingers locking tightly with yours against the mattress.
every touch was an anchor.
when he buried his face in your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy, you held him just as tightly, wishing you could freeze the clock.
but by 6:00 am, your alarm had shattered the peace.
you had to slide out from under the covers, leaving him buried deep in the mattress, only to return home to an empty house and jack already back in his scrubs, bracing himself for another overnight shift.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
now you walked through the sliding glass doors, holding a bag of fresh breakfast sandwiches. the atmosphere was rushing staff, and shouting, a stark contrast to the quiet morning routine you usually tried to maintain.
"well, look who finally graced us with her presence."
you turned to see robby with a chart tucked under his arm. his eyes widened in genuine surprise at your unexpected appearance.
it had been months since you had last set foot in the hospital. "wow. hey. i honestly forgot what you looked like." he joked as warm smile broke through his fatigue.
"hey, robby," you replied, offering a small, self-deprecating smile as you held up the brown paper bag. "i know it's weird for me to just show up on a weekday. i brought some breakfast. is he... is it a bad morning?"
robby let out a sharp, dry laugh, running a hand over his face. "it's a disaster. we had a six-car pileup on the interstate at 3:00 am. jack's been in surgery or running traumas since midnight." robby's expression softened, his eyes glancing at the bag. "honestly, he's at his breaking point. go on through. he would definitely love to see you today."
"thanks, robby," you murmured, a new layer of worry settling into your stomach.
you hadn't realized how heavy his own day had been. let alone his week.
as you walked toward the presentation boards, you had to pass the main breakroom. the door was ajar by a few inches. you were about to walk past when a burst of sharp laughter cut through the gap, making you slow down.
"oh, come on, you saw the way he handled that chest tube in trauma three," a voice snickered. you recognized the sharp tone of one of the floor nurses. "if dr. silver fox asked me to stay late for a 'private consult' in the call room, i would clock in for a double shift before he could even finish the beginning of the sentence."
"please," another voice chimed in, accompanied by the rustle of a plastic wrapper. "dr. silver fox doesn't do private consults with the staff. he goes straight home to his wife. though, god knows how she keeps his attention. he looks like he could chew glass and she looks like a slightest breeze could knock her over."
a cruel, low laugh followed. "maybe he likes them fragile. easier to manage between shifts. keep them desperate enough on the back burner and they will wait around forever while you play god at work."
the words didn't just hurt but they also confirmed every ugly doubt you had harboured for weeks.
fragile.
desperate.
easier to manage.
waiting around forever.
you hadn't even realized you had dropped the breakfast bag until you were already halfway down the hall, your chest heaving, your feet moving on autopilot until you pushed through the heavy fire door of the stairwell.
now, you sat with your knees pulled to your chest, your chin resting on your arms.
your right thumb was at your left hand, spinning the gold wedding band around your finger.
over and over.
a restless, rhythmic click of metal against diamond that only happened when the walls started closing in.
the heavy fire door groaned open above you.
footsteps descended the stairsâuneven and echoing with a rhythm you had know anywhere. you didn't look up. you just kept spinning the ring.
the scuffed leather of his work shoes halted on the step right below yours.
jack didn't say anything at first. his hazel eyes went straight to your left hand, watching your thumb mindlessly tear at the gold. he knew that gesture. he knew exactly what it meant.
"hey," he said. his voice was breathless, carrying the flat, heavy fatigue of a shift that had already pushed him past his limit. he lifted the crumpled brown paper bag in his hand. "and thank you. for this. i haven't eaten since yesterday."
"i dropped it on the ground," you whispered, your eyes tracing the grease stain on the bottom of the bag. "you should go back... i heard the floor is busy."
jack let out a long, ragged breath. he went to lower himself onto the step below you, but his jaw suddenly tightened as his prosthetic leg caught at a bad angle on the narrow concrete.
he paused, a brief flash of frustration crossing his face as he struggled to find his balance on the cramped staircase.
"i'm fine," he muttered quickly, his stubborn pride flaring as he tried to adjust.
you didn't argue.
you just held a steady hand out to him.
jack looked at your open palm for a split second, let out a quiet sigh, and grudgingly took it. he leaned into your grip just enough to steady his weight, easing his frame down until he was safely settled on the step, setting the food down between his feet.
he dropped his head into his hands, his broad shoulders dropping with sheer exhaustion.
"i told robby to cover," jack muttered into his palms. "if i have to look at another chart or have another administrator talk to me about something unimportant while we're short-staffed, i'm going to go insane." he slowly lifted his head. his eyes were shadowed and laced with a deep, private ache.
he looked at your face, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your expression. "you bolted away from the break room. what happened?"
he reached out, his palm securely covering your left hand, instantly silencing the frantic movement of your fingers. he squeezed, his grip tight but also comforting.
"nothing," you whispered, trying for a small, fragile smile to deflect. "just... overhearing the nurses. apparently, you're the hottest doctor on the floor. i had to see if the rumors were true."
jack blinked, looking entirely blank for a second as the comment registered. he let out a dry, incredulous huff, gesturing to his heavily shadowed eyes and the faint smudge of standard-issue hospital grime on his scrubs. "the hottest? i look like a corpse, sweetheart."
"shush," you murmured lovingly, leaning down just enough to press your forehead against his temple. "don't say that."
a soft, genuine trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he let his head rest heavily against yours for a second. "pretty sure langdon still has better hair than me, even on a double shift."
the brief, oblivious deflection helped the knot in your chest loosen just a fraction, but the reality of why you were hiding on the stairs caught up to you.
"i shouldn't have come," you admitted quietly, your voice dropping. "i have my lesson plans to do but i woke up and the house felt too big. i just wanted five minutes. i didn't mean to bring my mess into yours. i heard what they were saying in there about how much space family takes up on a heavy shift, and i justâi felt like a burden."
jack's jaw clenched, a sudden, sharp anger flaring in his eyes, though it wasn't directed at you.
he shifted up one step, narrowing the space until his chest was inches from your knees.
he didn't let the silence hang between you this time. his hands slid up to your shoulders, his thumbs finding the tight, knotted muscles at the base of your neck.
he began to work them out with a slow, firm, and deeply grounding massage, his touch telling you everything his words hadn't yet.
his hand moved to your face, his thumb catching a stray tear before it could drop.
"don't do that," jack whispered, leaning forward so his forehead came to rest gently against yours.
"don't apologize for needing me, and you think you're the only one losing your mind? i am drowning down there. every person in this building wants a piece of me. they want a miracle, or they want a doctor." he looked at you, his eyes intensely raw. "you're the only person who just wants me as i am."
he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours in a soft, desperate kiss that tasted like pure relief. when he pulled back just a fraction, he pressed a lingering, heavy kiss right against your forehead.
"i don't need you to be perfect, and i don't need you to be strong all the time," he muttered, his hands sliding down to rub comfortingly across your upper back. "i just need my wife. i feel like i live in this hospital and i'm just a ghost passing through our house. i miss waking up next to you so much it hurts. i need to know there's still a real life waiting for me outside these doors. you're not a chore, sweetheart. you're the only thing keeping me sane."
the weight of his words and the steady, warm rhythm of his hands against your back shifted something tight in your chest.
the distance wasn't a sign of failure; it was just a storm you were both weathering together.
"jack," you breathed, leaning forward into his space as the tension finally began to bleed out of your shoulders.
he pulled your hand up to press a brief, heavy kiss against your knuckles, right over the gold band.
he hovered there for a second, his arms twitching as if he wanted to wrap you up entirely, before he reluctantly let his hands drop back to his sides. "i want to keep holding you," he muttered, a small, frustrated edge to his voice. "but i know you've got to get to the school. i don't want to make you late for work."
you let out a soft, breathy laugh at that, the heavy weight in your chest lifting just a little more. "i can stay ten minutes, i'm not going to be late."
"okay so weâve got ten minutes," jack murmured, shifting so he could pull you against his side. his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers idly stroking your arm as his breathing finally slowed down to match yours. "just sit with me."
you let your head lean against his scrub-clad shoulder, your fingers locking into the fabric.
"ten minutes," you agreed quietly, staring down at your intertwined hands as the chaos of the hospital hummed on the other side of the heavy door.
summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changingâuntil you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
âHeyâoh, thank God.â You kick the door shut behind you. âCan you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.â
Ellis sighs. âReally? I was just about to leave.â
âFive minutes,â you say again, already moving toward your room.
You donât bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
âArenât you gonna shower?â Ellis calls from the living room.
âWe showered before I left,â you say, âbut I didnât have a clean pair of scrubs.â
Ellis gags. âGross. Whyâd you have to say âweâ?â
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
âBecause we had some really great shower sex too.â
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
âI thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,â she says.
You shrug. âScheduling conflict.â
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. âYou are the schedule.â
âIâm restructuring,â you say lightly, falling into step beside her. âDonât think Deranâs making the cut.â
Ellis doesnât say anything else. She just watches you for a secondâeyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighterâbefore shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellisâ car.
The drive to the hospital isnât long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because heâd googled itâand sheâs still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
âI swear,â she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, âif I hear the words âbut I googled itâ even once tonight, Iâm going to lose my mind.â
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney throughâsomething about chest pain, you overhear.
âTrauma oneâs open,â Dana calls.
âDr. Toomarian, with me.â
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jackâs voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
âHeyâdonât disappear. I need to talk to you after this.â
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. âMe?â
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
âOoh,â Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. âYouâre in trouble.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, right.â
âMaybe heâs restructuring,â she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. âThink youâll make the cut?â
You shoot her a flat look. âVery funny.â
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the sameâmoving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
âEvening, ladies,â Lena says from behind the nursesâ desk. âGet a good sleep?â
âAlways,â Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
âGood enough,â you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
âMm.â Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. âWell, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.â
Ellis snorts beside you.
âLena,â you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. âI donâtââ
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
âYou have my badge.â
You frown. âWhat?â
âMy badge,â he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
âAttending physician, huh?â
You shrug. âThought it was time I got a promotion.â
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
âTry to keep track of it,â he mutters, already turning away.
You donât respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nursesâ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
âYou didnât even notice?â Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. âI just grabbed it off the floor.â
âOkay,â Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. âIâm choosing not to know.â
Ellis shakes her head. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âI know,â you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. âBut you love me.â
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
âCome on.â You bump your shoulder against hers. âLetâs go check out the elbow dislocation in One.â
âFine,â she sighs, âbut Iâm not doing traction.â
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expectedâmid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
âAlright, Mr. Donovan,â you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. âLetâs have a look at that shoulder.â
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âAre you a doctor?â
âSure am,â you reply as you step closer to the bed. âAnd with me is Dr. Ellis. Sheâs going to help me get that bone back in place, but first youâre going to have to tell us how you did it.â
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
âYeahâuhâI was just at the gym,â he starts, voice strained.
âBenching?â Ellis asks.
He nods. âYeah.â
âLet me guessâpersonal best?â
He nods again. âYeah. How did youââ
âHappens more often than you think,â you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. âMove your fingers.â
He wriggles them slowly.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âI was just putting the bar back,â he says. âMy arm twisted a bit and it just⌠popped.â
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
âOkay, Mr. Donovanââ
âYou can call me Chase,â he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. âAlright, Chase. Weâre going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so itâs easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.â
âWill it hurt?â
âNot much,â Ellis replies. âMaybe a little discomfort, but itâll be quick.â
âOkay,â he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. âFentanyl and midaz?â
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
âWeâll be back in about five minutes,â you tell Chase. âJust as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.â
âFive minutes, huh? Thatâs just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.â
You snort. âLetâs just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.â
âOuch,â he chuckles. âIs that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?â
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
âUhâno,â you mutter. âNo boyfriend.â
He smirks. âSo I have a shot?â
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. âLike I saidâletâs see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.â
He doesnât say anything elseâjust lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing thereâarms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like heâs waiting for something.
âOhâhey,â you say. âNeed me?â
He shakes his head. âNope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?â
âNah, Iâve got Ellis,â you reply, starting back toward Central. âBut youâre more than welcome to supervise.â
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. âYou donât need supervising.â
âI know.â You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. âBut I know how you like to watch.â
His mouth quirks, like heâs trying not to laugh.
âCareful,â he murmurs.
âOr what?â you tease, stopping just before the nursesâ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
âYou donât want to find out,â he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your bellyâand you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
âAbbot,â Lena calls before you can say anything else. âTrauma inboundâcyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.â
Jack pauses for a half a secondâthen nods. âAlright, letâs prep Trauma Two.â He looks at you. âYou in?â
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. âOh, I wish I could, but Iâve got that reductionâŚâ
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. âMm. Tragic.â
âGood luck, though,â you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isnât long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurneyâand you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
âAlright, Chase,â you say, pulling back the curtain. âLetâs do this.â
He gives you a lopsided smile. âI was hoping Iâd see you again.â
Ellis snorts. âMidaz is working.â
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. âReady?â
She nods once.
âOkay, Chase,â you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. âStay loose for me.â
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
âThatâs it,â you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady untilâhis shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. âGood. Now rotate.â
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shiftâthe soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, thenâ
âOhââ He blinks. âOh, thatâsâthatâs way better.â
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
âMove your fingers,â you tell him.
He does.
âAny numbness?â
He shakes his head.
âGood.â
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
âComfortable?â she asks.
Chase nods slowly. ââM tired.â
âThen have a nap.â
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
âWeâre going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everythingâs back in place.â
âYouâre leaving me?â he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. âIâll be back in a bit to see how youâre feeling, alright?â
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but itâs too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. âGonna give him your number?â
You roll your eyes. âUm, no.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause I'm notââ
âRosterâs looking a little thin,â she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
She shrugs. âNot that Iâm keeping track, but⌠by my count, youâre down to one.â
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. âOkayâwell, not that itâs any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âAnd you dropped Deran, soââ
âLike I said,â you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. âIâm restructuring.â
âRestructuring,â she repeats mildly, âor retiring?â
Before the words have even landed, sheâs goneâslipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
Itâs not like youâre some irresponsible party animalâyou barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug youâve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, youâd argue that youâre the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You donât take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why youâre not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that theyâre not going to ask for more, that theyâre going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isnât wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Wellâexcept for Jack.
But thatâs different. He knows what heâs doing. You trust himâand youâre on birth control.
So it doesnât really matter if, occasionally, he finishesâ
âYou good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?â
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Hendersonâs gaze.
âUhâyeah, sorry, I was justââ
He chuckles. âNo need to apologiseâbut if youâre bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.â
You tilt your head. âWorth it?â
âForearm lac. Exposed tendon.â
You nod. âIâm in.â
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdnessâa woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelveâwhen you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, âTo infinity and beyond, I guess.â
Thatâs when you lost itâmuttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
âOh my God,â Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. âI love the night shift.â
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
âStopââ you gasp, shaking your head. âI canât go back in there.â
âIn where?â Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
âActually,â Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. âI think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.â
You nod. âOh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.â
Shen frowns. âWhatâs the case?â
âItâs hard to explain,â Ellis says quickly. âYouâre better off seeing it for yourself.â
Shen isnât stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curiousâas most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellisâ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
âTrauma Oneâget in here,â Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
âTwenty-four-year-old maleâfell onto a plastic prop sword,â the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. âPenetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.â
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
âAlright, weâll take it from here,â Jack says. âCan you tell us your name, sir?â
âJosh,â the patient replies, his voice strained.
âStabilise the leg,â you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. âOn my countâone, two, three.â
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
âJosh!â
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same partyâwearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurseâs uniform.
âOh my God. Is he bleeding out?â
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. âI donât remember approving that uniform.â
You shoot him a look. âVery funny, Dr. Abbot.â
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
âNot that Iâd object,â he murmurs.
You arch a brow. âThe nurses might.â
âIâm not a nurse,â the woman says, indignant. âIâm a sexy doctor.â
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with âDr. Feelgoodâ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. âRight.â
âStill not the sexiest doctor in the room,â Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
âHave you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?â you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
âIâve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,â Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
âWeâre going to get you something for the pain, alright?â you say, watching Olive insert the IV. âBut first, I need to know what happened and how much youâve had to drink.â
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Joshâs pants, fully exposing the entry site.
âIânghâI fell on itââ Josh manages. âItâs not evenânot even realâfuckââ
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
âWhat about alcohol?â you ask again.
âLikeâtwo beers,â he replies.
âAny drugs?â
âNoâahâno drugs.â
You nod. âOkay. Letâs give another twenty-five of fent.â
âCan we get surgery down here?â Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. âCalling now.â
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. âAlright. Whatâs next?â
âRepeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, donât remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.â
He nods again. âGood.â
You try to ignore the way heâs watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
âPulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,â you report.
âGood,â he says again. âKeep checking. If that changes, we move faster.â
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
âDo you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?â
He shakes his head faintly. âNo.â
âOkay, tetanus boosterââ you glance up at Jack, âand antibiotics.â
âWhich antibiotic?â
âCefazolin?â
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightlyâthen he turns to Olive. âYou heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.â
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
âLetâs flag contamination risk for surgery,â Jack says, pulling off his gloves. âAnd X-ray forââ
âPosition and fragments,â you cut in, finishing for him. âAnd CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.â
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
âAlright,â he says, mildly amused. âI can see Iâm no longer needed in here.â
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
âEntry looks clean, bleedingâs controlledâletâs pack around it and get him to imaging.â
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesnât shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure youâve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. Theyâre just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nursesâ station. You donât quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before youâre dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. Youâre halfway through the patientâs intake whenâ
You stopâthen take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
âDeran?â
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. âHey, doc.â
âWhatâre you doing here?â you ask, despite the obvious.
Heâs got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag thatâs already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
âI was helping a friend with his truck,â he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. âThe prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.â
âOuch,â you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. âYeah. Ouch.â
âMind if I take a look?â
âGo for it.â
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at whatâs underneath. Itâs not that deformedâjust swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise itâs mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he wonât need stitchesâmaybe some steri-strips and a splintâbut youâre more concerned about the dirty rag heâs got wrapped around it.
âWhat dâyou think?â he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. âAm I going to make it?â
You tilt your head. âMaybe. If we act fast.â
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. âDo youâuhâhave you seen a doctor yet?â
He shakes his head. âNo. Just you.â
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twentyâs chart.
âCool. Iâll be your doctorââ You pause, glancing back at him. âUnless you think thatâs a conflict of interest?â
His smile widens. âYou mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburghâs gonna fix me up?â
You roll your eyes. âJust Pittsburgh, huh?â
âWell, I couldnât say the worldâthatâd be way too cheesy.â
You snort. âAll your lines are cheesy.â
He gasps. âAll of them?â
âAll of them,â you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
âWow,â he mutters. âTough crowd.â
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
âAlright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.â
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
âThis might sting a bit,â you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. âLet me know if you want me to stop.â
âDo I need a safe word?â he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamusedâthen back down to his hand without a word.
âIâm gonna go with meatball,â he decides. âBecauseââ
ââyour favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,â you cut in. âI know.â
His brows lift. âWow.â
Your eyes flick up again. âWow what?â
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. âNothing. I just⌠didnât think you paid that much attention.â
You donât look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldnât turn this into a deeper conversation than youâre willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. âStill doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?â
You roll your eyes. âItâs not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.â
âYeah, I know,â he says, glancing back down at his hand. âI guess I just figured since I hadnât heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.â
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. âYeah, wellâyouâd be wrong.â
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
âAlright,â you say, turning back. âLift your hand for me.â
He lifts it slowly.
âCan you move your fingers?â
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. âJust try.â
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
âOkay, thatâs enough,â you say, scooting forward again. âAny numbness or tingling?â
He shakes his head. âNo.â
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinkyâuntil it turns whiteâthen watch the colour return beneath his nail.
âCap refillâs good,â you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
âSo, whatâs the verdictâis my weekend ruined?â
You snort. âNot entirely. Iâll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch itâI need to see exactly where the fracture is first.â
âWell then,â he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. âGood thing Iâm right-handed.â
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
âOh my God,â you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. âWhat is wrong with you?â
He grins. âWhat? You said it yourselfâmy weekend isnât entirely ruined.â
You shake your head. âI didnât think you meant that.â
âWell,â he says slowly, leaning in, âI donât have plans yet, but if youâve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we couldââ
âEverything alright in here?â
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. âYep. All good.â
âExcept my hand,â Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
âRight.â You shake your head once. âDeran, this is Dr. Abbotâheâs the senior attending on shift tonight.â
Then you glance back at Jack.
âCrush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intactâcap refillâs good, no numbness or tingling. Iâve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.â
Jack nods once. âGood. Any pain management?â
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
âI was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.â
He nods again. âSounds like youâve got everything under control.â
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. âHang tightâIâll come find you once I get your X-ray results.â
He pouts. âYouâre just going to leave me here?â
You roll your eyes, already turning away. âUnavailable, remember.â
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
âYou know him?â
You glance up from your tablet. âUhâyeah. Old friend.â
He lifts a brow. âFriend?â
You give him a look. âWhat do you want me to say?â
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. âFriend works.â
âGood,â you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. âMeet me in Central Twelve once youâve put the orders in.â
You frown. âWhy?â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âBecause Iâm your boss, thatâs why.â
Then heâs gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deranâs chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelveâs chartâif only to annoy Jack by getting a head startâbut thereâs nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isnât unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handleâand freeze when you spot the empty bed.
âShut the door,â Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer heâs rummaging through.
You hesitate. âAm I in trouble?â
He sighs. âDo you ever just do what youâre told?â
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
âSometimes,â you say. âDepends whatâs in it for me.â
Jack straightens, turning toward you. âThatâs a remarkably transactional approach to life.â
You shrug. âI believe in reciprocation.â
He takes a step closer. âThatâs not what reciprocation means.â
âReally?â you ask. âBecause last time I checkedâin the shower, by the wayâyou were getting a pretty good deal.â
His mouth quirks. âAre you saying I owe you?â
You step forward. âWhoâs keeping count?â
âMaybe I am,â he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugsâjust enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isnât an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing moreâand for a second it almost feels like heâs going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. âWhat was that?â
He lifts a shoulder. âNothing.â
âNothing?â
He steps toward the door.
âDr. Toomarianâs got a patient to present.â
You stare at him. âSeriously?â
He reaches for the handle.
âSouth Sixteen.â
Then heâs gone, and youâre left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as youâd left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
âHey,â you say, stepping up to the nursesâ station. âGot anything easy for me?â
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. âEasy left three hours ago.â
You sigh. âCome on. Thereâs got to be something.â
Her eyes flick back down. âIâve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.â
âPerfect. Iâllââ
âIâve got this one,â Jack says, appearing beside you. âDr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.â
You frown. âBut Iââ
âNow.â
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
âFine,â you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. âBut when Iâm admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that youâre the reason why.â
Then you turn and head for the South hall before youâre tempted to say something even less professional.
You donât normally snap like thatâespecially not at an attendingâbut something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasnât settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jackâs stupid little half-smirk after heâd kissed you, youâre annoyed.
You just canât figure out why.
He doesnât normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesnât normally order you around like youâre a lost med student.
And he definitely doesnât volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you donât normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. Itâs what you do. So whatâs so different about tonight?
âHey.â Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. âYou good?â
You blink. âYeah. Why?â
âYou look like youâre contemplating homicide.â
âAnd if I am?â
âIâd be obliged to remind you that weâre here to save lives, not end them.â
âDamn. Guess Iâll just have to wait until after my shift.â
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. âIs this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?â
You frown. âWho did you think you saw?â
âDeran.â
âOh.â
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
âThat was fast,â you mutter.
Her brows lift. âWait. Youâre his physician?â
You shrug. âYeah.â
âIsnât that a conflict of interest?â
âIsnât my life a conflict of interest?â
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. âItâs one of those nights, huh?â
You sigh. âYep.â
She puts a hand on your shoulder. âGood luck.â
âThanks.â
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you donât recognise as if to rub it in that sheâs having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient whoâs convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time youâve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isnât a substitute for medical advice, youâre finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isnât until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nursesâ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink sheâd forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
âShen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.â
Lena tilts her head. âButt Lightyear?â
âYou donât want to know,â you murmur into your drink.
âThey tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,â Ellis explains.
âThe wings?â
She smirks. âYeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.â
You shut your eyes. âOuch.â
âLet me guess,â Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. âHe slipped?â
Ellis nods. âYep. Total accident.â
âYeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,â you add.
Lena sighs. âEvery day I learn something new against my will.â
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversationâand the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. Youâre about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. âWhy is he still in there?â
Ellis shrugs. âNot sure. I thought it was just a migraine.â
âLaughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,â you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. âDo you know who she is?â
âNope.â
âHuh.â
You look at her. âWhat?â
She shakes her head. âNothing.â
âI have no idea who she is,â you say, grabbing your tablet. âAnd frankly? I donât care.â
Ellis nods. âOkay.â
âGood.â
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient youâre actually on your way to see.
It isnât long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahanâs room to see if sheâs been discharged yet. Which she hasnâtâbut at least Jackâs not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you canât imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because youâre looking this timeâyouâre genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstationâbut sheâs still in there. And she certainly doesnât look like sheâs in pain anymore.
If you were her, youâd be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart youâve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
âYou know thatâs Abbotâs ex, right?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Shen nods toward Central Nine. âMs. Callahan. Sheâs Abbotâs ex.â
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
âOh.â
Shen nods slowly. âAnyway. Heâs looking for you.â
You frown. âWho?â
âDr. Abbot.â
âWhy?â
Shen shrugs. âDidnât say.â
You sigh. âGreat.â
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
âDid he say where?â you ask.
âSouth.â
You nod once. âThanks.â
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still donât entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patientâand heâs leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that heâll admit it.
âShen said you wanted to see me.â
He glances up. âYour friendâs imaging came back.â
âAnd?â
âHand surgery wants him,â he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. âFracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.â
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeonâs review.
âOkay. Iâll send him up.â
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
âHave you eaten?â
You frown. âWhat?â
âHave you eaten anything tonight?â
âI had an energy drink.â
He stares at you. âThatâs not food.â
You shrug. âI havenât had time.â
âMake time.â
You roll your eyes. âFine. I didnât bring anything.â
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deranâs X-rays and brings up another patientâs chart.
âThereâs a container in the fridge.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âTop shelf. Left side. Blue lid.â
Your brows lift. âYou brought me food?â
He glances up again. âI brought extra food. Itâs that pasta you like.â
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
âGo eat,â he says. âI doubt surgeryâs coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.â
You want to argue. You really do. Because you donât need to be looked after. You donât need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and youâd have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three oâclock in the morning.
âFine,â you mutter, already turning away. âIâll eat.â
âYouâre welcome.â
You donât look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then heâll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You donât even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
âOh. Hey.â
Ellis waves her fork. âHey.â
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jackâs blue-lidded tupperware.
You donât answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
âSheâs his ex, by the way,â you say without thinking.
âHuh?â
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
âThe woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me sheâs Jackâs ex.â
âOh. Yeah.â Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. âI know.â
You tilt your head. âHow do you know?â
âI asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,â she says, as if it were obvious.
âOh.â
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jackâs container rotating slowly inside.
âWhatâd he say?â
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. âJust that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasnât ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now theyâre friends.â
You frown. âFriends? Heâs never mentioned her to me.â
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. âWhy would he?â
You hesitate. âBecause weâreâwell, you knowâŚâ
Her mouth twitches. âI thought it was casual.â
âIt is,â you say quickly. âI just thought he wouldâve mentionedââ
âDoes Abbot know who Deran is?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Ellis smirks. âYou know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, orââ she tilts her head, âI guess itâs former Mr. Thursday mornings now.â
âWellânot exactly, but thatâsââ
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
âThatâs different?â Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
âYes,â you say firmly. âItâs different. Jack knows weâre not exclusive, but he doesnât need to know who the other guys are.â
Ellis snorts. âOr were.â
You glare at her.
âAlright,â she says, leaning back in her chair. âThen why do you need to know who she is?â
You stab a piece of pasta. âI donât. Iâm just... curious.â
âYou mean jealous.â
Your head snaps up. âIâm not jealous. I donât care what he does when heâs not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.â
âI am not,â you protest. âItâs casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I donât need him. I donât need anyone. I mean, sure, itâs fun when theyâre good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I donât need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. Iâm happy exactly the way things are.â
Ellis nods slowly. âOkay, Miss Independent. I get it.â
âThank you.â
âJust to be clear,â she says, pushing her chair back, âyouâre standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?â
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
âYour hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and Iâm pretty sure those are his socks.â Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. âYou havenât slept in your own bed once this week and, unless Iâm forgetting somebody, you havenât seen another guy in...â She pauses, pretending to think. âWow. Almost four months now.â
You stare at her.
âAnd when you got that stomach bug last month,â she says, grabbing her container as she stands, âhe called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.â
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
âThatâs not casual.â
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
âAnyway,â she says lightly, reaching for the handle. âLet me know when youâre ready to admit youâre in love with him.â
Then sheâs gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You donât move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isnât that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
Itâs notâ
It canât beâ
You would know if you were inâ
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
Youâre not inâ
God. You canât even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
Itâs almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isnât enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellisâ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what youâre going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
âHey,â you say, pulling the curtain back. âHow are you feeling?â
Deran glances up. âHey, doc. Long time no see.â
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
âBeen busy,â you say. âAre the painkillers working?â
He lifts his hand, wincing. âA little.â
You glance at the clock on the wall. âYou could probably get some more soon.â
His brows pull together slightly. âIs that your way of saying Iâm not heading home any time soon?â
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
âNot tonight, no. Iâm sorry.â
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
âI know,â you murmur, leaning in. âBut one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and youâve got a fracture right here.â You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. âI was expecting a break, but itâs lower than weâd like and close enough to the joint that this isnât something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.â
He lifts his head.
âThereâs also some concern about the tendon around it,â you continue. âThe finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeonâs worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âTheyâll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.â
His brows draw tighter. âRepair?â
âThe fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once theyâre in there.â
He lets his head fall back again. âGreat.â
âYouâll be okay.â
âI know,â he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. âJust not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.â
You roll your eyes. âReally?â
âWill you be here when I wake up?â
You snort. âHopefully not. If all goes well, Iâll be at home asleep.â
He sighs. âDamn.â
You push the stool back and stand. âAny other questions before I sign you off to surgery?â
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. âYeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.â
You tilt your head. âWhat guy?â
âThe one that came in here before. The attending.â
Your stomach drops.
âWhat about him?â
âI thought he was your boss.â
You fold your arms. âHe is.â
âHuh.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âItâs justââ He hesitates. âI donât know. You just donât usually look at your boss like that.â
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
âYou sure you didnât hit your head?â
His brows lift. âWait. Did I hit a nerve?â
âNo.â
âYou sure?â
Your eyes narrow. âWhy donât you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?â
He shakes his head. âI already called my mom.â
âGood,â you mutter, already turning away. âGood luck in surgery.â
âTell your boss I said hi.â
âBye, Deran.â
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shiftâbut tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything youâve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that youâre feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks youâre feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because thatâs exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
âDr. Abbot,â Bridget calls from behind the desk. âCan you take a look at this for me?â
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nursesâ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. Youâve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isnât worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time heâd worn them during sex. The time heâd insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you canât quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what sheâs saying. Youâre too busy watching the way Jackâs left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridgetâs askingâbut heâs tired. You know heâs tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way heâs shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that heâs counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
âYou alright?â
You blink. âWhat?â
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. âThatâs the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. Whatâs going on?â
âUhââ
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lipsâand your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. âYeah. No. Iâm fine.â
âYou sure?â
Hendersonâthe perceptive bastardâglances toward the nursesâ station, and his eyes widen.
âOh, shit. Did something happen between you two?â
Your stomach flips. âWhat?â
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. âYou and Abbot. Did you break up or something?â
âWhat?â you say again, louder this time. âWhy would you evenâI mean, weâre notâweâve never dated. Why would you think that?â
He tilts his head. âReally? I thought Ellis saidââ
âEllis?â
âNot just Ellis.â
Your eyes go wide. âWho else?â
He shrugs. âEveryone assumes you guys are together.â
âTogether?â
He frowns. âYouâre not?â
âNo,â you say, almost too fast. âNo. Weâre not together, weâre justâitâs⌠casual.â
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. âCasual?â
âYes,â you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. âAre you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?â
Henderson laughs. âActually, now that I think about it, I donât think Iâve ever heard Shen mention it.â
Your head snaps up. âPeople talk about it?â
Henderson shrugs. âItâs gossip.â
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, whenâ
âTrauma inbound,â Lena calls. âMale, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.â
âShit,â Henderson mutters. âThatâs not gonna be fun.â
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. âTrauma Two. Letâs go.â
You hesitate, taking a step back. âIâI canât. Sorry.â
âItâs alright,â Henderson says quickly. âI can jump in.â
Heâs already moving before heâs even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then anotherâand just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasnât moved. Heâs still standing by the nursesâ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isnât long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and youâre forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jackâs name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jackâs and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time youâre halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasnât settled and youâre no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, itâs getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patientâs intake form, determined to stay distracted. Youâre just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance upâand there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. âA word?â
Shit.
âUm. Sure.â
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nursesâ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, youâre remindedâquite aggressivelyâjust how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
âWhat was that?â
You take a small step back. âWhat was what?â
He nods vaguely toward Central. âYou completely dodged that trauma back there.â
âYeah. Sorry.â You look away. âI justâI had a patient I needed to get back to.â
âWeâve all got patients,â he says, folding his arms. âBut this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumasâyou know that.â
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. âI know. Iâm sorry. Iâm just... a little distracted tonight.â
âDistracted?â he echoes. âIs this about your friend?â
Your head snaps up. âMy friend?â
âThe one you just sent up to surgery.â His jaw tightens, just briefly. âIf Iâm being honest, Iâm not even sure you shouldâve been his physician.â
You frown. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âItâs a conflict of interest.â
You scoff. âA conflict of interest? Seriously?â
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
âYes.â
You lift your chin. âAlright. Howâs Ms. Callahan, then?â
He blinks. âWho?â
âCentral Nine. Your ex.â
He stares at you for a second.
âWho told you that?â
âIt doesnât matter,â you say quickly. âWhat matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âSo heâs not just an old friend.â
You tilt your head. âYou knew that, Jack.â
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jackâs looking at you, youâre not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as youâd hoped.
âLook,â you say, desperate to end this interaction. âIâm sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right thereâitâs not like I left you hanging. I knew heâd jump in.â
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. âYouâre right,â he says. âIâm sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.â
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
âGuess I should stop playing favourites, huh?â
You frown again. âFavourites?â
He lifts a shoulder. âYouâre always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.â
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
âWhat about Dr. Robby?â you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. âIâd still choose you.â
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they donât. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they donât mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart youâd been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you heâd still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college studentâs knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again itâs almost seven.
âShit,â you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nursesâ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
âHey.â Henderson sits at the computer across from you. âLittle girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.â
You glance over at him. âOh. Nice.â
âHer mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.â
You snort. âBetween the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.â
Henderson huffs a laugh. âApparently sheâs been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.â
Your brows lift. âReally?â
Henderson grins. âAnd now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
âYeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?â
âAssuming you had one to begin with,â Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
âAnd here I was worried youâd be in a good mood this morning,â you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. âCareful.â
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before youâre interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
âAlright,â Lena says as she hangs up the phone. âMale, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.â
âIâll take it,â Robby says, setting his coffee down. âLetâs prep Trauma One.â
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
âIâll jump in,â you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nursesâ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. Itâs not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you havenât had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and youâre starting to feel a little guilty about it.
âSee,â Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. âThereâs hope for you yet.â
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isnât long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldnât be older than four.
âThirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,â the paramedic says. âPositive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.â
The second paramedic circles the van from the driverâs side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. âYou check her out?â
âWe did a quick assessment on scene, but weâve been focused on Dad,â the paramedic says, still holding her.
âAlright. Weâll get somebody to take a look at her.â
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the manâs forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
âStay with me, sir,â you say, squeezing his arm. âCan you tell me your name?â
âBarry,â he murmurs.
âWhere does it hurt, Barry?â
He winces. âMyâmy stomach.â
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly youâre back under the bright fluorescent lights.
âAbbot,â Robby calls. âCan you take a look at the kid?â
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
âHey, sweetheart,â he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedicâs arms. âYour dadâs in good hands. Come on, letâs get you checked out too.â
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
âPressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,â he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barryâs shirt open.
âSeatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,â you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
âLeftâs worse.â
Robby holds out a hand. âUltrasound.â
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barryâs abdomen.
âRUQ,â Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. âClear.â
âLUQ.â
âClear.â
âPelvis.â
âNothing obvious.â
âGood,â Robby says. âFAST negative. Heâs stable enough for CT.â
You turn to Olive. âCT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.â
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isnât a guarantee, but itâs a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. âWhereâs my daughter? Whereâs Ellie?â
You press a hand against his shoulder.
âHey, donât try to sit up. Your daughterâs okayâsheâs just outside with another doctor.â
âSheâs okay?â
You nod. âSheâs okay.â
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
âHold on.â
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
âForehead lac,â you tell Robby. âAbout three centimetres.â
He glances over. âAlright. Weâll close it up before he goes to imaging.â
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
âLidocaine,â Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
âStay still for us, Barry,â you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. âThis might sting a little.â
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
âSaline,â Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
âHowâs the pain?â you ask.
ââS okay,â Barry mumbles.
âForceps.â
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
âLight,â he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that itâs in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barryâs heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
âScissors,â Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barryâs vitals.
âYou with us, Barry?â Robby asks.
âYeah,â Barry murmurs.
âCanât feel the needle, can you?â
âNo.â
âGood.â
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isnât Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nursesâ station is Barryâs daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but sheâs not crying anymore. Sheâs got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You canât hear what heâs saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellieâs tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jackâs chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesnât topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
Sheâs taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
âDoctor.â
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
âYeah?â
He gives you a look. âScissors. For the third time.â
âOh. Sorry.â
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. Sheâs giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jackâs cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
âForceps.â
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. âYou alright?â
âYeah. Why?â
âYouâre smiling.â
âNo, Iâmââ
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
Youâre in love with Jack Abbot.
âAlright, Barry,â Robby says, peeling his gloves off. âWeâre gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didnât miss anything.â
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
âCan someone call my wife?â Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. âI'm sure somebody already has, but Iâll check.â
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
âWhat about Ellie? Can I see her?â
âOf course,â Robby says. âSheâs right outside.â
Barry lifts his head slightly. âAm I okay?â
âWell, youâre talking to me, your pressureâs holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.â Robby looks at you. âIsnât that right, doctor?â
Your head snaps up. âHm?â
He frowns. âYou sure youâre alright? You seemââ
âIâm fine,â you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. âI justâI have charting to do.â
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You donât stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You canât scream. Canât shout. Canât drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just⌠breathe.
Okay. Maybe youâre being a little dramaticâbut can anyone blame you?
You donât want this. You canât want this. You donât have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. Thatâs all you want.
Or⌠all you wanted.
Now?
Now youâre not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you canât imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You canât imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You canât imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You canât imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isnât just sex anymore. It isnât flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. Itâs the way heâs somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. Heâs just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isnât the end of the world. Itâs not even a thing. Itâs only a thing if you let it be a thing, which⌠youâre not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings willâ
âHey. You okay?â
Your heart lurches, but you donât stop.
âI was going to come over there,â he says, keeping his voice low, âbut I didnât want toââ
âIâm fine,â you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard itâs almost nauseating.Â
âYou sure?â
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
âIâm fine,â you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. âSeriously.â
He gives you a look. Not one that says heâs offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesnât believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
âI need to finish my notes,â you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and donât stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a fewâmostly coherentâsentences. You type Jackâs name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nursesâ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
âHey.â You step up beside him. âYou got a minute for handover?â
He glances at you. âOh. Hey. Didnât know there were still any night crawlers left.â
You frown. âEveryoneâs gone?â
âEveryone but Dr. Abbot,â he says. âAnd you.â
Your eyes go wide. âEllis is gone?â
He nods. âSaw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.â
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said heâs giving you a lift, so Iâm headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
âEverything alright?â Langdon asks.
âUhâyeah. Fine.â
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
âIâve only got two patients. Can you take them?â
He nods. âOf course.â
âAlright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECGâs clean, waiting on the repeat. If thatâs negative too, he can go home.â
âMhm.â
âAnd South Nineteenâs the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said theyâd come see her, but I wouldnât hold my breath.â
Langdon snorts. âGot it.â
You nod. âGreat. Thanks.â
âAnything else?â
âNope.â
He smiles. âGreat sign-out.â
âI try,â you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: Youâre dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You donât bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket onâyou just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Orâhellâyouâll pay for an Uber if you have to.
âHey, slow down,â Dana says as you rush past the nursesâ station. âWhatâs the hurry?â
âSorry,â you call over your shoulder. âJustâreally need to get home.â
Youâre moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you canât remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
âYou ready?â
You flinch. âJesus Christ.â
Jack huffs a laugh. âNot quite.â
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
âIâm this way,â he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. âIâuhâI was just going to grab an Uber.â
His brows lift, but he doesnât look all that surprised. âYou were?â
You nod. âYeah. Iâm good. Thanks.â
âYou sure?â
âYep.â
You turn away, but he doesnât leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack thatâs slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
âIs there something going on that I should know about?â he asks finally.
âNope,â you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
âWhere are you going?â
âThe bus stop,â you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
âYouâre going to catch a bus?â
âYep.â
He laughs again, but this time itâs more disbelief than dry amusement.
âIâm offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and youâd rather catch a bus?â
That makes you stop.
You turn around. âNo strings attached?â
He lifts a shoulder. âIf thatâs what you want.â
âWhat I want?â
âIf you want me to just drop you off, Iâll just drop you off.â
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
âJust drop me off?â
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
âAnd then what?â you ask.
He tilts his head. âWhat do you mean?â
âThen you just leave?â
âIf thatâs what you want.â
Your throat tightens. âStop saying that.â
He frowns. âSaying what?â
âIf thatâs what I want.â You drag a hand through your hair. âYou keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like itâs my choice and you donât get to say anything orâor feel anything, and thatâs not fair.â
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
âWhat are we talking about here?â
âI donât know!â You throw your hands up. âThis. Us. Whatever this is. I donât know what weâre doing anymore, Jack. I donât know what Iâm supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.â
His eyes narrow. âIâm... too reasonable?â
âYes! Godââ You laugh once, sharp and humourless. âWhy are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everythingâs fine and maybe thatâs worked up until now, but I don't think itâs working anymore.â
âOkay,â he says evenly. âTell me whatâs not working, and we can talk about it.â
âTalk about it?â You stare at him. âTalk about what? Thereâs nothing to talk about, because thisâthis isnât anything. This is casual, Jack. Itâs supposed to be casual. And maybe thatâs the problem. Maybe weâve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space orâor something.â
His brows lift. âIs that what you want?â
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. âYes.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
âOkay,â he says again. âIf you want space, I can give you space.â
âSeriously?â You let out another sharp laugh. âOf course thatâs your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and youâre just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.â
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. âDo you want me to argue?â
âMaybe!â You throw your hands up again. âI donât know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, youâd give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, youâd end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, youâd just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me thatâs okay too.â
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
âAnd donât tell me thatâs not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasnât paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. Youâre a doctor. I know that. I know Iâm being irrational.â
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
âAnd thatâs the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. Thatâs the problem. Itâs not about her at all. Itâs about the fact that youâre always fine. Youâre always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I donât know how you do that.â You let out an unsteady breath. âIt's likeâlike none of this matters to you. Like you donât care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.â
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard youâre almost sure he can hear it.
He doesnât say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly youâre struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what youâve been trying so hard not to say.
âYou think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?â he asks, his voice soft. âYou think I could walk away from you?â
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
âWhen this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didnât want a relationshipâand if thatâs still not what you want, then okay. Iâm not going to pressure you into something youâre not ready for. Iâm not trying to be overly reasonable, and Iâm certainly not trying to make you feel like youâre losing your mind.â
The corner of his mouth twitches.
âWhen I ask you what you want, itâs not because I donât care what happens. Itâs because I do. Itâs because Iâd rather be patient than push you into something before youâre ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then Iâll give you space.â
His gaze holds yours.
âBut donât mistake that for indifference. Because thereâs no version of this where walking away from you is easy. Thereâs no version of this where I donât care. And if one day you tell me thatâs what you really want, then Iâll respect it. Not because itâs what I want. Not because what I feel doesnât matter. But because I respect you.â
His expression softens again.
âDo you understand?â
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
âNow listen to me.â
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
âI know youâve had a long shift. I know youâre exhausted. I know youâre standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and Iâm not trying to make your day any harder than it already isâbut I need you to hear this.â
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
âI love you too.â
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. âYou alright?â
âNo,â you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until thereâs nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that youâre standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows heâs got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
âDonât,â you murmur against his mouth.
He doesnât say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way heâd just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
âStill catching the bus?â
You immediately let go of his shirt. âShut up.â
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
âMy carâs the other way,â he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
âShut up,â you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You donât need to look back to know heâs following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise youâre smiling.
pairing â dr. jack abbot x attending surgeon!f!reader
rating â explicit. minors dni
wc â 6.2k
summary â the biggest heatwave in the history of pittsburgh hits the city and jack abbot decides to throw a pool party to boost the teamâs morale. the only problem is that you and jack hate each other.
warnings â enemies to lovers. fluff, SMUT, and a smidge of angst. is it an age gap if itâs less than double digits? (reader in her late thirties/early forties, jack in his late forties). basic hospital gore, poorly written medical talk, they are borderline toxic with each other, but itâs mostly jack being an old white man and reader not taking shit home. reader is a bit of a genius. drinking. drunk emery walsh. jealousy. dom!jack, fingering, oral (m receiving; throat fucking), p in v, cockwarming some degradation, name calling (bitch, brat, whore, slut).
she/her pronouns and afab!reader. no specific descriptions of body type, race or ethnicity. all lowercase for styling purposes.
a/n â hiii! itâs summer here and itâs so fucking hot and this is basically me coping with the hell that it is living in rio de janeiro in the summer while being allergic to the sun and not being able to enjoy the pool/beaches that much! at least i have my ac :(
hope you enjoy it and thank you for reading đ¤
dividers by @/uzmacchiato
you stir on the bed, forehead frowning as you take the room you are in. it is familiar, the green armchair that emery insists on calling it the âcuck chairâ sits on the corner to your left, with a perfect view of the bed. you turn, and when you look up, you see the painting of a woman you got while on a trip to spain, solely because the style reminded you of one egon schiele, the one painter that had always disturbed you a little bit. it felt like she was watching you over your sleep though.
kinda comforting.Â
you turn, find yourself looking at a chiffonier and a mounted tv. on top of the furniture lies a fuggler plushie that shen had gifted you a while ago as a joke, mocking your taste in partners, saying you liked them a little ugly. the three eyes and fucked up teeth staring back at you makes you snort.Â
you sigh, finally realising that you are in your bedroom. last nightâs shift had been a gruesome one. one of the T line trains derailed during rush hour, leaving hundreds of workers that certainly were heading back home, injured. thankfully, not that many people got seriously hurt, but the OR got busy, and you spent the whole night down on the emergency department helping the night shift team assess the patients. things got back to normalcy by three in the morning and you were able to leave just in time to start your time off.Â
it was just three days. three glorious days off that you plan on doing nothing but rotating between your bed and couch. it had been a while since you were able to have this long of a time off. and after pulling doubles for the past four weeks, any time away from the hospital is welcome.Â
you thank your past self for being a neat freak, for always doing a bit of cleaning before leaving for your shifts and now there is not much to do besides putting your used scrubs on the washer.Â
as if it was muscle memory, your left hand shoots out of the blanket you got over your body, blindly searching for your phone. you press the block button and it shines brightly back at you.
12:30 in the afternoon.
four and a half hours of sleep. it isnât much, far less than the eight hours the human body usually needs, but last night was so hard you barely remember how you got home, the last thing you can fish out is the memory of you putting your sleep shirt on, body still wet from the shower, and tumbling over to your bed. still, you feel recharged, even with how little you slept.Â
what feels completely wrong is how sticky your skin is.Â
your hair is glued to your neck and forehead, the thin sheet you had over your body is damp, and so is the one you cover your bed with. you sigh when you realise you forgot to turn your AC on.Â
âshit.â you whisper to yourself, forcing your body to get up.Â
you yank your linen out of your bed, stop by the living room to turn the damn AC on, as well as the TV, opting to leave it on the news before you finish your trip to the laundry room.Â
open the washer. put all the linen inside. close. detergent, bleacher and fabric softer. set to heavy duty. double rinse. dry.Â
you make your way back to the living room, stopping by the kitchen to grab a glass of water. the AC is taking a bit to kick in and start cooling off the room.Â
âthe city of pittsburgh has declared a state of alert for the next few days. a new heatwave is going to hit the city starting today, with expected highs of 105°F. this is the highest temperature registered since 1988, with a previous record of 103°F on july 16 of that year. city officials are asking the population to wear sunscreen, drink lots of liquids and, if possible, avoid being in the sun between 12 and 04:00p.m. beware of signs of heat stroke and seek medical attention if any is presentedâŚâ
the weather girl says in a tone of voice too chirpy for your liking.
itâs a catastrophe waiting to happen. if last summer is anything to go by, even with a way lower high, the ER will be more overcrowded than usual. and, to add fuel to the fire, the urgent care clinic that usually took care of simpler cases closed, so all of their patients are being sent to the PTMC. your heart breaks for the day shift staff, knowing how extra busy the next days are going to be. but you also thank your past self for asking for your precious days off.
âi really hope you donât leave me hanging.â you tell your air conditioner.Â
you are about to open your refrigerator to start making lunch when your phone chimes in with several notifications.Â
princess đ: where are you???
princess đ sent a photo attachment
princess đ sent a video attachment
princess đ: hurry up!Â
you open the first attachment, it's a photo of princess in a pool, jack abbotâs pool, frilly drink in hand and a huge smile on her face. matteo and shen are on the back, throwing signs that probably make sense to them.Â
next comes a thirteen second video of emery walsh, with that ever present serious expression on her face. âyou have ten minutes to arrive or iâll kill jack abbot all by myselfââ âno, you wonât.â you hear the unmistakable voice of the night attending interrupt your best friend. âand dispose his body on your front porch.â the video ends with emery giggling, a clear sign that she had been drinking for a while too.Â
jack abbot, the night shiftâs senior attending, had decided last week to throw a barbecue for the ER workers. a bit of a morale booster. day shift, night shift, it didnât matter, as long as you werenât working, you were invited to eat and drink on him, and use the pool he barely had time to. with a silent, almost hesitant nod, that offer had been extended to you.Â
you bite your lip as you consider your options, thinking if the hassle is worth it.Â
âfuck it.â
â be there in forty đŤĄ
thatâs enough time to shower, get dressed and buy some beer as a peace offering, you think.Â
see, you and jack werenât exactly friends. and hardly were you able to be civil towards each other.Â
it all started three years ago, when you met jack in an unexpected predicament on your first day of work.Â
transferred from newyork-presbyterian, gloria hired you to assume the medical-surgical departmentâs night shiftâs senior attending position. your arrival came in a day early, after gloria asked you to cover a day shift for a sick dr. shamsi.
âthis is dr. michael robinavitch, our ERâs chief attending. youâll be working close together during the day shift. iâll leave you with him so you get a hang of the department.â she shook your hand. âcan you introduce dr. abbot to her when he arrives at the end of the day?â
âof course.â michael answered her and goodbyes were exchanged. âyou can call me robby.â he told you like it was a secret. âso, new york, huh?â
âyep,â you nodded. âborn and raised.â
âwhat made you leave the big apple and come to little old pittsburgh?â
âoh, you know⌠change of scenery, a better job position. the usual.â your nonchalant tone made robby laugh.Â
âi see.â
michael gave you a tour of the ED, showed you all of the wings, introduced you to dana, who you immediately fell in love with. introduced you to the residents, mohan, langdon and collins, all very nice and welcoming too.
robby turned out to be very charming, funny in his own way, super flirty, a bit depressed, but most doctors were, right?
dana interrupted his attempt to figure out if you were in a relationship or not, announcing an incoming trauma. âmultiple GSW victim arriving with the SWAT team, ETA one minute.âÂ
moving, robby asked for your glove size and tied the protector gown for you. the doors to the ambulance bay opened and in came a swarm of camo wearing men, geared up to their teeth, rolling the patient in.
the one you assumed to be a TEMS medic debriefed the case.Â
âanne marie, 32 year old female, one of the hostages. found responsive at the scene, with two visible entry wounds to the anterior chest and only one exit posteriorly. BP 82/46, HR 52, SAT 94% via ventilator. lost pulse briefly during transport, approximately three minutes of cardiac arrest, CPR was performed immediately. intubation done on scene with a 7.5 endotracheal tube, capnography and bilateral chest rise confirmed. 1mg of epi, 1g of tranexamic acid, 1l of saline, administered on the way. 100mg of ketamine and 50mg of rocuronium administered for the intubation.â the SWAT medic informed.Â
âthank you, weâll take it from here.â you told the older man. he was handsome in a rugged way, and his cargo pants fit him awfully well.Â
âitâs ok, sweetheart. i know what iâm doing.â he smiled at you, but the hidden condescending tone of his voice made you tick.Â
âi think this is out of your jurisdiction alrââ
âdr. collins, what are our next steps?â robby interrupted you as he called out for his resident.
âbreath sounds absent on the left side, meaning possible tension or hemothorax, chest tube needed. ultrasound and prepare for transfusion starting with two bags of O neg.â collins spat the orders out so fast you wanted to applaud her.
âwell done, dr. collins.â robby turned and called your name. âthis is dr. jack abbot, our senior night shift attending. he volunteers as a tactical medic for our local SWAT team.â
âhuh.â you gave him an once over. âi see.â
robby introduced you to him, stressing your position.Â
âarenât you a bit young to be a senior attending?â jack asked, that condescending tone on full display this time.Â
and truth is, you are. your learning curve had always been higher than the average. read your first full book eighteen months old, started high school at nine, enrolled in college by thirteen, got your biology degree at only sixteen years old and months later you found yourself starting med school at nyu grossman. became an attending surgeon at the newyork-presbyterian by 25.
it was a mix of conflicting feelings. part of you felt extremely accomplished, finally arriving at the place you always dreamed of since you were young. but the other part of you thinks you grew up too fast, lost important phases of life that every child and teenager should go through. the feeling only aggravates when you think about how people were less than welcoming to you most of the time, forcing you to navigate through life in a way no one under thirty should.Â
you had no one to blame, except for how weirdly wired your brain is. so fuck it, you started doing you.Â
and as much as you got used to the rocks life had thrown your way, how you had to constantly prove your worth to others truly pissed you off.
being a woman in the medical field was no easy feat, and, to make matters worse, you chose to act as an emergency medicine surgeon. studies show that over seventy percent of emergency doctors in the united states are men, that alone makes you work a double shift to earn the tiniest bit of respect.Â
now add to that equation the fact that you are under the average age range for a senior attending.Â
your professional career had been stellar so far. ten years since you became an attending, thousands of surgeries done with one of the lowest patient loss rates recorded in the history of the new-york presbyterian, and the highest patient satisfaction score during all of the fifteen years you spent there, all the way from resident to attending surgeon. you truly didnât have the need to prove yourself, your resumĂŠ spoke for itself.Â
but you are only human, and when an old(er) guy (truthly? maybe he is not even that old. he probably has got some eight, nine years on you only. but as handsome as he is â you hate to admit that now â he looks a bit rough for his age) like jack abbot doubts your skills before getting to know you and your work, your blood boils.
and your mouth speaks before you can think.Â
âarenât you a bit pre-historic to be playing superman? a broken hip is life threatening at your old age.â you told him calmly as you assessed the ultrasound with heather. âthereâs fluid around the heart, possible cardiac tamponade.â when you finally looked at the doctors to confirm your diagnosis, you found the whole room staring at you. jack had a serious, tight-lipped expression to him, robby and princess were holding on to dear life trying to suppress their laughter, the older male nurse, who you later found out was called jesse winked at you, and collins hid her face on her shoulder.Â
you raised an eyebrow and robby cleared his throat. âclearly a surgical case. princess, call the OR and tell them to prep a room, now.â he turned to you smiling. âwanna stay with us for a few more cases?Â
you gave jack one last glance before you started taking your PPE off. âsure. iâll be waiting for you at the central hub, robby.â
the doors of trauma two were almost closed when you heard michael saying âyou are so screwed, brother.â followed by his gravelly laughter.Â
âfuck off, mikey.â
jack liked the game and you were never one to back down, especially when it came to egotistical men like him. so that is how you have been spending the last three years of your life, bickering with a forty eight year old man.
a comment you passed by when he called asking for a consult, a stupid joke he murmured while at the hub as you exchanged patient information with shen or ellis, or you questioning his commands while he was elbows deep in an open patient at trauma one. it didnât matter how or why, it always ended with one insulting the other.
that also meant you spent way too much on the HRâs office, either alone or with him by your side. it is ironic that neither of you have ever reported the other, all of the complaints had come from coworkers that were either worried your fights would end up getting physical or were just simply done with your antics.Â
gloria, and you had to admit that when it came to the two of you, was a saint, and always brushed it off, blaming it on doctorâs ego (not a lie, to be honest) and that the two of you were too valuable to lose.
your careers almost went to shit a year and a half ago.Â
september 14th, 2024. a succession of errors that turned a common saturday morning into one of the biggest mass casualty incidents in the history of pennsylvania.Â
the morning was foggier than usual. the control tower had cleared one air planeâs landing while the other waited to take off. the radar of the plane on the ground showed the sky was free and some freaky interference made the pilot understand that the take off was free.Â
both planes collided on the taxiway, killing eighty on site and injuring over four hundred.Â
you had that week off, one of your poor attempts of taking a vacation. following the routine you had after just waking up, you turned the TV on, only to find all channels reporting on the accident. you dressed in record time, called robby to tell him you were on your way to the pitt and to get an idea of what the team would be facing. being closest to the airport, the PTMC would be receiving the most serious cases. you grabbed the poorly made coffee you had set before turning the TV on and an old bagel bought the day before, and sprinted out of your door.Â
robby paired you with jack. the room went quiet as soon as robbyâs order left his mouth. jack and you looked at each other and nodded, silently agreeing to try to work in peace for once.Â
and you could work like two normal coworkers, right? rightâŚ
for almost five hours straight, you and jack worked perfectly in sync. you agreed on maneuvers, procedures, medications, everything. sometimes, you didnât even need to say what you were going to do, with one look you knew what the other was thinking.Â
then, 03:00p.m. hit. you had seen dozens of patients, things were starting to get normal again, most of the patients had either been discharged or sent to the or, but jack and you had been working on a seven year old girl for the last forty minutes. she arrived with a piece of the fuselage piercing though her chest and all the way to her back. her left lung collapsed and you still had no idea how her little body was able to hold on for so long. she coded three times with jack and before the fourth happened, you started spewing orders.Â
jack didnât take it well, always countering your decisions. voices started to rise and with one off comment, all hell broke loose again.Â
âwill you quit being such a fucking bitch and listen to me once?â jack spat, eyes full of anger.Â
âyou are not my superior. we are equals here, so i advise you to pay attention to how you speak to me.â you told him with a low tone of voice, trying not to bring more attention after jackâs explosion.Â
he spoke even louder. âi have more experience than you when it comes to this type of injury!âÂ
so you spoke louder. âiâve seen a good amount of perforations in almost fifteen years as a surgeon, jack. and what youâre doing clearly isnât working!âÂ
âenough!â robby shouted. âyou two, leave. now! get your shit together. talk, fight, punch each other to death, i donât give a fuck, but get your shit together. i canât have two senior attendings acting like teenagers in my ER.â robby walked over, elbowing jack out of his place. âiâm taking over with garcia.â he nodded to the other surgeon, who promptly assumed your position. âi had hopes you two could work together like normal people for one day, but i guess i was wrong.â
two hours later, you found yourself and jack sitting by gloriaâs desk. for the first time in your whole life, personal and professional, you were on the receiving end of a disappointed look.Â
âdo you understand that i had dr. robinavitch come to me to complain about you? robby, who never complains about their fellow doctors and residents, who does everything in his power to work things out on the floor and notify HR or me only when necessary. the same robby who adores both of you!â gloria stopped talking and gave both of your faces a good look, only to find two adults looking like kicked puppies. âwhat happened today was unacceptable. we had one of the biggest MCIs in the history of pennsylvania, and two of my best doctors couldnât act like professionals.â she shook her head.
âa little girlâs life was at risk!â gloria raised her voice, the first time you had seen her lose her cool. jack and you exchanged looks. she took a deep breath before continuing. âthis is grounds for dismissal. i should fire you, but i wonât. we canât afford to lose two of the best on their fields, but this is the last chance iâm giving you. the both of you are suspended for a week without pay. i hope you take this time to self-reflect and understand what you can do to reach a common ground and be better.â
from that day on, you and jack settled on a silent truce. all of your conversations were about patients only, tips were only given if the other asked to and the mean comments you used to say to the other as a pass by quip diminished. but they still existed.Â
you take another look in the mirror, fluffing your hair out wondering if going to this party was a good idea. sighing, you grab your car keys and silently pray for the best.Â
âwhat took you so long?â emery slurs a bit when she meets you outside of jackâs home. âbrought your puppies.â she says, pointing back at shen and mateo.Â
you called em as soon as you pulled into jackâs street, asking her to bring someone to help you unload the twenty 12-packs of bud you got.
âwow! thatâs⌠a lot.â mateo exclaims.
âjack invited the whole hospital.â you shrug.Â
âyeah, iâm calling robby and jesse.â shen says as he makes his way backs inside.Â
mateo starts unloading when emery speaks again. âanswer me.â
you pull your best friend by her arms, bringing her closer. she hugs you, tucking her head between your neck and shoulder. âi always forget you are a clingy drunk.â she whines and you start petting her hair. âi wasnât coming, em. didnât want to ruin the party for anyone.â
âugh!â em pulls back and looks at you. âyou two should fuck it out.â
that makes you snort. âyeah.â
the boys finally arrive with back up and a cargo cart that jack had.Â
you make your way inside, and a chorus of âfinallyâ, âsheâs hereâ and whistles follow you. stopping, you say your hellos and hug some of your friends.Â
âyou should ditch the scrubs. like, all the time!â princess shouts from inside of the pool.
you wink at her. âonly for you, baby.â
feeling eyes on you, you turn to see jack staring from the grill, giving you an once over. you give him a small smile, getting a nod back.Â
there is nothing special about how you are dressed, short denim shorts, high cut black swimsuit with a deep back line and a white underline that makes your boobs pop and an unbuttoned white linen shirt.Â
âhey. brought some beers, where can i put them?â you get closer to jack, asking him in a low tone of voice.Â
âfirst fridge on the left.â he says, pointing to it with the tongues, without looking back. you nod and make your way to where he pointed, silently.Â
robby and jesse take the cans out of your hands, telling you that they got it and for you to go have some fun.
you had noticed jackâs tumbler was empty, so you grab one of the cold ones and bring it back to him. you crack it open and pour it out for him.Â
âthank you.â jack says and hands you a plate with some burgers, pulled pork and brats. you make a mental note to make emery eat some. âeat. there are drinks in the bar.â
âthank you.â you mimic him. setting the plate on the counter by your side, you start taking your shorts and shirt off. âgonna keep working on that farmer's tan or are you evening it out today?â
you notice how jackâs eyes lingers on your cleavage for a beat longer than the acceptable, he shakes his head, turns his eyes back to the meat he is grilling and lets out a breathy laugh. âif you wanna see me naked all you have to do is ask, brat.â
you grab the sunscreen on your bag and the plate jack had given you. you lower your head, get just an inch closer to him as if you were about to tell him a secret. âwhatâs the fun in playing nice, sir?â you look back at jack, devious smile meeting his incredulous one. you take a sip of his beer. âthanks for the invite.â and with a wink, you make your way to chaise longues.Â
see, you can play nice. you can even flirt with him. the day will be great and no one will fight.Â
you pull one of the chairs closer to where emery is sitting, there is a small side table between you that you use to set the plate and the coke can you grabbed for her.
emery rarely drinks, but when she does, it is enough to have you baby sitting her. she is not black out drunk, but you want to avoid any incidents with the pool.Â
âem, here.â you call her and emery sits up, very wobbly. âeat, baby. we gotta sober you up a bit.â
âfine, mom.â she gives you one of her dead-eyed stares and it makes you laugh.Â
the two of you eat in silence, knowing full well that emery is at that state between drunkenness and sobering up where you start questioning your life choices, and she gets extra snarky when she is like this.Â
you are finishing one of the burgers, cursing yourself for not getting anything to drink when a hand appears in front of you with a tall glass with a light coral inside.Â
âpaloma. itâs your favourite, right?â mateo asks.Â
âmhm.â you nod. âthank you.â you take a sip and the proportions are almost perfect, you would add just a tiny dash more of tequila.Â
there is someone who does it perfectly.Â
âthis is incredible, teo. we got a mixologist in the group?â
mateo smiles and shrugs. he points to the sunscreen bottle next to you on the chaise. âneed help with your back?â
âi do, yeah.â you clip your hair, getting it out of the day and turn, offering your back to him.Â
matteo is gentle, his touch is almost featherlight. you notice emery is looking somewhere behind you, a sly smile lights up her sobering features. she shakes her head when you lift your eyebrow, questioning her.Â
âdone.â mateo gets up and hands you the sunscreen bottle back. âyou should join us in the pool later, the water is nice.â
âi will.â you tell him with a smile.Â
emery watches mateo go, waits until he is out of ear shot to speak. âjack was watching you like a hawk.â
you shrug. âand?â
âand iâm serious when i tell you you should fuck it out. whatever it is that you two got is not hate, itâs pent up desire.â
âjesus fuck, emeryââ you are interrupted by robbyâs booming laughter. you look back, trying to figure out what is the source of his laughter, but only finds an annoyed looking jack abbot.Â
the day goes by extremely well. jack stops grilling sometime around three, joining everyone on the pool. someone suggests a game of chicken and you were pretty sure it was princess trying to make her voice sound gruffier.Â
two teams were formed, you and mateo siding with princess and donnie, going against emery, jesse, shen and parker.Â
poor princess was the first one to go down, leaving you to fend for yourself. you go after emery, aiming for the weak spot she has near her ribs.Â
it is you and parker now and after a lot of back and forth and some luck, you win. people erupt in laughter, robby slaps the water, splashing everyone. mateo runs a lap with you on his left shoulder, almost a fifties poster. he drops you on the pool, gives you a hug thanking you for the good game.Â
by sunset, a game of beer pong is made, one that you lose after the second round. you drink some, chat with shen who is now dreading not leaving earlier to rest for his shift, and is already ordering his dunkinâ as he leaves.Â
you havenât been in the pool in a while now, bathing suit already dry and that sticky feeling chlorine leaves is set on your skin.Â
one by one, the guests leave. some for work, some going to their houses. everyone stops by the high stool you are perched on eating some of the ice cream jack got, elbows sitting on the counter, and say their goodbyes. robby is the last one, makes the two of you promise you wonât kill each other. he leaves with a squeeze on your shoulder.Â
jack walks around his back yard, picking up the trash, separating between organic, recyclable and non recyclable.Â
silently, you get up. after picking up the dishes and utensils used, you make your way inside jackâs kitchen.Â
you drop what you can on his dish washer, opting to wash the rest that didnât fit by hand.Â
fifteen, twenty minutes go by. you are humming a random song you heard today, one that you donât even know the lyrics to.Â
âwhat are you doing?â
âshit!â jackâs question startles you. you didnât hear him enter the kitchen, nor approach you. he did that sometimes in the ER while you were at the hub exchanging information. you might have called him a ghost once or twice. you motion, showing the sink. âiâm washing the dishes.â
âwhy didnât you load the dish washer?â he asks, voice annoyed.Â
as much as you try to school your emotions, you shoot jack a look that says âyou fucking serious?â
âi did.â you point to the machine. âbut itâs a lot and youâve got a lot to clean. iâm just trying to help.â
âi didnât ask for help.â
you drop the sponge and rinse the last glass, putting it on the drying rack. you grab the dish rag and dry your hands as you turn around.Â
âtoo late, iâm done.â
jack corners you against the counter. âarenât you so fucking nice? always so helpful, always the life of the party.â
you snort. âi am nice, jack. itâs not my fault that youâre the only grumpy asshole who hates me.â
jack nods and smiles, scratching the stubble on his chin. you smile back at him and his eyes fleet from yours to your lips and back.Â
you wet your lips, slowly. âwhat, cat got your tongââ
the cat didnât.
jack kisses you. it isnât all teeth and messy, but rough and purposeful. his tongue is slotted against your, working with practiced ease, like you have done this countless times before. his right hand leaves the counter, makes its way down your body, pressing harsh squeezes over your curves. dexterous fingers pull the crotch of your bathing suit aside, finding you soaking wet. jack laughs.Â
âyou love when iâm mean to you, donât you?â he whispers in your ear, and his warm breath makes you shiver.Â
all you do is nod, afraid your will betray your as he circles his fingers around your clit so nicely.
âanswer me.â
âyâ yes, jack. fuck! iâ love it.â you tell him, whining when he inserts the first few inches of his index and middle fingers on your pussy. he massages your walls, a millimetre below from where you need him.
âwhat? you need me deeper?â he mocks you. itâs embarrassing how his condescending tone makes you even wetter.Â
âyes!â
âyes, what? use your words.â
âyes, sir. i need you deeper, jack.â
he attacks your neck, alternating between kisses and love bites that you will have to find a way to cover them later.Â
âall the way to the knuckles, right, brat?â
you nod uncontrollably. âplease.â
jack finally gives in, filling you to the brim with his thick fingers. your whiny moans are music to his ears, and it only gets more melodic when his thumb starts playing with your clit.Â
you throw your head back as euphoria starts to consume you. your pussy flutters, starts squeezing jackâs fingers so hard, it almost becomes impossible for him to continue his come hither motions. the hand that held your waist goes to your hair, pulling it a bit to make you look at him.Â
âopen your eyes, i want you to see who is making you cum.â
you do. and with two more circles, your orgasm washes over you. you slump over his chest. âfuck.â
âiâm not finished with you.â jack gives your bum a playful slap. âget on your knees.â
he doesnât need to tell you twice, you drop without questioning. with agile fingers, you unbutton and unzips his cargo shorts, yanking it down with his swim trunks in one swift move.Â
jack is half hard, and you take your hand to your cunt to collect your juices to help you pump him out.Â
âshit.â he murmurs above you and you smile back up at him.Â
you start playing with his balls, licking and sucking them while you jerk his cock. it doesnât take long to get him hard enough for you to suck him off.Â
against your better judgement, you decide to tease jack. a kiss on his angry, red head, a slow pass of your tongue, following the thick vein he has on his length, wet kitten licks on his slit.Â
thatâs what does it for him. he pulls your hair once again and shoves his cock in your mouth. he sets a rough pace that makes you forget your name. it goes like this for a while, stopping occasionally to let you breathe.Â
you feel his thighs tense against your palms and jack pulls you back.Â
âcome here.â he pulls you up on your feet and brings you to his kitchen table.Â
you pull the straps of your bathing suit down and jacks helps you finish taking it off. without command, you bend over the table and look back at him with a devious smile as you wiggle your butt.Â
jack slaps it, making you yip. âyouâre such a little slut, arenât you?â
âonly for you.â your smile grows bigger.
jack shakes his head, brings your hands to the middle of your back, holding them together with one of his big ones. he isnât gentle when he shoves his cock inside you, and to be honest, you wouldnât like it any other way.Â
the pace jack sets is unrelenting, a result of years of pent up feelings.Â
hate, love, passion, desire, everything.
he releases your hands, but tells you to keep them where they are. with his right one, he circles your waist, bringing you up against his chest, with his left, he plays with your clit. soon, it becomes all too much.Â
âjack, iâmââ
âme too, baby. inside?â
âmhm.â you nod.Â
jackâs pace never falters. your pussy constricts around him and you feel his cock twitch, spurting his ropey cum soon after.Â
the dish washer beeps, announcing it had finished its cycle. you laugh.Â
jack sits down on one of the chairs and pulls your hand. âcome here, let me hold you.â
you sit on his lap, puts his softening cock back inside you. it makes jack hiss, but you kiss the wrinkles that forms around his left eye.Â
for a while, all you can hear is your breathings.Â
âmissed you, honey.â jack breaks the silence.Â
you look at him and give his nose a peck. âyou saw me yesterday, handsome.â
âyeah, but you didnât sleep over. you know i like waking up with you around.â
you sigh. âi know, baby. but imagine how it would have been if everyone arrived and found me here first. and donât say we couldâve just told them i arrived first because they know i wouldnât do that when it comes to you.â
âyeah, i know.â jack answers, defeated. his eyes are shifting, like he is deep in thought. jack looks back at you. âwe should tell them. iâm tired of hiding.â
it takes you back. âreally?â
âyeah. weâve been together for a year and a half, baby. i hate having to pretend to still be an asshole to you. and besides, i think itâs about time some people realise youâre taken.â
you start laughing. âoh, i see. this is about mateo.â
jack looks at you with the most serious expression he has. âthe fuck that kid think he is applying sunscreen on you like that. three times! i noticed his hands getting way too close to your ass. and he made your paloma! why does he know thatâs your favourite?â
you try to control your laughter, but fail.Â
âiâm serious, honey.â
âi know, jack.â you peck his lips. âi order palomas all the time when we go out with the crew, you know that. maybe he noticed.â jack narrows his eyes at you and you kiss him again. âyours is better.â
âof course it is.â
you notice jack is still a bit pressed about the story, so you keep going. âhe is just a kid, jack. mateo just wanted to be nice. besides, heâs in love with victoria. and iâm in love with you.â
the confession steals a genuine smile from him. âi love you too.â
âweâll tell the guys when we get back from our days off, yeah?â
summary: when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.
warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), some verbal and physical abuse against reader during her date, reader sustains a minor injury (bruised wrist), some hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap, porn with feelings, kinda instalove, eventual smut, dry humping, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, big cock, cock warming, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, come eating, marking/hickeys, sorta scent kink, dirty talk, chef kink, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby), aftercare, happy ending
word count: 26.0k
a/n: it's finally hereeeee!!! i've been working on nothing else but this fic for the last month and it's finally done đŽâđ¨đ it was inspired by Shawn Hatosy's Quinn audio (although i haven't actually listened to it yet). i just had to write something for chef!Jack Abbot, and i'm really happy with how this turned out! it feels almost like a smutty little romance novella, which i think is cool. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!!
if you'd rather read the fic broken down into chapters, check it out on AO3
âHey, chef.â
With just those two words, Jack Abbot knew his night was about to take a turn for the worse. Nothing good could come from the underlying urgency and overt hesitance in the voice of one of his servers, Nazely Toomarian.
But Jack also knew, from his years as head chef and owner of one of Pittsburghâs most popular fine dining restaurants, Night Shift, that it wasnât Nazelyâs fault. No, it was very likely to be one of the insufferable guests who frequented his restaurant who ruined his night.
So Jack swallowed his sigh, kept stirring the sauce of that nightâs special, and glanced at his server, giving her a nod to go on.
âWeâve got a situation in the dining room.â
Of course they did.
Jack finally let loose the sigh that had been building between his ribs, wondering distractedly if the situation was some jagoff businessmanâs card declining, an impossible-to-please socialite sending every bite of her food back, or if another influencer was insisting on getting their meal comped in exchange for free publicity on their Instagram or TikTok or whatever.
Jack knew he was old and out of touchâthat was why heâd hired one of the daytime servers, Victoria Javadi, to run the restaurantâs social mediaâbut he also knew a scam when he saw it. Someone who genuinely wanted to work with him asked about partnership deals before eating an entire meal they expected to be free.
Grumbling about influencers under his breath, Jack gave the sauce on the stove one last stir, adding a little more salt, then handed the wooden spoon off to his sous chef, John Shen. Quickly, but methodically, Jack took off his gloves, turned to Nazely, and tucked his arms behind his backâa remnant from his days in the army.
âWhat kind of a situation?â Jack asked, his voice calm and measured even as he was already preparing himself for the worst.
The chef listened attentively as his server explained what had brought her back into the kitchen with that concerned look in her eyes. The frown on Jackâs face deepened the more he heard about the date going decidedly bad in his dining room.
Finally, Nazely finished up her story with a breathless, âDo you want me to have security handle it?â
Jack knew it was the easiest solution, to call security and have them escort the man creating the situation out of the restaurant. But it would cause a scene, and everyone else in the packed restaurant would be talking more about what had happened than his food.
It would be better for Night Shiftâs business if Jack could remedy the situation himself, as quietly as possible.
Instead of answering his serverâs question, Jack walked to the double swinging doors that led out to the dining room. He peered through the window, feeling a bit like a king overlooking his kingdom, and he had a sudden, fierce impulse to protect it.
âWhich table was it?â Jack asked, glancing back at Nazely, whoâd followed him to the doors.
âTable 12,â she answered quickly.
Jack looked out across the sea of glamorous guests dining in his restaurant, a swell of pride in his heart when he saw beyond the expensive clothes and glitzy jewelry to the smiles and laughter of people enjoying his food. In his heart of hearts, Jack just wanted to make food people liked eating, and it never failed to overwhelm him when he got a chance to see the delight he brought to complete strangers whoâd entrusted their time and money to him.
Pushing those thoughts and feelings aside for the moment, Jack focused back on the room, his eyes tracking along the tables until he found the one Nazely had indicated. For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbotâs heart skipped a beat and he froze at the sight in front of him.
The first thing about you that rendered Jack speechless was your mouth, the curve of your lips, the tension around the edges as you hid a frown behind a sip of wine. Jack knew, instinctively, that your lips would look gorgeous when you smiled, that your mouth would look exquisite while eating his foodâand he knew, too, that heâd do anything to make you smile, to feed you, to take care of you.
Jack shook his head at those thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the situation Nazely had told him about, the date going irreparably sideways.
Still, the chef couldnât help but rake his eyes over you, telling himself he was simply assessing how much distress you were in. Jack noted the stiffness in your shoulders, how you were curling in on yourself slightly, like your body was trying to protect itself. He also noticed the pretty color of your eyes, the curve of your cheekbones, the sweep of your dress at it fell across your thighs.
You were beautiful, enchanting in a way Jack hadnât experienced in a long, long timeâand you were miserable. That much was clear from your body language and the way you regarded your date with no small amount of disgust and fear deep in your pretty eyes.
Finally, the chef dragged his gaze across your table to your date.
Immediately, Jack didnât like the arrogant slant of the manâs shoulders, the imperious tilt of his chin, or the pompous way he held his glass as he spoke and drank. Even the way the man took a sip of wine, smacking his lips before resuming his tirade where heâd left off, made anger coil like a poised predator in Jackâs gut.
Something shifted in the man, and Jack looked back at you, seeing indignant rage boiling beneath the surface of your expression. Jack watched you say something through bared teeth, hissing at your date like you were trying not to make a scene.
Your hands were braced against the edge of the table, and you pushed to standâbut then your date moved to stop you, grabbing your wrist, and something in Jack snapped.
Later, heâd tell himself he wouldâve had the same reaction if any man had put his hands on a woman in his restaurant. But in that moment, he was driven almost entirely by the edge of something else threaded through the fury in his chestâsomething greedy and selfish that you, and only you, had inspired in him.
âIâll handle this myself,â Jack growled, tossing the words over his shoulder at Nazely without taking his eyes off where your dateâs hand was still wrapped around your wrist, holding you chained to the table like a misbehaving pet.
All Jack could think, as he strode across the dining room, his chest churning with wrath and violence, was that it was a good thing he didnât have a knife in his hand.
You were on the date from hell.
And the worst part? You werenât even sure when everything had gone wrong.
Was it when youâd let your coworker set you up with her boyfriendâs best friend, a man named Curtis Larsen?
Was it when youâd gotten your hopes up and donned your favorite dressâthe black fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places and showing off your legsâonly for Curtis not to say a word when he picked you up from your office building in downtown Pittsburgh?
Was it when you decided you could put up with his pretentious posturing about his job and his golf game to enjoy one night at Night Shift, the restaurant youâd always wanted to try but could never afford?
Hiding a sigh by taking a sip of your wineâa bitter red youâd never have ordered for yourselfâyou decided that was probably when things had gone wrong.
From the moment youâd gotten into Curtisâs car, heâd been nothing but insufferable. You shouldâve left before walking into the restaurant, but youâd heard such good things about Night Shift, and its head chef Jack Abbot, that youâd ignored your instincts and soldiered on.
You were rewarded for your selfishness by watching Curtis talk down to everyone he came acrossâthe hostess, who sat you in the middle of the dining room only for Curtis to complain you werenât in one of the booths; the server, who tried to recite the nightâs specials only to be interrupted by Curtis asking about a specific dish; the sommelier, who had to put up with Curtis acting like he knew more about wine than the man whose job it was.
It was all you could do to offer the restaurant workers apologetic smiles and slip them some money from your own purse when Curtis wasnât looking. You tried to grin and bear it, to soak up the ambience of the restaurant despite the black hole of unearned smugness sitting across from you.
Truthfully, Night Shift was spectacular enough to almost distract you from your horrible date and everything that was wrong with him.
The space was decorated in rich, emerald greens and dark, roughhewn wood, with real, lustrous plants and other greenery breaking up the dining room to give each table a pretense of privacy. Warm candles and low lighting gave the restaurant an intimate atmosphere, even while it was packed full.
All told, Night Shift was the perfect place for a date. It was too bad you were there with a man who mightâve been worse than the devil.
You were hiding another frown behind a sip of your disgusting wine when Curtis launched into a tirade about how the woman heâd marry should have a respectable job and make a good salaryâand sheâd also be responsible for keeping his house clean and taking care of his kids.
It took all of your self-control to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. You werenât exactly surprisedâyouâd been set up with enough financial analysts like Curtis to know a lot of them were useless assholes who wanted a mommy more than a wife. But you could feel your desire to put up with the date for the sake of trying Night Shiftâs food slipping away, and you hadnât even ordered your appetizers yet.
Resolving to treat yourself to a dinner at Night Shift for your next birthday, you interrupted Curtisâs egotistical diatribe about modern women and tried to politely excuse yourself. You were kinder than you thought he deserved when you told him you didnât think the two of you were a good fit and it would save you both some time to cut the date short.
But Curtisâs eyes flashed in a way that had fear suddenly bursting in your gut, and his expression turned mean as he leaned forward across the small table, invading your space.
âThe date isnât over until I say itâs over,â Curtis said, his voice so cold, you froze in your seat. âYouâre not going anywhere.â
For a moment, you sat in your seat in surprise. Youâd been on some bad dates, and while some of the men had reacted badly when youâd left early, none of them had scared you the way Curtis was. There was something so aggressive about the way he spoke, and it was then that you noticed a strange haze in his eyes.
Was he⌠high?
Thankfully, a sever mustâve caught Curtisâs words, or his tone of voice, because she came over to check on you. Her brown eyes were sharp, but kind as they stayed fixed on you, asking if everything was okay.
âWeâre fine,â you told her weakly, giving her the most reassuring smile you could offer while silently begging her to help you somehow. You didnât want to make a scene, and you were sure the restaurant didnât want that either, but you would if you needed to.
Thatâs what you hoped to convey, and you thought the server mightâve understood because she gave a firm nod and headed off with a determined spring in her step. You saw her walk quickly toward the kitchen before your attention was diverted by Curtis.
âYou better not embarrass me in front of the staff,â Curtis was saying, clutching his wine glass a little too tight and swirling the liquid enough that you worried heâd spill some on the expensive decor. âI bring a lot of high-profile clients here, I canât have you leaving earlyâyou know how people like them talk.â
The fear youâd felt melted away in the face of indignant anger on behalf of the restaurant staffâwho Curtis had treated like garbage since heâd walked in. It was a miracle he was even allowed in the doors after what youâd seen that evening.
âWhat kind of people is that exactly?â you asked, quiet fury lacing your voice. You could put up with the indignity of being ordered around by your date, but you wouldnât sit by and listen to him disparage the people whoâd only tried to help the two of you that evening.
Curtis clearly didnât hear the warning in your tone, because he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, gesturing thoughtlessly with his hand holding his wine. Some sloshed over the edge, spilling on the floor.
âYou know, low-class people.â
There was so much casual disdain dripping from his voice, you had to wonder, if Curtis was such a regular at Night Shift, why hadnât the sommelier poisoned him alreadyâitâs not like the world wouldnât be better off without your date, who was somehow still talking.
âThe type of people too poor to get a real jobâlike us,â Curtis said, fixing you with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. It did not make him look like a winner.
At the implication that you were anything like Curtis, your stomach roiled unpleasantly, and you were suddenly afraid that what little wine youâd drank was about to come back up.
That was it, youâd officially reached the end of your patience. You didnât care if it caused a scene, you couldnât spend another moment in this manâs presence without vomiting.
âYouâre a small-dicked, pathetic excuse for a man, Curtis Larsen,â you hissed at him, trying to keep your fury in check as you braced your hands against the edge of the table and moved to stand. âAnd I would fuck every one of the people who worked here before I let you anywhere near me ââ
As you pushed yourself up from the table, Curtis reached for you quicker than you wouldâve expected, snatching your wrist in his big, meaty hand. He yanked on your arm hard enough that you sat back down, biting back a cry as a jolt of pain shot through your shoulder.
âDonât you dare fucking try to leave,â Curtis snarled, his face contorted into an ugly mask of rage. It was clearer, in that moment, that he was high. It was making him more aggressive, so even when you tried to pull free of his grasp, he held on tighter, hurting you even more.
Just then, movement over Curtisâs shoulder caught your attention and your gaze snagged on a man pushing through the door to the kitchen, an air of violence and vengeance about him that made your heart leap in hope. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence weak-willed men like Curtis could only dream of, and he was heading straight for your table.
In the brief time it took the man to make his way through the dining room, you took stock of his appearance. The first thing you noticed was how handsome he was. Silvery, steel gray curls were swept back from his face, giving you a clear view of his sharp, hazel eyes, straight nose and a soft mouth bracketed by short stubble.
The man was clearly older than you, in his 50s, but he looked competent and put together in a way that had your belly swooping as your eyes raked down his body. A plain white t-shirt stretched around his bulging biceps, freckles dusted down his tanned, weathered arms. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were accentuated by the brown apron hanging from his neck.
Something about the man looked familiar, like youâd seen him somewhere before, but between the pain in your wrist, the fear inspired by Curtisâs aggressive change in mood, and the sudden attraction you felt toward the handsome chef, you couldnât place him.
At least, not until you looked back at his face and saw the intent determination in his expression. It was the same exceedingly hot look heâd been wearing in the photos youâd seenâthe ones in the article about Night Shift and its chef-slash-owner.
You realized, with sudden clarity, two very important things: The man approaching your table was the restaurantâs owner and world-renowned head chef, Jack Abbot. And he looked furious enough about the way Curtis was still holding on to you that he was liable to murder your date.
Jack Abbot could not kill a restaurant guest.
He could not. No matter how much that guest might deserve it for putting his filthy fucking hands on a woman in his restaurant. No matter how much Jack wanted to rip this guyâs head off for daring to touch someone as sweet-looking as you.
He could not kill a guest. He could not kill a guest.
Those words were a refrain playing in his head as he made his way to your table, the one with the situation Nazely had told him aboutâa situation that had clearly escalated to physical. Because your date had put his hand on you and all Jack could think about was murder.
He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him heâd hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that heâd stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldnât cut off the guestâs hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.
Jack was nearly at the table when he heard your date talking, and he immediately recognized the smarmy voice of Night Shiftâs #1 worst regular: Curtis Larsen.
In that moment, Jack knew he shouldâve banned the guy after the last time he came in, when heâd terrorized the staff and tipped basically nothing for their efforts. Well, that was a mistake Jack was going to rectify immediately, once he got you away from the shithead.
So focused on his thoughts, and trying to quell his inclination toward murder, Jack didnât fully register what Curtis was saying until he was right next to the table.
ââDidnât take you for such a cheap whoreââ
Any possibility of Jack politely interrupting Curtis went out the window when he heard those words. What came out of him instead was: âSir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.â
Jack was louder than heâd meant to be, making you gasp softly. His gaze found you, wanting to make sure he hadnât scared you, and he ended up getting lost in your eyes. They were bright and smart, and watching him with such a keen interest, it made Jack feel 20 years younger.
It was then that Jack really looked at you, and he realized just how young you were. Not young enough to make him feel like a complete creep, but⌠young enough to make him feel at least a little bit like a creep.
Especially when he raked his eyes down your bodyâtelling himself he was just checking to make sure you were okayâand he couldnât help but notice the way your dress clung to your curves, taunting him with how high the hem rode up your thigh. Your bare legs were a tease beneath the tablecloth, and Jack wondered if your skin felt as soft as it lookedâŚ
Reminding himself that you needed help, not to be ogled by a creepy older man, Jack shook himself free of the spell youâd cast on him with your wide, trusting eyes and your pretty, tempting curves. He turned to Curtis, giving the man his most fearsome glower, the one that kept the most unruly of restaurant guests in line.
âAnd keep your fucking hands to yourself,â Jack growled, making a point of looking down at where Curtisâs hand was still holding your wrist before returning his gaze to the manâs face. âOr do I need to teach you a lesson about putting your hands on woman without her consent?â
Jack knew he sounded dangerousâunhinged, probablyâbut he couldnât bring himself to care, not when his thinly veiled threat did the trick and Curtis let go of you like he was dropping a hot pan.
Something settled in Jackâs chest, and he felt soothed knowing he hadnât even needed to resort to violence to save you from Curtis. But that feeling quickly shriveled as Jack watched you bring your hand to our chest and cradle your wrist.
He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap you up in his arms and tell you no one would ever hurt you again. Not on his watch. But somehow, Jack managed to keep his hands tucked behind his back, even as the tips of his fingers prickled with the desire to touch you, to soothe you.
Those thoughts and urges were troubling enough, but then you lifted your eyes and gave Curtis a withering look that had the other man cowering almost as much as he had under Jackâs glare. The chef felt a threat of pride weave through his heart.
Jack could see your strength, your resilience, and he knew in that moment that you could take care of yourself. You couldâve freed yourself from Curtisâs hold, you hadnât needed saving, but that only made Jack want to whisk you away all the more. He wanted to take care of you in a way heâd never felt before.
Biting back a sigh at himself, Jack realized one very important thing: He was a goner for you. Already. Even though he didnât even know your name.
Unable and unwilling to stop himself from acting selfishly, Jack held a hand out to you, giving you a soft, encouraging smile and nodding toward your hurt wrist.
âMy nameâs Jack, I own this restaurant. Can I take a look, sweetheart?â he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, a low, raspy rumble that he hoped felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. âI used to be a medic in the army.â
It made Jackâs heart soar when you looked at him for a moment, like you were taking his measure, and decided you could trust him. Your fingers were soft and a little cold as they slipped into Jackâs plam, his own hand closing reflexively around them to warm you up.
Carefully, Jack turned your wrist one way, then the other, bending low over your hand to examine whether it was injured. All the while, he kept an eye on your face, watching for any wince or twinge in your expression to indicate he was hurting you.
Thankfullyâfor you, for Jack, and most especially for your dateâit didnât look like Curtis had done any real damage.
âNo sprain, just some bruising,â Jack said, giving your fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze and lifting his gaze to yours. He nearly lost himself in the admiration and gratefulness in your eyes, but managed to continue. âI have some ibuprofen in my office.â
Your eyes widened a little in surprise, and Jack was forced to endure the torment of watching you nibble on your lower lip while uncertainty filled your expression. He understood your reticence to trust a man so soon after another had hurt you, so Jack tried to put you at ease.
âWhaddya say, sweetheart, do you want the kitchen tour?â
Jack shot you a cheesy, hopefully charming wink, and when you let out a soft giggle, shaking your head at him like you couldnât believe how corny he was, he felt like he was flying. He felt like he could soar above all of Pittsburgh with only the confidence he earned from making you laugh.
âThat would be nice,â you said, looking up at him from under your lashes. Jack was immediately entranced by your voice, by the way your lips moved as you spoke. âThank you, chef.â
It did absurdly wild things to Jackâs heart, which was already beating a fast, staccato rhythm in his chest, to hear you call him âchefâ. It shouldnât have affected him so much, it was a title he heard about a hundred times a night from dozens of other people.
But hearing it from your pretty mouth made Jack feel like it was a badge of honor, and he was glad to have earned it.
Distracted by thinking of ways to get you to call him âchefâ some more, it wasnât until you clutched his fingers more tightly that he remembered heâd intended to get you away from Curtis as quickly as possible. Using it as an excuse to keep holding your hand, Jack helped you to stand up.
When he was sure you were steady on your feet, after wobbling for a moment in your heels, Jack nodded to your chair and said, âGrab your things, angel. You wonât be coming back.â
Even though Jack was leaning into you when he said it, Curtis mustâve caught the words because his expression turned from icy resignation to red-hot fury as he pushed himself to stand. But Jack was quicker, putting himself between you and your former date, growling at the younger man before he could fully stand up.
âSit down, sir.â
A stunned Curtis plopped back into his chair. Jack raised his chin, staring down his nose at the other man while he tucked his hands behind his back, standing guard between you and your former date. Images of knives began dancing in Jackâs head, and he let it fuel the anger in his expression to keep Curtis in check.
Jack could sense you moving around behind him. Youâd dropped his hand when youâd turned to grab your jacket and purse, but you mustâve been done because you slipped your fingers back into his palm.
You grasped his hand tentatively, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, his heart soaring in his chest even as he continued glaring at the man at the table, who looked riotous at the thought of Jack stealing you away.
âYou canât do this,â Curtis snarled, trying to puff up his chest and make himself look big, even as he remained sitting in his seat, too much a coward to actually challenge Jackâs authority.
The chef responded to the other manâs posturing by looming over him, an unkind smile on his face. Jack was more than a little satisfied by the way Curtis cowered, just a little, in his seat.
âThis is my fucking restaurant,â Jack said, his voice even but ruthless. âSo let me tell you how this is going to go.â Jack kept your hand tucked in his, holding you behind him while he dealt with your ex-date. âYouâre going to pay your bill, leave your server a generous tip, and then youâre never going to step foot in here again. Do you get me?â
Jack watched emotions flit across the younger manâs faceâsurprise, frustration, indignation, furyâand he could practically feel the temper tantrum brewing, like a storm rolling in. But he could also smell the booze on him and, if Jack wasnât mistaken, he could see the telltale signs Curtis had been indulging in more than wine.
Night Shift really didnât need the scene or the paperwork that would come along with the temper tantrum, which would inevitably lead to someone calling the cops. So Jack went in for the metaphorical kill.
âIf I ever see your face in here again,â Jack said, lowering his voice even more so only you and Curtis could hear him. âYouâre going to pay for putting your hands on a woman in my restaurantâand Iâll take that payment with my knife.â
Jack watched as Curtis blanched, his tanned skin going ghostly pale as all the fight drained out of him at the threat of actual violence. The younger manâs gaze finally fell to the table, and Jack knew he wasnât going to challenge him again.
It was completely unhinged to threaten Curtis like that, he knew that, but all Jack worried about was that heâd scared you. When he turned to check on you, though, he found you staring at him with so much admiration, Jack wanted to puff up his own chest and take on every asshole whoâd ever wronged you.
You took a careful step closer to Jack, looking at him with those wide eyes, a smirk flirting around the edges of your pretty mouth, and wrapped your other hand around his bicep. âThank you,â you murmured for only him to hear, and Jack offered you an answering smile.
âReady to go, sweetheart?â he asked charmingly, squeezing your hand gently.
Your smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin, and he caught the edge of excitement in your expression, making Jackâs heart thump harder in his chest. He could hardly believe someone as young and beautiful and strong as you wanted to go anywhere with him. Not only did you look like you wanted it, you looked eager for it.
âYes, please, chef,â you purred, the sound of your voice calling him âchefâ again going straight to his dick.
Oh yeah, Jack was definitely a goner for you.
You could hardly believe how drastically the course of your night had changed in just a few minutes.
Youâd gone from being on the absolute worst date of your life, trying to figure out how you were going to get away from the man whoâd accosted you, to being on the arm of one of the most talentedâand handsomeâhead chefs in all of Pittsburgh.
Jack Abbotâs hand was warm and strong in yours, his stride steady and determined as he led you through the dining room toward the kitchen. His presence at your side helped to settle the wobbliness you felt in the wake of the fear and adrenaline that had rushed through you when Curtis had grabbed you.
Leaning further into Jackâs side, you got a hint of his scentâfresh laundry something earthy, like sage or rosemaryâand you let it stoke the little ember of interest that burned deep your core, the one that had flared to life when you watched the chef put your date in his place.
What did it say about you that you thought it was inexplicably hot the way Jack had threatened Curtis with his knife? What did it say about you that you felt safer with Jack than you had with any man youâd ever gone out with?
With those questions rattling around in your head, you were glad that Jack didnât try to make conversation beyond asking for your name as he guided you to the kitchen. He seemed to understand you needed a moment to process everything thatâd happened, and he remained quiet as the two of you walked together through the crowded dining room, the soft chatter of the other diners filling the silence so it wasnât awkward.
When Jack pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen, the gentle murmur of the restaurantâs dining room gave away to the chaos of the kitchen. Immediately, you felt the buzzy, almost electric energy, of the staff, and you took your first full breath since youâd walked into Night Shift, something about the kitchen making you feel like you were coming home.
Your eyes were opened wide as you looked around because there was so much to take inâa whole army of chefs and cooks moved around the silver metal tables and big, gas range stoves, grabbing things out of fridges, chopping vegetables and searing meat. It was like a masterfully choreographed dance, the way everyone moved around each other.
And it smelled divine. Herbs and spices and so many other scents filled your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach grumble, though there was no way anyone could hear it over the noiseâthe clatter of knives and pans, the people calling out orders, the slamming of fridge doors.
Everything seemed to revolve around on particular chef, an Asian man spooning some sauce onto a plate and conferring with a Black woman. He was the calm in the center of the storm, obviously running things while Jack had been dealing with your date.
The head chef himself tugged you to the side of the room, pulling you out of the way of the steady stream of servers coming in and out of the double doors, carrying big trays filled with all kinds of dishesâsalads and seafood, pasta and chicken. All of it smelled amazing, looked amazing, and it was all you could do to stare around the kitchen with awe no doubt written plainly on your face.
Gradually, you became aware of Jackâs gaze on your face, and when you looked at the chef, you found him watching you closely, so much intensity in his hazel eyes, it made you feel a little shy. Here was this older, accomplished chef, and he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in his entire kitchenâhis entire restaurant.
You offered him a tentative smile, your heart skipping a beat when he towed you just a little closer by your still clasped hands.
âWhat do you think, sweetheart?â Jack asked, and you could tell by the tenor of his voice that he actually cared about your answer. He sounded worried, hopeful, and so achingly interested that it made you unsteady on your feet.
âI think itâs amazing,â you answered honestly, your voice more than a little breathless with wonder. You leaned further into his side, staring into his eyes and getting a little lost in them. âEverything looks and smells delicious, chef.â
A small, pleased smile curved Jackâs mouth, even as his eyes darkened at what youâd called him. It stole the breath from your lungs, the knowledge that you could affect him so clearly just by calling him âchefâ. It made you want to say it more, to say it while his mouth was on your body, just to see if you could drive him wildâŚ
Tension crackled between the two of you, sharp and electric, sucking all the oxygen out of the room so it became a little hard to breathe normally. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your legs trembled, and still, you couldnât tear your eyes away from Jack, your gaze drifting down to his mouth and the silvery stubble that surrounded it.
âJack?â you murmured his name softly, a question in the single syllable, as you raised your eyes back to his. There was an answer in his gaze, in the way his own eyes dropped to your lips and back up, like he was fighting the same urge as you.
âEverything good, chef?â
You and Jack jumped apart, your hands disentangling as you put a respectable amount of space between your bodies. You watched Jack straighten, his expression shifting into something much more professional, much more appropriate for his workplace, as he turned to the room.
âGimme a few more minutes, chef,â Jack called back to the Asian man whoâd addressed him. You got the sense that the man was amused by the two of you, even though his face remained unreadable. âIâll be back to dig you out of the hole of the dinner rush.â
The man who mustâve been Jackâs sous chef huffed a laugh and, without looking up from the dish he was plating, said, âDonât worry about us, old man. Weâve got this.â
âWhoâs he calling old?â Jack muttered under his breath, making a laugh burst from your lips at how disgruntled he sounded. A smirk flickered at the edge of Jackâs mouth, like he couldnât help himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and he leaned closer to you. âDo you think Iâm old, angel?â
Jackâs voice was little more than a rasp, and you swore that you could feel it skim down your spine and settle deep in your core, where heat was blooming hotter. All you could do was stare at Jack, at the weathered lines of his freckled face, and the silver curls that you wanted to run your fingers through, as you tried to think of something to say.
A little lop-sided smile tilted Jackâs mouth, like he could somehow see the odd mixture of awe and lust swirling in your body, in your brain, making you tongue-tiedâand he didnât hold it against you. âDonât answer that,â he grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes still fixed on your face.
The two of you hung suspended in that moment for longer than was strictly necessary, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen fading away, until you finally remembered how to speak. Though once the words came out of your mouth, you wished youâd stayed silent.
âI donât think youâre too old.â
That statement got Jackâs attention in a way you hadnât experienced in all the short time youâd been in his presence. His eyes darkened, dropping to your lips once again before dragging their way back to meet your gaze. A charming grin made his mouth look far too tempting.
âToo old for what, angel?â Jack asked innocently, a hint of playful teasing in his tone that had your body burning hotter. His dark hazel eyes were knowingâlike he knew what you really meant to say, that you didnât think he was too old for you.
But you couldnât say that, couldnât answer him. You already felt like youâd said too much, and there were too many emotions still swirling around in your chest, in your belly, between your thighs, to make sense of any of them.
Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand you were overwhelmed and he didnât push it. Instead, he pressed a hand to your lower back, the heat of his palm scorching through the thin fabric of your dress, even in the warmth of the kitchen. He guided you gently to a narrow doorway tucked into the corner of the kitchen you hadnât noticed before.
Jack led you into a small office that you knew immediately was his. The space was nice and neat, just like his kitchen, with homey touches that reflected the dining room of his restaurant with emerald green walls and a dark wooden desk, which held a few framed photos and other keepsakes alongside his paperwork and computer.
Also, it smelled like himâfresh and clean, with just a hint of garlic and sage.
The room was small, barely big enough for a desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets, but it was cozy, and you felt just as safe in Jackâs office as you did in his presence. Being away from the loud clamor of the kitchen also helped to settle your nerves and, without being invited to, you sank into the chair, leaving Jack to lean against the edge of his desk.
âHowâre you holding up, sweetheart?â Jack asked gently, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking down to catch your eye. You gave him a weary smile.
âIâm ok,â you said, then paused to take stock of yourself to see if that was really true. âA little shaken, a lot hungry,â your smile tured rueful. âI was really looking forward to trying your food,â you told him, dropping your gaze to where your hands were twisted together in your lap. âBut we didnât even make it to the appetizers.â
Jack shifted closer to you, his knee nudging lightly against yours, and you felt a little zing of happiness at even that small touch. You almost huffed a laugh at yourself for the silly crush you were developing on the hot, older chef, but managed to bite it back and looked up at the man whoâd so gently gotten your attention.
âIf you want to go home, I can have security escort you out back,â Jack started, his mouth twisting into the vague impression of a frown, like he didnât particularly like that idea. âOr, if you want, you can hang out in here, I can make you something to eat, and then later, I can give you that kitchen tour.â
He shot you another one of those exaggerated winks and you couldnât help but giggle softly. Jack was charming and he knew it, and if you werenât careful, you were definitely going to develop a big olâ crush on the man. He made it too easy to feel comfortable around him.
âItâs your choice, sweetheart,â Jack said, pausing for a moment like he wasnât sure if he should go on, but then he did. âI do hope youâll let me cook for you, though.â He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the edge of your jaw, his touch so light you could barely feel it. âI donât like the idea of sending you home hungry.â
Before you could lean into Jackâs hand, he snatched it back, like he was worried heâd crossed a line. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, his hands tucked away as if he was worried they couldnât be trusted not to touch you again, and you had to smile.
Maybe it wasnât the worst idea in the world to develop a crush on the hot, older chef whoâd saved you from the worst date of your lifeâespecially since it seemed like the hot, older chef was having trouble keeping his gentle hands off you.
âIâd like to stay,â you murmured, looking up at Jack from under your lashes.
Almost against your will, your body swayed closer to the charming chef, your hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm. The light dusting of Jackâs hair tickled your fingers, and you couldnât help but notice how strong and firm his arm was beneath your palm.
Your lips quirked into a small smile, putting a little flirty edge on your words as you said, âIf you donât mind, chef.â
Jackâs eyes were dark, liquid heat as he stared at you for a long moment, and you wondered wildly if he might kiss you. The thought had excitement fluttering to life in your belly, but before you could get your hopes up too high, Jack swallowed and looked away. It was only then that you noticed the faint flush pinkening his cheeks.
âMake yourself comfortable, sweetheart,â Jack said, pushing away from the desk and stepping toward the door. âIbuprofenâs in the top drawer.â
The movement had your hand dropping from his arm and you immediately missed the warmth of his skin. When he looked back at you, he mustâve caught something on your face, something that had him cracking a small smile.
âIâll be back soon, alright?â His voice was a little rough, teasing your body with its low tenor, but you managed a smile and a nod.
âIâll be here,â you said, as brightly as you could. âThank you, Jack.â
Jack looked at you another moment, his eyes going a little soft, before he ducked through the office door. He pulled it most of the way closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, somehow knowing you wanted some peace, but not to be cut off from the kitchenâfrom himâentirely.
Left alone to your own devices, you only had your own thoughts as company. You knew your brain wanted to spiral about your dateâWhy hadnât you seen the red flags from Curtis earlier? Why hadnât you cut the date short sooner?âbut instead you focused on what was in front of you.
Tossing your purse and jacket onto the desk, you got comfortable in Jackâs chair, leaning back and noticing a leather jacket thrown over the back. Shooting a quick glance at the door to make sure no one could see in, you tucked your face into the collar and breathed in, a smile curving your lips as you inhaled Jackâs clean, earthy scent.
Once youâd had your fillâor, rather, once your shame caught up with you and you forced yourself to stop sniffing the hot, older chefâs jacket like a mindless hussyâyou let your eyes roam around the room, taking in the almost military precision of the organization in the office.
The desk was mostly clear, save for the keyboard attached to his computer monitor, and a stack of order forms for things for the restaurant. There were also the photos and keepsakes. You picked them up one by one, looking closely at the people and things Jack cared about, not bothering to feel bad about your nosiness.
The first photo was of Jack and his whole kitchen crew at the opening of Night Shift, looking worn out but exultant in their success. Another photo depicted Jack with a man about his age, tall with brown hair and a salt and pepper beard, standing next to a motorcycle. They had their arms slung around each other like they were old friends.
Next, your fingers trailed over a medal of honor that was tucked into a corner of the desk. It was purple and gold, in the shape of a heart with a manâs side profile in the center. You remembered Jackâs comment about being in the army and wondered what had earned him the medal.
Feeling like youâd possibly overstepped, you set the medal back in its place on Jackâs desk and focused on finding the ibuprofen. After taking the pills with the glass of water heâd grabbed for you from the kitchen, you snuggled deeper into his chair, your head falling back against the collar of the chefâs leather jacket.
It occurred to you suddenly that you really liked Jack Abbot. You hadnât known him for long, and you didnât know all that much about him, but you wanted to.
You wanted to know why heâd named his restaurant Night Shift, and why heâd become a chef after being a medic in the army. You wanted to know what his favorite thing to cook was, and whether he needed readers to read texts on his phone.
You wanted to know if he was going to ask you for your number.
That thought made you stop and smile as you considered what youâd do if Jack asked for you number and actually used it. Your fingers played idly with the soft, supple leather of his jacket, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull you into deeper comfort as you imagined what it would be like to date world-renowned chef Jack Abbot.
You suspected it would be a helluva lot better than going on a date with Curtis Larsen, that was for sure.
Jack Abbot could not be interested in the young, pretty restaurant guest heâd saved from a bad date.
He paused just outside the door to his office, trying to get his head on straight, but all he could think about was the way youâd looked at him, like you were attracted to him, like you trusted him to take care of you. His fingers flexed at his side, and he could still feel the softness of your skin beneath his grazing touchâso pretty, so tempting.
His mind was consumed with the sweetness of your scent filling his office, invading his private space, and how much that pleased him. Jack already knew that scent would haunt him for the rest of the evening, that heâd fall asleep just to dream of you.
Wiping a hand down his face, Jack felt like a creep for even thinking about how you smelled, how your hand felt like a perfect fit in his own, how he wanted you to look at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. He was supposed to be helping you, taking care of you, making sure you got home safe, not thinking about what itâd feel like to put his hands on your body and pull you closeâŚ
With a hard shake of his head, Jack refocused on the task at handâmaking you something to eatâand strode back into the kitchen. He walked up to stand beside his sous chef, who was busy plating a whole tray of that nightâs special. John didnât even look up as Jack approached.
âHow are things looking?â Jack asked, busying his hands by retying the strings of his apron while he took a look at the line of orders still needing to be made. It was a busy Friday night at Night Shift, but his sous chef was keeping on top of things.
âDonât worry about us, chef, we got this,â John said, before raising his voice and calling out to the rest of the kitchen staff. âDonât we, nightcrawlers?â
âHoo-rah!â came the answering reply and Jack had to twist his lips to the side to hide the proud smile that wanted to break through. Annoyingly, John noticed.
âSeriously,â John said, straightening up and setting the last of the plates onto a tray for a server to take them out into the dining room. He turned to Jack. âIâve got this under control, if thereâs somewhere else youâd rather be.â
Johnâs eyes drifted over Jackâs shoulder in the direction of the office before returning his gaze to the head chef and waggling his brows a little.
âI wonât take it personally if thereâs someone else youâd rather be with than me,â the sous chef quipped, grabbing his Dunkinâ Donuts iced coffee from the shelf over the worktable and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.
âItâs not like that,â Jack grumbled, hoping to nip that thread of conversation in the bud before it began. The last thing he needed was for his business with you to get around the kitchen. Everyone who worked at Night Shift were talented, good people, but they gossiped more than little old ladies.
Jack tugged on some black nitrile gloves and grabbed a knife and cutting board. But when he returned to his station with the ingredients heâd need for what he planned to cook you for dinner, John was giving him a skeptical look.
âRight,â John said, not dropping the subject, no matter that Jack was no longer looking at him and was instead focused entirely on chopping up some rosemary and garlic. âThatâs why you stepped in and took care of her date instead of letting security handle it.â
Johnâs tone was dry enough to give the Sahara a run for its money, but Jack refused to rise to the bait. Huffing an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, John cut to the chase. âDo you know her or something?â
âNo,â Jack said quicklyâtoo quickly, he knew. He could feel Johnâs indefatigable gaze drilling into the side of his head while he worked. He knew John wouldnât give up the interrogation until he got something so Jack finally admitted, âBut⌠maybe I want to get to know her.â
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a wide grin spread across his sous chefâs face a moment before John clapped him on the shoulder. âThatâs great, chef,â he said, but he mustâve noticed Jack wasnât grinning along with him because he asked, âIt is great, isnât it? I mean, itâs been a while for you, hasnât it?â
âSheâs too young for me, man,â Jack said, his voice harsher than heâd intended. He paused, swallowing, then grabbed a pan and some chicken cutlets, getting to work breading and seasoning them. âBesides, sheâs had a rough nightâthat jackass grabbed her.â Jack had to stop again and take a breath to contain his anger before he went on. âShe doesnât need some old man creeping on her, too.â
âDude,â John started, before getting distracted by plating up a new round of orders. It took him a moment to get back to the conversation. âYouâre not that old,â he said, shooting Jack a look like the head chef should know all his âold manâ comments were in good fun. âAnd if you think sheâs not interested, you didnât see the way she was looking at you.â
At Johnâs comment, Jack fumbled the pan he was cooking in, nearly spilling oil and chicken into the fire of the stove. He glanced at John, back to what he was doing, then to his sous chef again, who was watching him with a not-so-small smirk on his face.
âH-how was she looking at me?â Jack finally asked, unable to stop himself, not even daring to hope John wasnât somehow fucking with him.
Sure, Jack knew youâd wrapped yourself around his arm while heâd walked you back to the kitchen, and he couldnât get the memory of the way youâd touched his arm out of your head. But that wasnât flirting⌠was it? And certainly there wasnât anything particularly interested in the way youâd looked at him. Right?
Johnâs incredulous look told him otherwise. âJack, the girl practically had hearts in her eyes when she looked at you,â he said, and when Jack opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. âSheâs into you, dude.â
âWhat, noâno, no, sheâs justâŚâ Jack couldnât believe how idiotic he sounded, fumbling around his own kitchen while John tried to tell him you were interested. It was like he was a young, inexperienced teenager all over again with his first crush, disbelieving she could ever like him back.
âEllis, back me up,â John was saying, calling over one of Night Shiftâs senior chefs while he set a new round of plated meals onto a tray for a server. âThe girl Jack brought back here had heart eyes for our head chef, didnât she?â
It was only his decades of experience that allowed Jack to continue cookingâboiling water and adding pasta, mixing milk and cheese in with the chicken to create a creamy sauceâwhile he waited with bated breath for Parker Ellisâs response. Jack trusted the senior chef not to bullshit him or fuck with him the way John sometimes did.
âOh yeah, full-on heart eyes,â Parker announced, stopping beside John for a moment to drop off some more plates in need of their finishing touches. She glanced at Jack, who was still trying to process her pronouncement. âYou gonna do something about it, chef?â
Was Jack going to do something about it? Everything in him ached to do somethingâto touch you, to kiss you, or, at the very least, ask for your number and take you out for a real meal sometime. He wanted to get to know you, he wanted to impress you with the most romantic of dates, and then he wanted to take you home and take care of you in every way he knew how.
It had been a long time since Jack had wanted any of those things with anyone, and it was a shock to his system to feel them for someone so soon after meeting them. But Jack could tell you were special. There was a spark between the two of you that he knew heâd be a fool to ignore.
However, he was still wary about scaring you off or creeping you out. But maybe he wouldnât if Jack could take things slow. He could feed you, make sure you were comfortable in his office, and then later, heâd give you a tour of his kitchen and see how things went from there. If you seemed into it, he could ask for your number and take you out on a real date.
Happy with his plan, Jack finally looked up from where he was finishing the meal heâd made for you. He found both John and Parker looking at him expectantlyâand a little impatiently. He twisted his mouth to the side to bite back a smirk.
âDonât you two have something better to do than discuss my love life?â he grumbled good-naturedly, knowing neither of them would take him too seriously.
True to form, Parker snickered and gave Jack a mock salute. âHappy for you, chef,â she said before heading back into the crowded kitchen.
Meanwhile, John was grinning to himself. âGet your girl, old man,â he quipped, giving Jack a sly look out of the corner of his eye.
Jack made a show of grumbling about his impertinent staff while he plated up the dish heâd made for youâchicken and pasta with a creamy, cheesy sauce flavored with plenty of rosemary and other herbs. Then, it was time to bring it to you, and even Jack was a little surprised by how eager he was to get back to you, striding across the kitchen as quick as he could.
Knocking lightly before pushing inside his office, Jack found you curled up in his desk chair, your legs tucked underneath you, an e-reader in your hands. For a moment, Jack was struck by the easy domesticity of the sceneâhim bringing you dinner while you looked sexy and cozy in his office.
It would be all too easy for Jack to get used to this, having you visit him at his restaurant and waiting in his office for him to finish up for the night so he could take you out for a late-night drink, or some ice cream. And then, heâd take you home and get you underneath him so he could have a late-night snack of his ownâŚ
âOh hi, is that for me?â
Your question dragged Jack from his reverie, and he couldnât help but smile when he saw your wide eyes looking up at him. He stepped forward to set down the dish and silverware heâd brought on the desk in front of you, your sweet scent tickling his nose before he stood back to give you some roomâand so that he could watch your reaction.
You tucked your e-reader back into your purse, and Jack knew the exact moment you smelled the food in front of you because you went still and your eyes slid closed. You took a deep breath in through your nose, and when you exhaled, it was with a low, throaty moan that went straight to Jackâs dick.
For the first time since heâd hit middle age, Jack was actually glad he wasnât as quick to harden as when he was younger. Still, he had to curl his hands into fists at his sides and tamp down on the instinct to adjust his cock, which was twitching to life, not wanting to bring any attention to how your innocent reaction was affecting him.
Instead, he focused all his willpower on keeping himself from getting harder, which became more difficult when you blinked your eyes open, looking almost dazed with hunger and pleasure. It was all Jack could do to hold himself back from touching you, from tracing the shape of your mouth with his fingers, from kissing you so that the desire in your eyes was all for him and not his food.
âIt smells delicious, chef,â you purred, your voice low and husky in a way that Jack could tell wasnât intentional, which made it affect him all the more.
âGive it a try, sweetheart,â Jack said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from reaching for you. He wanted to grab you by your hips, put you in his lap, and feed you. But he reminded himself he was taking things slow, so he leaned against the desk and watched you intently. âI want to know if you like it.â
Bobbing your head in a nod, you grabbed your fork, scooped up some of the pasta and speared a piece of chicken, popping the whole bite into your mouth. Some cream sauce lingered in the corners of your lips, and Jack had to clench his fists to stop from swiping it away with his thumb. He was nearly undone, biting back a groan, when your tongue peaked out and licked it up with a garbled moan.
âOh my god, thatâs the best thing Iâve ever tasted,â you proclaimed. The pleasure in your voice made Jack harder, but he focused instead on the pride blooming, warm and sweet, in his chest.
Still, he couldnât completely ignore his cock twitching to life in his jeans. For once, he was grateful for the apron covering his front, helping to shield the bulge growing between his thighs. God, he felt like a fucking teenager.
âAh, th-thanks,â he said, stumbling over his words, flustered by just how much you visiblyâand verballyâenjoyed his food. âItâs a personal recipe, not on the menu.â He shot you a wink, hoping desperately that it came across as charming, and not unbearably cheesy. âI figured you could use some comfort food.â
The somber note in Jackâs voice seemed to strike you right in the heart, and you blinked, your eyes dropping from his for a moment. Jack wondered if heâd made a mistake by referencing your bad date, but then your hand darted out, playing idly with the edge of his apron just below where his arms were crossed.
âI canât thank you enough for getting me out of that situation, Jack,â you said softly, and the chef was so distracted by the sound of his name on your tongue that he almost missed what you were saying. But then you looked up and your gaze was arresting. âI thought I could handle itâcould handle himâbut I donât know what I wouldâve done if you hadnât been thereâŚâ
Jack hated how small you sounded, how unsure of yourself.
Before he knew what he was doing, Jack was sweeping down onto one knee, barely biting back a wince when his prosthetic protested, and settling his hands gently on the outside of your thighs. He tried to ignore the heat of your bare skin against his palms, forcing himself to focus on you and making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.
âYou wouldâve been fine, sweetheart,â Jack said in his firmest tone, even as he made sure to keep his voice gentle. He could tell from the uncertainty in your eyes that you were hanging on his every word, and he felt compelled to go on. âYou can take care of yourself, and if youâd needed to, you wouldâve handled that asshole.â
Something like pride and confidence swirled in your eyes, and Jack let his mouth twist to the side in a smile. It made him feel good to know he could put that look in your eye, and he felt his chest puffing up a little bit before he got control of himself and gave your thighs a reassuring squeeze before continuing.
âI am glad I could help, though,â Jack said, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. But he was kneeling so close to you that he breathed in your sweet scent with every inhale, and it was going straight to his head. âThank you for letting me feed youâthank you for letting me take care of you.â
Your eyes were wide and bright and fixed so intensely on Jackâs that he barely felt it when your hands settled gently on his shoulders, holding on to him like he was the one steady thing you could count on. His grip on your thighs tightened, drawing you closer until your knees collided with his chest.
âAnytime, chef,â you murmured, your lips parted and glistening and looking so fucking tempting.
A little growl rumbled in Jackâs chest and he watched your eyes flare with interest, before settling back into a heavy-lidded stare. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, curling into the cotton of his white t-shirt, and he could feel you lightly tugging on him, trying to bring him closer.
Fuck, Jack wasnât just interested in you, he craved you. It didnât matter that heâd known you for such a short time, he wanted to devour you. He wanted to take you into his arms and kiss the breath from your lungs, make you come apart and then hold you tight until you put each other together again.
He wanted to go back to work knowing you were safe and sound in his office, eating the food heâd cooked for you, then give you a tour of the kitchen later. When that was done, he wanted to drive you home, make sure you got in safe, and make plans to see you again. He wanted to take up as much space in your head as you were taking up in his.
Jack wanted to kiss you. And, if he wasnât mistaken, you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, too.
A great crashing sound came from the kitchen, shattering the perfect moment, and Jackâs stomach sank when you flinched. You tried to hide your reaction, staring at him innocently like you hadnât recoiled at the loud sound, but he was reminded that he should be taking things slowly, carefully, making sure you werenât overwhelmed by all that had happened throughout the night.
âEat up, angel,â he rumbled, giving your thighs one last squeeze before moving to stand, pushing himself up with one hand on his desk. He gritted his teeth through the pain in his limb as he settled back onto his prosthetic, and gave you another of his hopefully charming winks. âIf youâre a good girl, Iâll make you some dessert to go with your kitchen tour.â
At that comment, you sucked in a sharp breath, a sultry smile spreading slowly across your face. When you looked up at Jack, your eyes were a little hazy, and your body swayed closer to him, almost like you couldnât help yourself.
âOh, Iâll be good,â you murmured, looking more sexy than you had any right to curled up in Jackâs desk chair. âI promise, chef.â
There it was again, that title rolling off your tongue and licking straight down Jackâs spine. He had half a mind to gather you up in his arms and kiss you until you were murmuring that word into his mouth, his neck, into the center of his chest while he pressed between your thighs and slid inside youâŚ
âIâll be back when it slows down,â Jack promised, wrenching himself away from his fantasy and backing toward the door of the office. If he didnât know better, he thought you mightâve been smirking as you hummed your acknowledgement. âEnjoy your dinner, sweetheart.â
âThank you, chef,â you chirped sweetly, turning back to your mealâthough not before catching Jackâs eye over your shoulder, a flirty spark in your gaze.
A goofy grin spread across Jackâs face, and for a moment, he let himself watch you as you pulled out your e-reader and began to read while you ate the meal heâd prepared. His chest filled with warm sunlight while something in his gut settled. It felt right to have you here in Jackâs office, in his space, looking safe and comfortable and content.
Holding that sense of rightness close to his heart, Jack ducked back into the kitchen, taking a moment to retie his apron before jumping into the fray. He felt steadier than he had before heâd brought you some dinner, and while Jack knew part of that was because he knew you were fed, it was also because heâd accepted itâhe was interested in you and he was going to pursue you.
Jack was done feeling guilty or creepy for wanting to spend time with you, even if you were one of his restaurant guests that heâd had to save from an atrociously bad date. Jack believed what heâd told you, that you could take care of yourself, and if you wanted to spend time with him, too, then Jack wasnât going to feel bad about it.
So he took his place beside his sous chef and got to work on the endless stream of orders coming into Night Shiftâs kitchen. He let himself fall into the rhythm of the work, plating up and putting the finishing touches on all kinds of dishes before they were whisked away into the dining room. He worked with a methodical determination, knowing that the sooner he cleared out all the orders, the sooner he could check back in on you.
When things finally slowed down, Jack heaved a sigh of relief. It was a strange feeling, knowing he had someone in his office that he eagerly wanted to get back to, and it wasnât until he caught John giving him an annoying looked that he realized he was smiling.
Jack tugged off his black nitrile gloves, tossed them in the trash, and flipped off John while he made his way back to his office. Jackâs heart squeezed at the sight that greeted him.
He found you snuggled up in his chair, his leather jacket tucked around you like a blanket, your head lolled to the side as you slept soundly. Jack marveled at the beauty of your faceâthe soft slope of your nose, the pretty curve of your mouth, the delicate fan of your lashes against your cheeks.
Somewhere deep in his chest, Jackâs heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to get his attention, and he knew exactly what it wanted to sayâyou could be his. If you let him, and if you wanted him, too, Jack could fall for you. That night could be the start of something new, something spectacular.
Thinking about how he could very much get used to seeing you in his chair, in his office, Jack tucked his leather jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, holding his breath when your cheek nuzzled against the back of his hand. His heart thumped happily when you smiled softly in your sleep and it took every bit of his strength to pull away.
As quietly as he could, Jack cleared the empty plate and silverware from his desk, taking care not to disturb you. He carried it to the door, where he paused to look at you again, watching you sleep for just a moment longer.
It struck Jack then, like a lightning bolt, that he wasnât just interested in you or attracted to you. He was completely gone for you. He was yours, and he could only hope that youâd want to be his.
Even before you were fully awake, you knew you were safe.
Warmth, and the scent of leather and herbs, surrounded you, easing you back into reality from dreams about a hot, silver-haired chef and big, capable hands on your body. Desire curled lazily, low in your belly, and you snuggled deeper into the leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, wishing for more time of with your dream chef.
But before you could slip back into sleep, it struck you suddenly how quiet it was in your little cocoon. Youâd fallen asleep to the chaos and clatter of the kitchen at Night Shift, but the noise had dwindled down to a dull murmur. It hit you that you mustâve slept longer than youâd intended.
Youâd only meant to close your eyes for a few minutes. Youâd been so full from eating the comfort meal Jack Abbot had cooked for you, and youâd felt so warm and cozy once youâd tugged his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped it around yourself. You hadnât been able to stop yourself from letting your eyes close and falling asleep.
Reaching out from beneath the jacket, you checked the time on your phone and confirmed youâd not only slept through the rest of the dinner rush, but through Night Shiftâs closing time. Slowly, you began to uncurl yourself from your position in Jackâs chair, stretching and looking toward the door of his office, wondering why he hadnât woken you up sooner.
Had he forgotten about you?
It was a little dizzying, the sheer amount of disappointment that swept through you at that thought, and it took you a moment to wade through the emotions to get back to rational thought. Jack had been so kind and attentive since heâd rescued you from your bad date, it didnât sit right to think he mightâve forgotten about you.
It also just didnât make sense based on the way heâd looked at you before heâd left you alone to eat. Heâd stared at you so intently with those dark hazel eyes of his, youâd felt like he wanted to consume you. Even just the memory of his stare was enough to warm you from the inside out, heat swirling through your belly before settling between your thighs.
Intending to get to the bottom of why Jack had let you sleep in his office for so long, you did a quick check of your makeup in your phoneâs camera and set your feet on the floor. You were just rising to stand when Night Shiftâs head chef stuck his head in through the open door.
âYouâre up,â he said, his sharp eyes taking in the way you wobbled on your heels, wincing at the pain of wearing them for so long. He came into the room and took your hand, setting a steadying palm on your hip while his fingers twined with yours. âHow are you feeling?â
His attentive question sent more warmth spiralling through your chest, and you smiled softly at the chef, leaning into his warmth. He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt that pulled obscenely across his shoulders and highlighted his bulging biceps, but the brown apron heâd had on earlier was gone, leaving him in just a simple pair of dark jeans and black shoes.
Meanwhile, you were still in the little black dress and heels youâd donned for your date, but somehow you didnât feel overdressed around Jack. You enjoyed the way his eyes raked down your body, appreciating the way your dress clung to your curvesâhugging your hips and cupping your tits. It made you crave the chefâs touch everywhere he looked.
âI feel good, chef,â you murmured huskily, your lips quirking into a little smirk when heat flared in Jackâs eyes. âI needed a little rest, but now Iâve got a second wind.â
âStill want that kitchen tour, sweetheart?â Jack rumbled, his hand on your hip pulling you closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the warmth of it teasing every inch of your bare skin. âYou were such a good girl during the dinner rush, Iâve got that dessert I promised you.â
Something deep inside you clenched tight at the way Jackâs voice rumbled over the words âgood girlâ, his praise going straight to the place between your legs that was beginning to throb the longer his hand remained on your hip. To steady yourself, you lifted your hands to Jackâs biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingers as you looked at the chef from under your lashes.
âReally?â you asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice, out of your smile.
Jackâs mouth pulled to the side in a slow, wicked grin, his eyes sparkling with humor and something that looked a lot like hunger. âHow do you feel about coffee and chocolate?â
Excitement bubbled up your throat, and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as you confirmed your undying love for coffee and chocolate. With another grin that had your core clenching, Jack guided you back into the kitchen, his big hand firm against your lower back.
Most of the kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving the space spotless and easier to navigate as Jack walked you through. He showed you each of the stations, and introduced you to the few remaining kitchen staffâincluding his sous chef John Shen and senior chef Parker Ellis.
Jack left you chatting with John and Parker while he rustled around in a fridge, pulling out some containers and setting up a work station on one of the long, silver tables in the center of the room. Once he was done, the other chefs each gave Jack a handshake and half-hug before bidding you a goodnight.
As they left, John exchanged a loaded look with Jack that had the head chefâs face twisting into an exasperatedly stern expression, and you had to bite back a smile. It was clear Jackâs staff loved him, respected himâand teased him every chance they got.
It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that you werenât the only one who felt safe with Jack. He was a good boss, a good man, to everyone in his life. He was the exact opposite of the man youâd gone on a date with and needed to be rescued from.
Jack Abbot was the kind of man you could be alone with in a deserted kitchen and feel only excitement, only the thrumming awareness that something might happen between you two. You turned to him, your gazes meeting, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, silently acknowledging the sparks igniting in space between your bodies.
âHop up,â Jack said, his voice as rough as a knife on metal. With one hand, he patted the counter beside the cutting board heâd set up, his dark eyes watching you intently.
Your gaze snagged on that hand, on the thickness of his fingers and the smattering of freckles along the back. You remembered how that hand had felt on your hip, on your thigh, and you nearly whimpered with the need to feel his palm on you again, but you managed to bite it back.
Instead, you did as the chef said. You pressed back against the counter, planting your hands on the edge and arching your spine just a little more than necessary to stick out your tits. You were rewarded with Jackâs gaze dropping quickly to your chest before he dragged his eyes back up to your face. With a smirk, you jumped onto the counter, careful not to put too much weight on the wrist your date had grabbed.
The cold metal of the worktable was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bare thighs, and you hissed softly, your shoulders trembling as a shiver snaked down your spine. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your body and wished you hadnât left your jacket in Jackâs office.
But then Jackâs hand was on your knee and he was giving you a concerned look, his silver brows lowered over his hazel eyes. âCold, sweetheart?â
âYeah,â you answered sheepishly, giving a light shrug and trying to shake off the chill. You leaned into Jack, your body seeking his warmth. âThe kitchen gets cold without all the ovens and stoves on, huh?â you asked wryly, trying to get a reaction from the chef, and soften the worried lines of his face.
Jack huffed a laugh, shooting you an amused smirk even as he squeezed your knee in chastisement. The weight of his palm, the soft press of his fingers, had tendrils of heat licking down your spine and settling between your thighs. It took a great deal of effort not to shiver and grab hold of Jack to pull him closer.
âStay here,â he rumbled, pulling away and striding toward his office. You nearly whined at the loss of his body heat, but you perked up quickly when he returned with his leather jacket.
The chef stepped close enough to your legs that your knees brushed his thighs, and your gaze snagged on his. He was so close, you could see the lines in his weathered face, the silver stubble along his jaw, and the light freckles dusted across his cheeks.
Tension crackled as he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, his fingers brushing gently against your bare skin, and you leaned closer, until you could feel his unsteady breaths on your lips. Jack went still, his eyes searching yours and you tried your best to tell him without words how much you wanted him to kiss you.
But either Jack didnât get the message or he chickened out, because he swallowed hard and tucked the lapels of the leather jacket around your shoulders, making sure you were ensconced in its warmth before he moved back to his workstation. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself before he spoke.
âBetter?â he asked, his voice raw with a hunger that made you squeeze your thighs together against a pulsing ache.
âYeah, better,â you answered, your voice faint, trying and failing to shake off the unslaked desire burning through your body. You didnât know if Jack was purposefully ignoring all the signals you were giving him, or if he was truly unaware, but you didnât know how much longer you could last before you simply grabbed the chef and kissed him yourself.
Despite the almost-kiss, you and Jack fell into an easy quiet, him pulling out some dark chocolate and beginning to chop it up into tiny shards while you watched him work.
The muscles in his arms moved mesmerizingly as he worked his knife against the cutting board, his freckled forearms flexing deliciously, his biceps straining the hem of his white t-shirt. You had to wrap your fingers around the edges of Jackâs leather jacket and bury your nose in the collar, breathing in his herby, masculine scent, to keep from reaching out to touch him.
Whatever expression was on your face made Jack smirk when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. After that, you couldâve sworn he started flexing his arms on purpose, getting fancy with his knife work, like he was trying to impress you.
From anyone else, that mightâve made you roll your eyes, or turned you off entirely, but Jack was so skilled, so charming, and just so downright hot, that it worked for him. His confidence came from his competence, and it was so attractive, it made you squirm where you sat on the counter beside him, the warmth blooming between your thighs becoming nearly impossible to ignore.
âWhatâre you making?â you asked in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from watching the muscles of Jackâs shoulders shift beneath the obscenely thin fabric of his white t-shirt. That t-shirt looked well-loved, and you had a sneaking suspicion it would feel really good to wearâwhile staying the night in Jackâs bedâŚ
âWeâve got some leftover coffee mousse from tonightâs dessert special,â Jack answered, seemingly unaware of how you were ogling him as he continued to chop the dark chocolate into little pieces.
His hands were so deft and skilfull, his fingers so thick and sure, you couldnât help but imagine what it would feel like for Jack to touch you. You imagined him putting his hands on your body, groping your soft curves, slipping his fingers between your thighs to press against your damp pantiesâŚ
âIâm just adding some chocolate to elevate it a little,â Jack glanced at you, and you knew your filthy thoughts were written all over your face by the way his eyes heated when they raked over your face. âChocolate makes everything better, doesnât it, sweetheart?â
Jackâs voice had lowered, sending delightful little tendrils of lust licking down your spine. Even if youâd wanted to, you couldnât have looked away from Jackâs dark gaze, the steady thwack of the knife against his cutting board matching the rhythm of the pulse between your thighs.
Slowly, you nodded your head. âYes, chef,â you murmured, your voice raspier than youâd expected, matching Jackâs lower tenor. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, you thought you might be able to hear it in the quiet kitchen, but it was only your soft, panting breaths.
The measured sounds of Jackâs knife ceased, his eyes dropping to your mouth, watching you breathe for one long moment, and then another, before dragging his gaze back to yours. Tension crackled electrically between your bodies, and it wasnât until your wrist gave a twinge of pain that you realized your hands were braced on the edge of the counter and you were leaning closer to Jack.
He seemed to notice the position of your body at the same time you did, his eyes darting down to where your tits were bouncing softly with your sharp breaths before looking up, a light pink blush appearing beneath his freckles. His gaze collided with yours, and you could feel the older man holding himself back, keeping himself in check.
But that wasnât what you wanted. You wantedâŚhim. Badly.
âJack.â His name was a desperate whimper, barely louder than your breathing, tumbling from your lips. Something in him seemed to break at the sound of his name from your lips, and you thought he might kiss you.
Instead, he surprised you by grabbing a piece of chocolate from his cutting board and lifting it to your lips. He met your stare with his own heated eyes, looking like melted chocolate mixed with caramel.
âHere, sweetheart, have a taste.â
Jackâs words were a low, delectable rumble from deep in his chest, and you couldnât hold back the shiver that raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble with excitement under the onslaught of his voice and his closeness. You could smell his earthy, masculine scent, and you wanted more.
The tips of Jackâs bare fingers pressed to your lower lip and, instinctively, you parted for him, allowing the older man to feed you the chocolate. The rich, decadent taste burst in your mouth, and your tongue darted out, licking the pads of Jackâs fingers, making his eyes darken even further as he watched your lips close around the bite of chocolate.
You let the confection melt in your mouth, your eyes sliding closed of their own accord as you savored the delicious dark chocolate. You mightâve felt like you were in your own little world, but Jackâs hand fell to your thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress where it rode high on your leg. You had to stifle another shiver as you hummed in delight, catching the rumble of a muffled groan coming from the chef.
When you opened your eyes again, it was to find Jackâs intense hazel eyes searing into yours, his gaze so blisteringly hot, you felt your core clench in anticipation. And since you knew you werenât alone in your attraction and lust, you licked your lips, watching Jack track the movement with his gaze.
âYum,â you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly through the hair on Jackâs arm, nails raking subtly against his warm, freckled skin. You were prepared for him to pull away again, but he didnât, and you let a small smile curve your mouth. âDo you have anything else for me to taste, chef?â
Although your question was, on its surface, innocent, you imbued your words with enough innuendo for your real meaning to get through to him. You knew that it had when the corner of Jackâs lips quirked into a smile, but instead of leaning forward and giving you what you wantedâhis mouthâhe pulled away and turned to something at his station.
The chef popped open one of the storage containers heâd taken out of the fridge and swiped his finger through the mousse inside. You almost squirmed in excitement as he held his hand in front of your mouth, offering you the sweet treat.
Wrapping your hands around his wrist, you held Jackâs scorching gaze as you brought his finger to your lips. You licked teasingly at the mousse, making sure not to touch Jackâs skin with your tongue, and had to fight a smirk when he let out a barely suppressed groan.
Putting both of you out of your misery, you closed your lips around Jackâs thick finger and licked the mousse off of him. The bittersweet taste of the coffee mousse exploded in your mouth, with just a hint of salt from Jackâs skin, and it had you moaning around Jackâs finger. His whole body jerked at the sound and the vibrations.
âChrist, sweetheart,â he groaned softly, his other hand grabbing your thigh, gripping you tightly as he nudged your knees open so he could step between your parted legs. âYou make the prettiest sounds when youâre eating my foodâI just wanna tasteâŚâ
Jackâs finger, still sticky with sugar, slid from your mouth and his hand cupped your cheek, tipping your face toward his. For a moment, he lingered with his lips just barely brushing yours, close enough that you were certain he could taste the coffee and chocolate on your breath.
It felt like he was memorizing the moment, savoring the tension that crackled between your bodies, the way your breath hitched with him so close. Your knees squeezed his sides, your fingers dancing up his ribs, and a soft, breathy whined sounded in your throat as you tried to pull him closer.
âIs this alright, sweetheart?â Jack asked, his thumb stroking your cheek, swiping over the corner of your mouth.
The genuine care in his deep, raspy voice was nearly your undoing. This man had done nothing but take care of you since heâd come striding out of the kitchen to save you from your bad date, but you were tired of him treating you with kid gloves. You wanted him so fucking bad.
Fingers curling in the sides of his t-shirt, you tugged Jack closer, sliding your body to the edge of the counter at the same time, uncaring about how high your dress was riding up your thighs. You parted your lips, tilting your head into the handsome chefâs hand as you pressed your soft body against his hard one.
âYes, Jack,â you whimpered, unable to stand the crackling tension any longer, even as you wanted to bask in it for the rest of your life. âKiss me. Please, chef.â
Jack didnât need to be asked twice. He closed the distance between his mouth and yours, capturing your lips in a slow, decadent kiss that had your heart soaring. His lips were soft, but firm, as they moved against yours, taking immediate control while you were left to gasp and whimper into his mouth.
It was everything youâd hoped it would beâthe older man kissing you sweetly at first, before pressing his thumb to your chin and tilting your head back so he could sweep his tongue into your mouth. The hot slide of him was determined and possessive and so fucking hot, you moaned against his lips, trembling as you met the fervor of his kiss with your own heady lust.
Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you wrapped your arms around Jackâs shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft, steel gray curls at the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in the strands, tugging lightly on his hiar as your nails raked lightly against his skin, earning you a desperate groan. Jack deepened the kiss again until you couldnât do anything else but breathe him in.
The chefâs hands skimmed down your sides beneath the edges of his leather jacket where it was still balanced precariously on your shoulders. His palms were warm as his thick fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling you even more flush against his chest, your legs splaying wide to make room for his broad body.
His thick, half-hard cock pressed against your soft inner thigh, and you shifted until he was nestled against your warm center. You rocked your hips, grinding against his bulge, dragging a desperate groan out of the older man.
âFuck, angel, you taste like heaven,â Jack rasped, pressing kisses along your jaw, tickling you with the silver scruff on his cheeks. When he suckled on a spot beneath your ear, you moaned and writhed in his arms, pressing your aching pussy against his hardening cock. âFeel like it, too.â
âGod, you feel so good, Jack,â you babbled breathlessly, rubbing against his body like a cat in heat. You hiked your thighs higher around his waist, using the leverage to hump against his thick cock through your clothes. âI want you. Please, chef,â you begged against Jackâs ear, nipping at the lobe and smiling wildly when he shuddered in your arms, his hips grinding his cock harder against your soft core.
âI thought you were going to be a good girl for me, sweetheart,â Jack growled, his voice softly recriminating as he grabbed your hips hard, his fingers digging roughly into your soft flesh.
But instead of dragging you closer and giving you what you wanted, he pushed you back. Lifting his head from your neck, he gave you a stern look, softened by the affectionate twist of his mouth and the spark of desire in his eyes, sending a zing of lust straight to your dripping slit.
âDonât you wanna be good for me, angel,â he rumbled, his voice deliciously raspy, âand let me feed you some dessert before you start begging me to fuck you?â
Your jaw dropped and you sucked in a sharp breath at Jackâs filthy words, heat suffusing your body so fully, you couldnât find a single word in your entire head to respond. You could only stare at the older man, your thighs squeezing his hips and wordlessly begging him to put your body out of its misery, but Jack simply chuckled at your reaction.
He stole a kiss from your parted lips before gently extricating himself from your clinging body, shushing you softly when you whined at the loss of him. Giving your hips one last rough squeeze, he stepped out from between your legs and adjusted his thick cock in his jeans as he moved back to his workstation.
It was absurd how cold you felt without him, and you pulled Jackâs leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, pouting at the chef. He pretended to ignore you, scooping up chocolate shards and dumping them into a bowl along with some mousse while you kicked your feet petulantly and whined, âJaaack.â
That got you an amused smirk. âJust a few bites,â he urged, picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk the chocolate into the mouse, melting it into the dessert. âI promise itâll be worth it,â Jack said, giving you another of his charming winks.
It had its intended effect, and you softened, endeavoring to wait patiently, though you still made a show of grumbling your discontent even as you got distracted by watching him work. Jackâs arms flexed deliciously while he whisked the chocolate into the mousse, his biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt so enticingly, you wanted to bite them, then lick every freckle, then bite him again.
Jackâs low chuckle let you know heâd caught your hungry look, and heat flooded your cheeks, but you didnât get a chance to stammer out an apology or an explanation before he was setting the bowl down and grabbing a spoon. Scooping up some of the mousse mixture, he lifted it to your lips.
You opened eagerly, already knowing whatever Jack made would be delicious, and let him pop the bite into your mouth. Jack watched you closely as he pulled the spoon out, giving you a moment to taste what heâd given you.
The delectable flavors of rich coffee and velvety chocolate melted on your tongue, and your eyes slid closed as you savored the sweetness, a low moan slipping from your lips at how good the dessert tasted.
âJesus, Jack, thatâs the best thing I think Iâve ever had in my mouth,â you groaned, opening your eyes. You found Jack staring at you, a wild look in his eyes, and so much hunger in their depths, it stole the breath from your lungs. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.
You half expected the chef to pounce on you, to kiss the remnants of the dessert from your lips and show you what other things he could stuff in your mouth, but you shouldâve known better. Jack didnât take the bait of your comment as he kept a white-knuckle grip on himself, holding back even as more tension than ever snapped and crackled between the two of you.
âWant some more, sweetheart?â he rasped, holding your gaze.
Your head was bobbing an eager nod before heâd even finished the question, and he lifted another spoonful of mousse to your lips, watching as you ate it happily, humming in delight. When Jack fed himself some of the sweet concoction, you could only watch with rapt attention as it disappeared inside his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch some left at the corner of his lips.
The need in your body had pulled you taut as a bowstring, your skin practically vibrating with desire by the time youâd finished enough of the dessert for Jack to hopefully be satisfied. It was a testament to his culinary skills that you were still able to taste the chocolatey coffee confection with how much lust was swirling through your body, simmering low in your belly.
You squirmed where you sat, the metal beneath your thighs warm from your skin, and felt how wet you were, your panties nearly soaked with your desire. You were hot enough that you pushed the jacket from your shoulders, and looked directly at Jack, pouting at the chef once more.
âJack, please,â you whined, your fingers curling around the edges of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. You felt him suck in a breath as he let you tug him back between your legs, your body trembling with excitement and need. âIâve had enough dessert, I need something elseâŚâ
The older man didnât respond immediately, his head ducked, watching as his palms skimmed up the outside of your bare thighs, like he could barely believe you were letting him touch you. Your fingers trailed up his arms, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking lightly against his skin. You watched him close his eyes at the sensation, knowing he enjoyed it.
âIâve been a good girl, havenât I?â you murmured in Jackâs ear, feeling the tension in his shoulders as they bunched beneath your arms. He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. âIâve been so good, and I want you so bad, Jack. Touch meâplease, chef.â
The last thread of Jackâs control snapped at your commentâyou felt it in the way his muscles moved, poised on the edge of giving in before he finally let his desire loose after your begging plea. His hands grabbed you roughly, fingers digging into your bare ass beneath the hem of your dress as he yanked you closer.
His mouth descended on yours, capturing your lips in a blisteringly hot, devouring kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He wrapped you up in his arms, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you, gorging himself on your mouth, his hands groping greedily at your body while you clung to him.
It was everything youâd wanted from the chef, and the corners of your lips curved in an attempt at smile, but then Jack was kissing you harder, overwhelming you until you were moaning mindlessly into his mouth. Youâd never felt more desired than you did when Jack kissed you, and youâd never felt more in danger of letting yourself fall for someone.
You were mostly lost to your lust, your nipples puckered and needy where they were pressed against the chefâs chest and your pussy aching to be filled, but it occurred to you that Jack was different from all the other men youâd dated. He was kind and gentle and steady, and he kissed you so good your head spun.
It struck you suddenly that while you knew you were safe with Jack, you were in danger of losing your heart to him. But that was the kind of danger you wanted to be inâespecially since you knew that if you fell for him, Jack would catch you.
So you kissed the chef right back, pouring your desire for him into the slide of your mouth against his, holding him close as you flung yourself off the edge, letting emotions swirl and swell in your chest, confident that heâd carry your heart in his hands and protect it with his life.
Youâd never been safer in your entire life than you were in Jack Abbotâs arms.
Jack Abbot was in heaven.
In all his years of cooking, of being a chef, heâd never tasted anything as divine as you.
He could gorge himself on you and still never get enoughânot of the way your mouth moved against his, your lips soft and tongue eager as it twined with his. He couldnât get enough of the feel of your body beneath his hands, so sweet and supple and responsive.
Every press of his fingertips into your spine had you arching into him, breathy, little whines slipping from your lips for him to devour. He could taste the coffee and chocolate on your tongue, and he sucked on your plump lower lip, groaning as he savored the combination of the dessert heâd fed you with the natural flavor that was all your own.
Kissing you was making him unbelievably hardâharder than heâd been in a long timeâhis cock heavy and weeping in his jeans. The only thing that saved him from embarrassment was how enthusiastically you were grinding against his bulge, the dampness of your panties leaving a wet spot where his cock was straining against the dark denim.
Jack dragged his hands up your sides, wrapping his fingers around your ribs, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your tits, teasing you both with the barest of touches. You let out a soft, keening sound against his mouth, making him smirk before he pressed kisses along your jaw and down the smooth column of your neck.
âMore, Jack, please,â you begged, your hands fisted in his shirt and tugging on him restlessly. The desperation in your voice, the way you begged for him, it made his cock twitch for you.
He shifted his hands higher, groping your tits through your dress and dragging a filthy moan from your pretty lips. The pads of his thumbs teased your hardened nipples, and he reveled in the way your body shuddered in his arms. Your spine arched, pressing your tits into his hands and he rewarded you by rubbing your nipples more with his thumbs.
âYa like this, sweetheart?â Jack rasped against your neck, raising his head enough to nip at your ear. âLike letting an old chef feel up your pretty tits?â
âOld, hot chef,â you shot back, correcting him in a deliciously breathless voice.
Jackâs cock twitched at the compliment, and he couldnât believe how lucky he was to have found youâsomeone so beautiful and full of life. Someone so into him.
He pressed his smile into the spot beneath your ear, kissing and licking your skin until you were moaning softly.
âAnd yes, chef, I love it. Touch me more, touch me harderâplease,â you begged, squirming where you sat on the metal counter in his kitchen.
What was Jack supposed to do? Deny you?
He couldnât even fathom the idea of not giving you what you asked for, even if he knew that he was letting things get a little out of control. The two of you were still at Night Shift, and though the staff had left for the night, it wasnât the best idea to have sex in his kitchen.
But Jack couldnât seem to stop himself, not when you were making such pretty noises while he sucked a hickey into your neck and teased your nipples with the lightest of pinches. His mouth trailed up your throat before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while he played with your tits.
It had been so long since Jack had lost himself in anyoneâthere hadnât been anyone whoâd awoken that desire in him the way you did. Not since his wife passed. You were a siren calling him to the danger of your body, to the promise of losing his heart to you, and Jack knew he could drown in you if you let him. He hoped to god you let him.
For long, endless minutes, Jack kissed you and groped your tits, playing with your nipples and seeing how many different noises he could pull from your lips. And for a while, you let him, the sounds of your pleasure growing more high-pitched, your hips working more desperately to hump against his cock.
Eventually, your need mustâve grown too great, your frustration too acute, because you grabbed one of Jackâs wrists and shoved his hand down between your bodies, until his fingers brushed your soaked panties.
âTouch me here, Jack, pleaseâI need it,â you whimpered in his ear, and it was nearly his undoing.
It was his turn to gasp and groan, the tips of his fingers stroking against the sodden fabric as he used every ounce of the self-control heâd learned in the army not to spill himself in his jeans right then. You were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet.
Jack teased his fingers along the seam of your slit through your panties, hoping you couldnât tell how much his hand was shaking. You felt so perfect, it was overwhelming. Heâd stopped kissing you, your mouths close as you breathed each otherâs air, panting your excitement together while he pressed into your cunt through your slick panties.
âLike this, sweetheart?â he rumbled, the edge of his mouth pulling up in a smirk when you let out a desperate little mewl. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly while you rocked your hips onto his hand.
âJaaack,â you sobbed, and heâd never heard anything as sweet as the sound of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, pleasure soaked into your voice.
You pulled harder on his hair, and the jolt of pain went straight to his dick, which leaked even more precum into his jeans. Jack responded by pushing his fingers deeper between the lips of your pussy, his progress restricted by your panties, which prevented him from burying his fingers in your hole.
A violent shiver wracked your body, and Jack wrapped his other arm more tightly around your lower back, holding you close while he fucked you shallowly with his fingers. His thumb teased your clit with a featherlight touch, drawing a feral sound from your perfect mouth.
âPlease, oh god, please, chef, touch meâfuck me with your fingers, please, please, please,â you babbled, yanking on his hair to draw him closer. But instead, Jack took the opportunity to lean back and take a look at youâand what a sight you were.
Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your gorgeous eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths, enough that your tits threatened to spill out of your mussed dress, which was hiked up high, Jackâs big hand pressed between your soft thighs.
You looked debauched. You looked so beautiful, Jackâs heart clenched in his chest and he couldnât stop himself from imagining you looking like this in a million different waysâon the desk in his office, in the backseat of his car, on his couch at home, in his bed.
In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to have you in all those ways. He wanted to move you into his place and put a ring on your fingerâhe wanted to make you his and keep you forever. He was stunned by how much he wanted you.
âJaaack,â you whined, your sweet voice bringing him back to the moment. Your eyes were wide and pleading as you looked at him. âI was a good girl, wasnât I?â you asked so pitifully, Jackâs heart ached.
A single tear slipped down your cheek and he cupped your face, panic stealing into his gut and making his stomach drop. He wiped your tears away, already knowing he was going to give you whatever you wanted. If youâd asked him to lay down and die for you, he wouldâve done it without a second thought.
âYouâre being so mean, chef, when I was so good for you,â you whimpered, your hips worked against his hand. The movement reminded Jack of how heâd been teasing you with his fingers, dragging you to the edge of desperation when all you wanted was to be full of him.
âOh, baby, baby, baby,â Jack groaned, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.
He held your face in one hand as he kissed you, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips, while the other tugged your panties to the side. He pushed one of his thick fingers into your tight, dripping hole, swallowing your moan like it was the most exquisite decadence heâd ever tasted.
âIâm sorry, angel, youâre right,â he rumbled against your mouth, pumping his finger steadily into your pussy, feeling your gummy walls gripping him tight. âYou were such a good girl for meâso good that âm gonna make you come on my fingers, alright?â
âPromise?â you asked, pouting up at him from under your lashes, and Jack knew he was in trouble, because that look on your face could get him to do anything you asked.
The corner of your mouth twitched, like you were holding back a grin, and Jackâs heart thumped in his chest because you knew the effect you had on him. He liked that a little too much. He liked that you werenât afraid of torturing him a little bit after heâd teased you a little too much. It felt intimate, like you were building something real together, something that would certainly last past the night.
âI promise, angel,â he cooed, stroking his finger deeper before adding a second one, watching the way your breath caught on a gasp, biting back a self-satisfied smirk. âThereâs a rule in my kitchen, yâknow,â he went on, talking out of his ass to keep your attention on him even as he finger-fucked your pussy. âGood girls always get to come on the chefâs fingersâand youâve been such a good girl for me, baby.â
You let out a soft, breathy giggle at that, just like Jack had hoped, and he pumped his fingers harder into your wet, gripping cunt, making your laugh devolve into a dirty moan. Your body went loose and languid in his arms, and he rewarded you by pressing his thumb against your clit. He rubbed the little bundle of nerves, watching how you reacted until he found exactly what you liked most.
âThink you can take another, sweetheart?â Jack asked, pressing kisses to your heated cheeks and cleaning away the remnants of your tears with his lips. He trailed his mouth down to your neck, enjoying the way you shivered when his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin. âCan you take one more finger in this sweet cunt, baby?â
âYes, please, chef,â you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his thin t-shirt.
Every pinprick became throbbing pleasure as it zinged down to his cock. He hadnât been so close to coming in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fought off his own desire and focused on you. You and your pleasure were what mattered to him, not his dick.
âGood girl,â Jack purred, grinning into your neck when your pussy pulsed at the praise. He eased a third finger into your slick hole, biting back a groan when your tight warmth enveloped him. He pressed his cock against your soft thigh, looking down and watching your pussy take his thick fingers. âFuck, angel, look at youâtaking me so well.â
You leaned back, looking down your body, and Jack knew the moment you saw his fingers disappearing inside your cunt because you clamped down hard around him, like your body was trying to suck him deeper. He stifled another helpless groan, pumping into you, pressing against a spot that had you shivering and moaning wantonly.
You fell back further, planting your hands on the counter to hold yourself up, trying to use your leverage to bear down further on his fingers. But youâd barely rocked your hips in a slow roll when you let out a cryâthe tenor making the hairs on the back of Jackâs neck stand upâas your arms gave out and you fell backward.
Quick as he could, Jack slid his free arm up your back, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to catch you before your head could hit the shelves above the counter. He pulled his hand from between your legs, holding onto your bare thigh with his sticky fingers as he ducked his head to meet your eyes.
âWhatâs wrong, baby? What happened?â he asked, his gaze searching your face, which was twisted like you were trying to hide your pain. âDid I hurt you?â he asked, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought.
You shook your head, rejecting the idea, which calmed Jack for a moment. Until you spoke.
âMy wrist,â you whimpered. âHurts.â
It took all of a second for Jack to understand what had happened. Youâd put too much pressure on the wrist that your worthless excuse of a date had grabbed, had hurt, and it had given out. Rage flooded through Jackâs body, his blood pumping hot with the desire to track down Curtis Larsen and beat him to a bloody pulp.
But Jack knew that wouldnât help anyone, least of all you, so he worked to rein in his anger. He focused on you, making sure you could sit up on your own before taking the hand of your injured wrist in his.
When he held it up to the bright lights in the kitchen, he could see bruises had formed where Curtis had grabbed you. Before he could stop it, a choked off growl rumbled beneath his sternum, the animalistic sound only ceasing when you stroked your palm down his chest, soothing him.
It took Jack another moment to collect himself, to gather his anger and put it in a box to deal with later. Gently, he lifted your hurt wrist to his mouth and brushed the sweetest, softest butterfly kisses over the bruises mottling your skin.
âIâd kill him if I thought I could get away with it,â Jack confessed, hoping to make you giggle again, his eyes lifting to your face to watch your reaction.
Although you didnât laugh, his words did the trick of bringing the spark back into your eye. A shy smile curved the corners of your pretty mouth, and you lifted your other hand to cup Jackâs jaw, your thumb teasing over the stubble on his cheek.
âHeâs not worth the effort,â you said, and though Jack agreed with you, he didnât like the idea of letting Curtis Larsen get away with hurting you.
âHmm,â Jack hummed noncommittally, wondering if he could call the police tomorrow and report the man for assault since itâd happened in his restaurant.
He liked that idea.
He liked the idea of locking up Curtis Larsen and throwing away the key even more. But you were his priority, not that jackass that had been your date, so he focused back on you.
Jack squeezed your thigh, his thumb teasing close to the edge of your panties. âDo you want to keep going, sweetheart?â he asked, his gaze watching you carefully. âI can take you home if youâd prefer.â
The change in your expression was immediate, your lower lip pushing out in a pout, your eyes widening and looking at Jack from under your lashes.
âI want to keep going,â you murmured, almost shyly, meeting Jackâs gaze before it dropped to his mouth. Your free hand fell to his arm, moving his hand from your thigh back between your legs then looking up at him. âI donât want my shitty date to ruin our nightâand you promised me Iâd get to come on your fingers.â
A small smile curved Jackâs mouth and he ducked forward, stealing a quick kiss from your pouting lips before he pulled away. His grin was cocky as he pushed your panties to the side and teased your tight hole with the tips of his fingers.
âYouâre rightâand I always keep my promises, baby,â he assured you, pressing his fingers into your pussy while he watched you closely, making sure he didnât hurt you.
Once they were buried inside you, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your injured wrist, then brought your hand to his shoulder. He gave you a pleased smile when you lifted your other arm to circle loosely around the back of his neck, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape.
âHold on to me, angel,â Jack urged, easing his fingers out, then back inside your pussy, feeling your slick, tight cunt stretch around him. He watched your eyes go hazy with lust, your mouth falling open as you panted through your pleasure. âIâll make you feel goodâmake you forget everything that happened tonight before I came to your table.â
With a soft, sweet sigh, you draped your arms over Jackâs shoulders, taking all the weight off your wrists, and leaned forward to nuzzle into the side of his neck. Warmth suffused his body, his cock twitching in his jeans when he felt you press a kiss to the underside of his scruffy jaw.
âThank you, Jack,â you murmured, your voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the quiet whir of machinery in the kitchen. Your warm breath brushed against Jackâs throat and he had to suppress a shiver, focusing on your words. âYouâre all I want to remember about tonight.â
Jackâs arm tightened around your lower back, instinctively pulling you closer as his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. Your sweet words called to something deep in his soul, something that hadnât been fed in too long for him to be normal about it.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell you he wanted to spend every night with you, that he wanted you in his bed when he woke up in the morning and to come home to you in his kitchen. He wanted to cook for you and take you out and move you in with himâŚ
But Jack knew it was way too soon to be having those thoughts, let alone say them out loud, so he put on the charm, hoping you couldnât tell where his mind had wandered.
âAnd the food, right?â he asked, his tone teasing and light as he fucked you with his fingers again, his thrusts building you back up to where youâd been. He could feel the way your body trembled in his arms, and he held you tighter so he could feel the pleasure work through you. âYou want to remember the food, right, sweetheart?â
You huffed a laugh against Jackâs neck, your tongue darting out and swiping up the side of his throat, making him groan helplessly at the obscene feeling of you licking him. His hips bucked forward of their own volition, his cock grinding against your soft inner thigh.
âOh yes, chef,â you purred in his ear, your voice shaky and breathless and so, so sweet as he pumped his fingers into you harder, his thumb rubbing your clit. âI want to remember everything I got to taste tonight.â
Your words conjured images of your pert mouth on Jackâs cock, your teasing tongue swirling around the tip, licking up his precum before sucking him deep between your soft lips. It was such a hot image, Jack had to duck his head and muffle his tortured groan into your shoulder.
It took him a full minute to get himself together, your giggles echoing softly in the empty kitchen while your nails raked through his silver curls. Once he was able to focus again on the present, Jack pressed his mouth to your collarbone, licking and sucking your skin down to your tits, pushing the top of your dress down so he could take your nipple into his mouth.
The older man was rewarded with a sharp cry from your lips, your spine arching and pressing your tits further into his mouth. Jack grinned into your soft flesh and began to lavish them with his attention, his fingers still working in and out of your pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit in teasing, maddening circles.
It occurred to Jack that he could stay right where he was for a long, long time and be happy to keep sucking on your tits, learning what made you squirm and moan, all while he fucked your cunt with his fingers. But all too soon, you were hovering on the edge of your release, your pussy fluttering around Jackâs fingers, your cries turning high-pitched and desperate while your body worked to find your pleasure.
Your fingers were threaded in his hair, clutching his head tight to your chest as you moaned and rocked your hips harder on his fingers. Mindless pleas were falling from your kiss-swollen lips, frantic appeals for âmoreâ and âharderâ, begging him to give you the release you needed.
Jack was torn between drawing out the moment, making it last forever, and giving you what you wanted. Eventually, his need to take care of you won out, and he pushed his fingers deep into your cunt, his thumb mercilessly rubbing your clit while he lifted his head from your chest.
âCome for me, sweetheart,â he growled in your ear. âShow me what a good girl you are and come all over chefâs fingersâlet go, let me see you come for me.â He pressed his fingers against that spot deep inside your body and stroked your clit, feeling you tighten around him.
Pulling back enough to see your face, Jack watched you succumb to pleasure, your release taking hold of your body and making you throw your head back, a desperate, breathy cry bursting from your mouth. Your fingers tightened in hair, and your pussy clamped down on his fingers, making him work to keep fucking you through the waves of pleasure surging through your body, which trembled in his arms.
âGood girl,â Jack rumbled, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of your pulsing channel, wringing every ounce of bliss from your body. âSweet girl, perfect girl.â
You curled forward and sobbed your pleasure into Jackâs neck, and when you shuddered at the overstimulation of his fingers, he gently eased you down from your peak. Once your release had ebbed, he slipped his fingers out of your body, and helped you to sit up.
âYou gonna keep being a good girl and clean me up, baby?â he asked, touching his wet, dripping fingers to your plump lower lip. Jack didnât know what had come over him, but the desire to see you taste yourself was too great to ignore, and he hoped he wasnât making you uncomfortable.
He was pleased when your already unfocused eyes went even more hazy, your head nodding and a smile curling the edges of your mouth before you parted your lips and let Jack slip his fingers inside. You hummed a happy sound that went straight to Jackâs dick then got to work cleaning your own release from his skin.
It was such an erotic sight that Jack thought he could watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of the night, but then he realized heâd given away the opportunity to taste you himself and he got ridiculously jealous. You werenât done cleaning him up, but he pulled his fingers from between your lips and shoved them into his own mouth.
Jack groaned at your taste, savoring the musky flavor of your pleasure while he held your gaze, letting you watch him lick his fingers clean. Your eyes were hooded and full of renewed lust, your lips swollen and parted as you panted for him.
He couldnât stop himself. Between one breath and the next, his mouth was crushing against yours in a mindless, feral kiss. He could taste your pussy on your tongue when his delved into your mouth and it drove him wild. His arms wrapped around your body, crushing you to his chest while he kissed you harder, groaning when your fingers pressed into his spine and clung to him just as tightly.
âJack, I want more,â you cried when your lips wrenched free from his, your fingers trailing around his ribs and down over his stomach until you could cup his thick erection through his jeans. âI need you inside meâneed you filling me until Iâm so full of your cock, itâs all I can think about.â
âFuck, angel, you beg so pretty, how can I say no?â Jack teased, his voice only a little unsteady. He tried to pull away, but couldnât bring himself to when you were stroking his cock through his pants, wringing desperate whimpers from him that wouldâve embarrassed him if you werenât smiling like the cat that got the cream. âCâmere, baby, let me fill up that greedy pussy of yours.â
But when Jack grabbed your ass and pulled you close to he could thrust into your pussy through your clothes, he felt a twinge of pain in his leg where it rubbed uncomfortably against his prosthetic. The pain shot straight up his spine, making his mind go completely blank for a moment, his breath catching in his lungs.
During work, Jack could typically grit his teeth and bear the pain when it hit, but heâd been on his feet for too long. Heâd pushed himself beyond his own limits and his body was reminding him that he wasnât the young, spry man heâd once been.
âJack?â you asked, your voice thick with concern.
The older man took stock of himself, and realized heâd half collapsed against you, his head on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants as he breathed through the pain. Heâd shifted his weight to his one good foot, leaving him a little off-balance and using you to steady himself.
âAre you okay?â you asked softly, stroking your fingers comfortingly through his hair and across his shoulders. When he relaxed into your touch, you held him tighter, not seeming to mind that he was putting some of his weight on you.
âMy prosthetic,â he grumbled, not entirely happy that this was how he was telling you, but not shying away from the truth either. âHurts.â
âYour prosthetic?â you asked after a moment, and Jack paid close attention to the tone of your voice. You sounded confused, maybe a little curious, but Jack was relieved that there wasnât revulsion or, worse, pity in your tone.
âLost my leg while I was in the army,â he explained, taking a deep breath as he began to recover his strength. The pain had subsided, leaving him a little shaky and off-balance, but fine.
âOh, okay,â you said, nothing but acceptance in your tone.
Your fingers were still idly playing with Jackâs hair and that, more than anything else, helped him feel betterâthough he knew heâd have to get off his feet soon. He was trying to work out how to tell you he couldnât fuck you on the counter in this position when you took him by surprise with another question.
âIs that how you got the medal?â
Jack paused. Of all the questions you couldâve askedâand heâd heard most, if not all of themâthat wasnât one heâd anticipated. Most folks didnât know about the medal, and it took him a moment to remember that he kept it on his desk in his office, where youâd spent most of the evening.
The realization that youâd been curious enough about him to look through his desk made his heart soar, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. For some reason, it didnât bother him, you going through his things. It felt right, the idea of you being comfortable in his space.
âWere you snooping through my stuff, sweetheart?â Jack asked teasingly, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze, curious about how youâd react to the question.
He watched your eyes widen slightly, your gaze darting away before returning to his with a sheepish look on your face. âIt was on top of your desk,â you mumbled, shrugging, then wincing at how blithe you sounded. âI didnât go through any drawers or anything, I swear.â
Jack couldnât help but chuckle at how guilty you looked, and he smoothed a hand down your spine in a reassuring gesture. âYouâre adorable,â he murmured, capturing your lips in a kiss to let you know you were forgiven. âAnd yes, itâs how I got the medal. Iâve made peace with it, but sometimes, it makes thingsâŚtricky.â
You nodded somberly as you absorbed that information, your eyes dropping down to where Jack was still half-leaning against you. The chef could practically see the gears turning in your head as you thought, but he was still taken by surprise when you lifted your gaze back to his and asked, âWould it help if I was on top?â
Your question made Jack pause again. Heâd been with his wife already when heâd lost his leg, and sheâd helped him figure out what worked afterward. It had given him the confidence heâd needed to eventually move on after sheâd passed on. But the few flings heâd had since werenât as easily accepting as you, and none of them had been as considerate.
It made Jackâs heart clench in his chest as he realized all over again how glad he was to have found you. Although he wished the circumstances of your meeting were differentâhe wished youâd never been hurt by your dateâhe was grateful that the universe had brought you together.
âYeah, actually, it would,â Jack said, matching your serious tone with his honesty.
It was another moment where the weight of his feelings for you took him by surprise, especially after knowing you for such a short time. In an effort not to scare you away by revealing how he felt, he used his charm to lighten the mood. Ducking his head, he caught your eye and let a smirk play on his lips.
âDo you wanna ride me, baby?â he asked, his tone teasing, his smirk spreading into a full-blown confident grin when lust bloomed in your eyes, none of it tainted by pity or fear or disgust. It made his cock throb for you. âWanna ride chefâs cock and make us both feel good?â
âYes, please, chef. Iâd love to ride you,â you purred, pushing him gently back to give you room to move.
You held his gaze as you reached beneath the hem of your dress and wiggled until youâd yanked your panties off, looking at him expectantly. Jack unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free.
He watched your eyes dart down, then widen when you took in the size of his thick cock. His dick wasnât the longest, but it was fat enough that his three fingers stretching your pussy would feel small in comparison. Suddenly, he hoped you werenât afraid.
It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure you, to tell you that you could stop this at any time and the two of you could go slow if that was what you needed. But before he could get the words out, your eyes lifted to his and he saw the spark of eager excitement in their depths, in the curve of your grin.
You looked like a sultry creature feral with lust, your pretty, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a sensuous smile as you hopped off the counter and prowled closer to him, only wobbling a little in your heels. Jack reached for you at the same moment you spun him around and shoved him onto the counter so you could climb on top of him.
âIâm gonna make us feel sooo good, chef,â you promised, settling your knees on either side of Jackâs hips and rising up, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. Jackâs hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up so he could see your bare pussy where you rubbed the tip of his dick through your slick folds. âGonna ride your cock until youâre coming hard in my cunt. Tell me you want it, tooâplease, chef.â
For a moment, all words fled Jackâs mind. All he could do was feel the teasing warmth of your pussy kissing the tip of his cock, hear the soft wet sounds of your desire, smell the scent of your arousal. All he could see was you, looking like a goddess above him, promising him pleasure.
Fuck, Jack Abbot really was in heaven, and he hoped he never had to leave.
You were right where you were meant to be.
You couldnât explain what had come over youâwhether it was simply the lust youâd felt at the sight of the older manâs thick cock or if it was everything about the chefâbut you had the sense that everything youâd been through that night was worth it because youâd met Jack Abbot.
He was everything youâd been looking for in a partnerâkind and capable, charming and funnyâand plenty that you hadnât known youâd wanted, like the way he could talk just as dirty as you, and cook way better than you ever could. Heâd been gentle when heâd kissed your injured wrist, but hadnât held back when heâd fucked you with his fingers, giving it to you as rough as you needed to get off.
Jack had made you feel safe and desired. Heâd taken care of you in every way youâd needed throughout the night, and you were in serious danger of falling for him. If you hadnât already. It mightâve been a little crazy, but you mightâve fallen for him already.
The weight of your feelings were too heavy to tell the chef just yet, so you focused instead on the moment, on the feeling of Jackâs broad tip teasing between the lips of your pussy, of the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and the heat of his eyes as he watched you tease his cock.
It was intoxicating, seeing the unrestrained lust in Jackâs face, darkening his hazel eyes and twisting his mouth into something feral and hungry. The thought crossed your mind that you could try to tease him until he snapped, the last remnants of his patience falling away as he yanked you down on his cock. But just the fantasy had you pulsing with need.
You needed Jackâs cock inside you. Immediately.
But before you could start to lower yourself down on Jackâs bare length, you remembered yourself. You paused, hovering above his thick, throbbing cock, and took a breath to steady yourself. Still, your voice was a little shaky as you spoke.
âIâm on birth control; Iâve been tested, and it was clear,â you rushed to say, hoping Jack could understand your words even as they tripped over each other to fall off your tongue. You braced one hand on his shoulder and looked dead in the older manâs eyes. âI want you bare, Jack, please.â
âJesus,â he cursed, letting his head fall against your chest. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and it took a moment for the man to get himself together to look at you. You wanted him without a condom too badly to rush him. âIâm all clear, too, angel,â he rasped, staring into your eyes. âIt would be the honor of my life to fuck you raw, baby.â
Your heart soared, battering against your ribs like a caged bird wanting to take flight. You were so overcome by emotion, by your desire for this man, that you couldnât think of doing anything else but kiss him. Jack cupped your face while your fingers sank into his steel gray curls, both of you holding each other tight as you kissed, hard and deep, with all the wild, unfettered emotion you felt.
Before the kiss even ended, you were already pressing down on his cock, only pulling away from Jackâs mouth when the tip pushed inside your body, the stretch making you gasp. He was wider than anything youâd taken before, and it sent a filthy shiver sliding down your spine as you felt your body straining to take him.
âGod, Jack, youâre soâfuck, youâre so fucking big,â you whimpered, your eyes crossing a little as you lowered yourself another inch, grateful that heâd already finger-fucked you to orgasm once, since it made the slide slightly easier. You shuddered with the effort not to impale yourself all at once, knowing it would be a mistake if you didnât go slow.
âCareful, sweetheart, donât hurt yourself,â Jack warned, but there was a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone that drove you wild, your pussy clenching around and suckling on the tip of his cock. His words devolved into a pleasured groan that trickled down your spine like warm honey. âFuck, I can feel you squeezing me alreadyâyouâre so tight and warm and wet. Jesus.â
âUh huh, uh huh, so wet for you,â you babbled, bouncing a little on Jackâs cock to take him deeper. Your pussy stretched to accomodate him and the feeling of fullness stole the breath from your lungs. âYouâre splitting me open so good, Jack, fuckâfuck, chef.â
âMm,â Jack hummed, his hands kneading your ass and sliding up your spine beneath your dress, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses to your skin that had you shivering in his arms. âYouâre gonna take it all, arenât ya, baby,â he rumbled into the hollow of your throat, âbecause youâre such a good girl for me, huh?â
You couldnât explain it, but Jackâs words had a ridiculous effect on you, making your pussy gush even more while your heart soared. Your hips rolled, pressing down determinedly and taking his cock nearly to the root, the stretch dragging a gasp from your lips while you clutched the older man close, reveling in the feel of his mouth on your neck.
âYuh huh, your good girl,â you moaned, feeling Jackâs cock deep in your body. It filled you up so good, stretching you nearly to your limit, but youâd gone slow enough that it didnât hurtâjust made you impatient to have all of him.
You squirmed in his lap, lifting up and pressing back down, taking more and more of him with every downward thrust. Jack chuckled darkly as his hands hand returned to your hips, groping you with those thick, skillful fingers of his while he helped you bounce on his cock.
âThatâs right, my good girl,â Jack rumbled, the possessiveness in his voice making your whole body clench, wringing a desperate groan from his mouth. He pulled you closer at the same moment when you spread your knees wide, and the result was your body being finally fully impaled on his cock.
The sudden, complete fullness was a delicious shock to your system and you wrapped yourself tightly around Jack, your arms circling his shoulders while you trembled and adjusted to the size of his fat cock buried in your cunt. It took you a breath to return to the moment, feeling Jackâs hands smoothing over your bare thighs in soothing gestures.
âAtta girl,â Jack praised, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. âYouâre taking me so well, sweetheart. Feels like you were made for meâmade to take my cock.â
A soft, breathy laugh burst from your lips, because those words were exactly what you wanted to hear, and it surprised you to hear them from Jackâs mouth. It made you feel like you werenât alone in the big, overwhelming feelings you were having too soon for the chef, and you pressed your face into his shoulder to silence yourself before you said something too soon.
Instead, you focused on the feel of Jack. Every little movement of your body had his cock shifting inside your tight channel, his heavy length dragging against your sensitive inner walls, making your surprised laughter turn into a helpless moan.
âYou feel sooo good,â you murmured, rocking your hips and getting lost in sensation. With your head fuzzy and full of pleasure, you sat up enough to look into Jackâs face, staring deep into his eyes. âIf I was made to take anyoneâs cock, Jack, Iâd want it to be yours,â you said, not realizing until the words were out of your mouth just how revealing they were.
But instead of the depth of your desire scaring the chef, his gaze turned more intense, and a flicker of a smile played around the corner of his mouth. He drew you closer, until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth away from his. His eyes were hot and dark as they stared deep into your soul.
âIâm so glad you came into my restaurant tonight, angel,â Jack rasped, so much genuine affection in his tone, it made you melt further into him, your knees squeezing his hips while you clung to his shoulders. âMeeting you has made this the best night of my lifeâI hope youâll let me see you again.â
âOh, Jack,â you whispered, tears stinging your eyes, not from sadness but a boundless happiness. You tried to blink them away, embarrassed to be crying while Jackâs cock was still buried in your body, but the older man didnât seem to mind, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and brushing away the few tears that fell. âIâd really like to see you again, too.â
âGood,â he said, his voice so decisive that you knew it was settled. Your heart soared in your chest, and a smile broke across your face. You couldnât have said which of you leaned forward first, closing the distance so your mouths came together in a kiss, a promise.
The kiss was slow and sensual, one of Jackâs hands cupping the back of your head while you explored each other. It was a delicious kiss, made all the more exquisite when Jackâs tongue licked into your mouth, drawing needy sounds from your lips as he kissed you deeper, like he wanted to remind you that he was buried in more than one of your holes.
You barely noticed when your hips began to rock, fucking yourself on Jackâs big cock. But when his hands dropped to your hips, urging you on, you had to pull away from his mouth with a gasp.
Tossing your head back, you focused on riding your chef, lifting up onto your knees and slamming back down on his hard, thick length. It was dizzyingly glorious, the heat and hardness of him filling your tight hole, punching the air from your lungs until you could do nothing but let out mindless sounds of pleasure.
âThatâs my girl, fuck yourself on my cock,â Jack murmured encouragingly, his hands on your ass helping you lift yourself up and slide back down his stiff shaft. He groaned, loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of your pussy and the soft clap of your ass hitting his thighs. âFuck, angel, you feel so goodâsuch a good girl, riding chefâs cock like a fucking champ.â
A shiver raced down your spine at his praise and your fingers tangled in Jackâs hair, bracing yourself so you could bounce harder on his cock. Every thrust of his dick deep into your cunt was driving your pleasure higher, until your head was filled with clouds and your body was tingling, balancing on the precipice of your release.
âYes, yes, yes, your girl, your good girl,â you panted, your eyes heavy-lidded but still open as you watched Jackâs face, his skin flushed red, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. âPlease, chef, Iâm so closeâplease, I needâŚâ
Your words devolved into a moan as Jack took control of your body, changing the angle of your hips so your clit was grinding against the base of his cock. All you could do was gasp and whimper and whine and try to hold on to him while he helped you ride him.
âMy sweet girl, my perfect girl, my gorgeous girl,â Jack cooed, punctuating his words by pulling you down on his cock over and over and over again, making sure your clit rubbed against him with each thrust. âI know what my girl needsâcome for me, pretty girl. Wanna see you let go, wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, please.â
Jackâs words and the way he guided your body, helping you find your pleasure, were your undoing. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core until it suddenly snapped. You were sent tumbling over the edge of your release, every muscle in your body pulling taut before you exploded with a wailing cry, pleasure crashing through you in violent, euphoric waves.
A groan tore from Jackâs mouth and his arms tightened around your body. He held you crushed against his chest, moaning his own pleasure into your neck while his hips jerked between your thighs, fucking you through both your releases.
You clung on to him, your body writhing on top of his as you eked out every bit of bliss from each other, until the waves of your release began to recede. With a sated sigh, you collapsed against the older manâs shoulder, fingers raking idly through his hair while his hands stroked everywhere on your body he could reachâyour hips, your thighs, even down your calves and up your spine beneath your dress.
Between your thighs, you could feel his hot release beginning to leak from your hole, and you squirmed a little at the strange feeling of loss that settled in your gut. Jack pressed one of his palms to your lower back, urging you to settle on his lap, and you let yourself relax, reveling in the feeling of his softening cock still filling your pussy.
After giving you a few moments to recover, Jackâs fingers trailed down the side of your face where your head was laying on his shoulder. He curled a finger around your chin and tilted your head up enough so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips.
âAlright, angel girl?â he asked softly, his voice so low and raspy, it sent little tingles dancing down your spine. You smiled against his mouth.
âSooo good,â you answered, your mouth quirking into a smirk as you continued. âOr should I say, âThank you, chef, that really hit the spotâ?â
Jack huffed a surprised laugh, squeezing you tight in his arms as he shook his head. âWhat am I gonna do with you, baby girl?â
It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Jack that what he should do was take you back to his place and keep you forever. That thought was so surprisingâyouâd only known him for one night!âand felt so right, that instead of answering, you kissed him.
You could feel the smile on his lips before he kissed you back, and that little expression had you realizing just how fond youâd grown of the chef in such a short time. It was so astonishingly easy to picture yourself going home with Jack, sleeping in his bed, cuddled up in his arms, then having breakfast together in the morning.
The night had started with you not expecting much from your date. You thought maybe youâd hit it off and see him again, but you hadnât dared to have much hope.
And now, the night was ending with you kissing a different man, one youâd only just met, and wanting so much more with him. You wanted to get to know Jack Abbot and see if your initial compatibility and attraction could lead to something more.
For the first time in a long time, you had hope. It felt like everything that had happened earlier in the evening was fate conspiring to bring you and Jack togetherâand you were all too excited to see where things would go.
The best part, you realized, as Jack kissed you back, his mouth moving sensuously against yours, was that he seemed just as excited to get to know you, too. Heâd shown you nothing but green flags all night, and had even already asked to see you again. It felt like something close to magic to know that the man you liked, liked you back.
A smile fluttered at the corner of your mouth as you let yourself focus on kissing Jack, knowing thereâd be time to overthink everything later. For the time being, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with your chef, because you were certain it was the beginning of something beautiful.
For a long while, the two of you were making out just for the fun of it, for the enjoyment of being with each other, until Jackâs soft cock slipped from your body and made you shiver. He grabbed his leather jacket from where youâd tossed it on the counter and wrapped it around your shoulders, giving you one last kiss before he began to ease you off his lap.
âIâve got to clean up here,â he said, tucking his cock away and zipping up his jeans before he helped you straighten your dress, his eyes wandering shamelessly over your body, like he hadnât yet had his fill of worshipping you. âOnce Iâm done, I can take you home. Sound good, sweetheart?â
âThat depends,â you said, your fingers snagging in the hem of Jackâs white t-shirt, preventing him from moving too far away. You werenât usually the clingy type, but you couldnât bear to be away from him just yet. âAre you gonna take me back to my place, or yours?â
The older manâs gaze darkened and his hands settled on your hips, pulling you close again. Your arms wound instinctively around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair in a way that already felt so comfortable and familiar.
âI was planning to take you to your home,â Jack began, a smirk curling his mouth when you pouted up at him from under your lashes. âBut if youâd like, I can take you back to mine.â His eyes softened as he looked at you, his smirk melting into a smile. âIâd love to cook you breakfast, sweetheart.â
The depth of the affection in Jackâs gaze and his words made you feel suddenly shy, and you ducked your head a little. âIâd like that,â you murmured, sneaking a peek at him and finding the chef grinning like heâd just won the lottery. It gave you the confidence to lift your head and give him a confident smirk. âBe careful, though, if you keep making me such delicious food, youâll never get rid of me.â
Something devilish flickered across Jackâs face and his smirk was all smug confidence as he swooped in and stole a kiss from your lips, leaving you breathless when he pulled away a moment later. âThatâs the plan, angel girlâIâm gonna keep you around any way I can until you get sick of me.â
You were already shaking your head before heâd even finished talking, your fingers tugging lightly, admonishingly, on his hair. âThatâll never happen,â you said, your tone more serious than youâd intended. But your honesty was rewarded with Jackâs mouth twisting into a smile and him kissing you again.
It was such a privilege, you realized, to be with someone who wanted you just as badly as you wanted themâwho liked you just as much as you liked them. From the moment youâd met him, Jack had made you feel safe, had taken care of you, had shown you that you were special simply for being you. And you hoped youâd done the same for him.
When Jack finally pulled away from the kiss, you whined a little, making him chuckle. âCâmon, baby girl, letâs clean up and go home,â he rumbled, kissing each of your cheeks, then your nose, before giving you one last kiss on your mouth.
His words and his sweet kisses had you smiling and giggling, and you nodded, your heart warm and light as you let Jack move away to begin cleaning up his workstation. As he did, you fetched your things from his office, turning off the light and closing the door.
By the time youâd returned, Jack was done, and he held his hand out for you to take. You did so happily, handing off your jacket and purse for him to carry when he offered.
Stepping out into the brisk, spring evening, a breeze sweeping through Pittsburgh and making you glad to have Jackâs jacket around your shoulders, you felt like you were leaving the little bubble you and the chef had created. But as you watched him lock up the back door of Night Shift, using only one hand so he could keep holding yours, you knew you didnât need that bubble.
You may have had to endure the date from hell to meet Jack Abbot, but it felt like fate had designed the night so that you ended up right where you were meant to beâwith the hot, older chef who looked at you with so much awe and affection, it made your heart pitter-patter in your chest.
Jack walked you to his car, pushing you gently against the passenger door to kiss you some more before he helped you into the seat. He held your hand as he drove you back to his place, kissing your knuckles every few minutes, then leaning across the center console to kiss your mouth after heâd parked in front of his house.
The two of you didnât talk much as you got ready for bed, but you didnât need to. A comfortable silence had fallen over you and Jack, and you didnât feel the need to fill it, especially with how tired you were. You changed into one of his t-shirts, brushed your teeth with the extra toothbrush he had on hand and cleaned your makeup off your face.
When you slipped into bed beside Jack, he was still massaging his leg, easing the pain heâd felt from wearing his prosthetic all night. You hoped heâd one day let you do that for himâhelp him to relieve the ache of the dayâs grind from his leg, his shoulders, and anywhere else that might pain him.
Before you could gather the courage to offer, though, Jack turned and slid under the sheets beside you. He wrapped you up in his arms, and both of you let out little sighs of contentment. You didnât know what exactly Jack was thinking, but you suspected it felt just as right to him as it did to you to be in his bed and in his arms.
You fell asleep knowing in your heart that you were right where you were meant to beâwith Jack Abbot.
thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated! âĄâĄâĄ
Summary: Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYUâs top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldnât figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore offâand his feelings for you began to growâhe made it his mission to fix it.Â
Warnings:Â Mentions of alcohol/drinking, Mild language, Angst, Minor injury, Smut (Minors dni, marked with **), Enemies to lovers trope!
a/n: This series is now complete :)
âś Part One âśÂ
âś Part Two âśÂ
âś Part Three âś
âś Part Four âśÂ
âś Part Five âśÂ
âś Part Six âśÂ
âś Part Seven âśÂ
Drabbles/One-shots (chronological after the main series, excluding the prequel)Â
Bucky realizing heâs falling in love. Prequel one-shot.
Clusterfucks and Compensation (1395 words) by inexplicifics
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: WiedĹşmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Characters: Aiden (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Near Death Experiences, Witcher Contracts (The Witcher), Friends to Lovers, First Kiss
Series: Part 39 of Inex's Not-Quite-February Ficlets
Summary:
Lambert is used to contracts going completely wrong, but thisâŚthis is a new low.
SUMMARY: After a brutal day wrangling shitty customers at the garage, Eddie wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and disappear. He anticipates the same old routine: another solitary night in his trailer, restless thoughts keeping him up, a cigarette burning between his fingers as the heavy silence sets in. Only for a sudden shift in the atmosphere, quietly changing the way his night is about to unfold.
WARNINGS: Mechanic!Eddie, established relationship, angst, self-deprecating thoughts, hurt/comfort, SO much fluff, cursing, mentions of smoking, Upside Down does not exist, pure domestic bliss
A/N: Another self-indulgent Stranger Things fic because I am just a sucker for hurt/comfort and I deeply miss Eddie Munson!! 𼚠Hope y'all enjoy!! Divider by @strangergraphics <3
⊠main masterlist
⊠eddie munson masterlist
Eddie could feel the weight of the day hit him the second he killed the engine and the van settled into the quiet of the driveway. Every muscle screamed in protest, arms sore from wrenching stubborn bolts loose, fingers stained with grease that refused to wash out, oil worked into the lines of his skin and under his nails like it belonged there now. His clothes clung to him, heavy and grimy, and all he wanted, desperately, was a hot shower and to pass out on his mattress.
Rude customers werenât new. Hell, Eddie practically expected them. But today had just been something else entirely. It had started with the older woman who took one look at him. tattoos, rings, wild hair pulled back haphazardly, and decided she already knew everything she needed to know. Her mouth had pursed, her words sharp and clipped as she questioned his prices, his professionalism, his very presence behind the counter.
Then came the younger customer, all lingering looks and saccharine sweet laughter, leaning a little too close as he worked. Sheâd laughed at his jokes a little too hard, brushed her fingers against his arm like it was an accident, made it painfully clear she thought it might buy her a discount. When he shut it down, her smile curdled into something sharp, her voice turning clipped and nasty. She paid without another word and walked out without tipping, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the windows.
By the time he was cleaning up, counting the minutes until he could lock up and disappear, the universe apparently decided it wasnât done with him. An older man pulled in just before closing, engine sputtering. Eddie had taken one look under the hood, already running through possibilities, when the man started questioning his competence. Each skeptical comment scraped against Eddieâs patience, wearing it thinner and thinner until he was gripping the edge of the hood just to keep himself from snapping.
Now, sitting in the van with the day finally behind him, all of it pressed down at once. The exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet, simmering hurt of never quite being taken seriously. Eddie dragged a hand over his face, smearing grease across his cheek, and exhaled slowly. He was home. Barely holding it together, but home nonetheless. Climbing the steps of the trailer felt like wading through wet cement, each creak of the metal stairs echoing louder than it should.
Normally, it was a motion he barely registered, muscle memory carrying him up without thought. Tonight, though, his legs felt heavy, like they might give out at any second, every step a reminder of just how wrung out he was. By the time he reached the door, his hand lingered on the handle, knuckles sore, breath slow and uneven. The door swung open with a familiar groan, and the dim, amber glow inside wrapped around him like an old blanket.
Wayne was right where he always was, slouched into the corner of the couch, eyes heavy from an earlier shift at the power plant. The TV murmured low in the background, some rerun Eddie wasnât paying attention to. His eyes were already drooping, exhaustion from the power plant etched into the lines of his face, but they softened just a little when he saw Eddie step through the door. âHey, kid.â Wayne called out, voice rough but warm.
Eddie didnât trust himself to answer right away. He toed off his boots by the door, letting them thunk against the wall, shoulders still wound tight like heâd forgotten how to let them drop. Whatever irritation heâd been holding onto all day clung stubbornly to him, written plainly across his face. âThereâs leftovers on the counter,â Wayne continued, nodding toward the kitchen. âYour girl came by. Dropped off your favorite.â
That did it.
Eddieâs stomach growled loudly enough to embarrass him, the sound cutting through the fog in his head. His gaze snapped to the counter, and sure enough, there it was. A plate of your famous homemade lasagna, wrapped in foil, waiting patiently like it had all the time in the world. The rich smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese hit him instantly, and his mouth watered despite himself.
He crossed the trailer in a few long strides, snagged a fork from the drawer, and dug in without hesitation, not even bothering to heat it up. He didnât care. Warm or cold, it tasted like salvation. He ate standing there, leaning against the counter, fork moving almost mechanically as his body reminded him just how long it had been since heâd last eaten any real food that wasn't from a vending machine.
The shop had been slammed all day, customers stacked back to back, and somewhere along the line heâd completely blown past his lunch break. Each bite settled something in his chest, even if only a little. Still, the relief was bittersweet. Oh how he wished heâd gotten off early. Even just an hour sooner wouldâve meant seeing you, your smile, your voice, the way you always made the trailer feel brighter just by being in it. Lately, your schedules felt like they were working against you on purpose.
His days were swallowed whole by the shop, late-night D&D campaigns, and even later nights playing at the Hideout. Yours were just as bad, with overtime shifts at Family Video stretching long past closing time, and on top of that, those ever-present college assignment deadlines. It gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit. Hell, at this point, even Steve Harrington had spent more time with you than he had.
The mere thought left a sour taste on his tongue that had nothing to do with the lasagna. He stabbed at another bite, jaw tightening as a flicker of jealousy curled low in his gut. He trusted you, completely, but it still stung, knowing someone else got to see you laugh, got to hear about your day, while Eddie was elbow-deep in engines and taking crap from strangers who didnât know the first thing about him.
He swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down. Leaning back against the counter, fork resting on the edge of the plate, his eyes drifted toward the empty doorway of his room. Somewhere between the grease, the exhaustion, and the ache of missing you, the weight of the day finally began to settle. And for the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie let himself feel just how damn tired he really was.
âNight, Wayne,â Eddie muttered, the words leaving him in a long exhale, like even speaking required more energy than he had left. He didnât wait for a response, already turning down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment he just stood there, forehead tipped forward, hands braced against the sink as he stared at his own reflection, tired eyes, shadows beneath them, jaw still tight with everything he hadnât let go of yet.
The shower was quick and scalding. Water beat down against his shoulders, carrying grease, sweat, and frustration with it as it spiraled down the drain. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw, like maybe if he washed hard enough he could erase the day entirely. When he stepped out, steam clung to the small bathroom, mirror fogged beyond recognition. He pulled on his pajama pants and didnât bother with a shirt, bare skin prickling as the cooler air hit him.
He moved on autopilot toward his room, exhaustion tugging him forward. More than sleep, his body craved comfort, something to quiet the static in his head, something to make his chest feel less tight. Normally, that comfort had your name written all over it. Tonight, heâd already resigned himself to the alternative. Weed would have to do. Slipped into his room he didn't bother flipping on the light, knowing every inch of this place by heart.
His feet navigated around clutter effortlessly as his hand reached for the spot where he kept his personal stash, fingers closing around the pre-rolled joint. Habit carried him forward as his other hand searched for his lighter on the nightstand. And then, he froze. His breath caught sharply in his throat as his shin brushed the edge of the bed, and his heart slammed hard enough that he nearly dropped everything in his hands.
There, sprawled across his lumpy, unmade mattress like she belonged there, because she did, was you. Nestled deep into his pillow, cheek squished adorably against the fabric, lips parted just enough as soft, steady breaths escaped you. Your chest rose and fell in a slow, peaceful rhythm that felt completely at odds with the chaos that had been rattling around inside his head all day.
Eddie rubbed his eyes hard with the heel of his palm, a shaky laugh threatening to escape as disbelief flooded him. He blinked once. Twice. You were still there. Still breathing. Still very, very real. You were dressed in his Hellfire shirt, the fabric worn thin and soft from years of use, hanging off you just right. Your legs were bare, clad in those barely-there shorts he loved, skin warm and familiar even from a distance.
The sight hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs in the best way possible. Everything inside him shifted all at once. The anger drained first, then the irritation, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief that left his knees feeling weak. The day, the customers, the looks, the comments, all fell away like background noise. All that mattered was that you were here. Youâd crawled into his bed when he wasnât even home, made yourself comfortable in his space like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Immediately, he set the joint and lighter down, not even sparing a glance to where they landed on the cluttered desk. They made a soft, hollow sound as they hit wood, forgotten the second his attention snapped back to you. The craving in his chest shifted instantly, no longer a restless, jagged need to numb himself, but something gentler and far more powerful pulling him forward. He moved slowly, like the slightest wrong step might shatter the moment.
The mattress dipped as he carefully climbed onto it, muscles tense as he navigated around your sleeping form. Youâd somehow managed to claim nearly the entire bed, limbs loose and unguarded, like this was exactly where you were meant to be. Eddie smiled despite himself, something soft and fond tugging at his mouth. As much as he told himself to let you sleep, to just lie there and soak in the fact that you were here in his space, the need to touch you was overwhelming. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Survival, almost.
His fingers hovered for half a second before they made contact, brushing lightly over your bare thigh. His breath hitched as his hand slid upward, slow and reverent, slipping beneath the hem of his own shirt you wore. His fingertips traced the curve of your waist, then settled against your ribs, feeling the gentle rise and fall beneath his palm. Further proof that you were really there. A breathy exhale slipped past his lips before he could stop it, tension bleeding out of him in one quiet rush.
He froze when your foot nudged against his calf, heart jumping into his throat. For a moment, he stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, afraid heâd woken you too abruptly. âEds?â Your voice was soft, thick with sleep, but the sound of it sent something warm and electric straight through his chest. Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they found him. Recognition bloomed across your face, followed by the faintest smile.
God, he couldâve cried right then.
âHey, sweetheart.â He murmured, voice low and rough, like it hadnât been used for anything gentle all day. His thumb brushed unconsciously against your side, grounding himself in the feel of you. You didnât give him time to say anything else. You shifted forward, closing the small space between you, one hand curling into the fabric of his pajama pants as you leaned in. Your lips met his in a kiss that was soft but deliberate, unhurried yet full of intent, like youâd been waiting all night to do exactly this.
The world seemed to tilt slightly as his brain caught up with his body. For half a second, Eddie just stayed there, stunned, before instinct took over. He kissed you back with a quiet hum, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, the other tightening at your waist like he needed the reassurance that you werenât about to disappear. The kiss wasnât desperate, but it was deep with everything he hadnât been able to say, how tired he was, how much he missed you, how the day had chewed him up and spit him out until heâd walked into this room ready to fall apart.
When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, noses brushing as your breaths mingled in the dark. Eddie let out a shaky laugh under his breath, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he didnât have to hold himself together anymore. You shifted closer, legs tangling with his, fitting against him like youâd always belonged there. Eddie huffed softly, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. âYouâre a little bed hog, yâknow that?â
You smiled into him, the sound more felt than heard, and burrowed closer like you were determined to prove his point. Your cheek pressed against his chest, warm and familiar, and he felt the tension heâd been carrying finally give a little. You kissed his bare collarbone, slow, unhurried, then drifted lower to the faded black widow spider tattoo. âYour car wasnât in the driveway,â He murmured, fingers lifting to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind your ear.
His movements were gentle, careful, like he was still half-afraid you might vanish if he startled you. âThought I wouldnât get to see you until the weekend.â You cuddled closer at that, fitting yourself against him like it was second nature. One hand slid behind his back, nails grazing his skin in that slow, absent-minded pattern you knew drove him a little crazy, grounding and soothing all at once. The other threaded into his hair without hesitation, fingers finding their place like muscle memory.
âSteve dropped me off,â You whispered, as Eddie practically melted beneath your touch. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers grazed his scalp, the sound he made low and involuntary. âGuess he and Robin were tired of me moping around.â That earned a quiet snort from Eddie, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the top of your hair, lingering there, breathing in the faint trace of your perfume mixed with the familiar scent of his sheets.
It grounded him in a way nothing else could.
âShitty day?â You asked softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingers brushed beneath his eyes, light and careful, tracing the shadows there. He sighed, long and slow, like heâd been waiting all day for someone to ask. âYeah.â He admitted, voice low. You didn't push, only hummed quietly, sympathetic, your thumb brushing his jaw. Eddie let his eyes fall shut for a moment, leaning into the touch.
He hadnât realized how exhausted he was until now, until the adrenaline drained out of him and left only the ache behind. âBut this?â He added after a beat, eyes opening to meet yours. âThis helps. A lot.â You smiled at that, soft and sleepy, and settled back against him, head finding its place beneath his chin. Eddie wrapped an arm around you, holding you closer, like if he let go the day might come rushing back in.
Your breathing slowed first, evening out into a gentle rhythm that Eddie unconsciously matched. Every gentle inhale you took, every soft exhale that brushed against his skin, felt like permission, like the universe was finally giving him leave to drop the weight heâd been carrying all day. For the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie realized he could finally breathe without restraint, without that lingering edge of irritation and exhaustion gnawing at him.
Turns out, he didnât need the joint tonight after all. The familiar haze of smoke, the escape heâd planned, suddenly seemed unnecessary. Right here, right now, with you pressed against him, soft and steady, filling every hollowed-out corner of his chest, he already had everything heâd been craving. All the comfort, all the peace, all the relief heâd needed was wrapped up in the warmth of your presence. And for Eddie, that was more than enough.
Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!
As far as the rest of the world is concerned, you and Johnny Storm met in New York on the 17th of April, 1968, at your album launch show. Not quite correct. Your history with the Human Torch runs back far further than the Fantastic Four - right back to your first love, and first heartbreak. Neither of you can seem to let the other go, not entirely.
Through partners, tours, and space missions, you always find a way back into each other's beds.
And yes. All the songs are about him.
warnings: 18+, mdni! a little thigh-riding, fingering, unprotected pinv
HUMAN TORCH IN LOVE? FANTASTIC FOUR PLAYBOY SPOTTED WITH CALIFORNIA SINGER AFTER NYC GIG.
You're hiding behind your sunglasses as you stroll down Sunset Boulevard, the LA sun beating down on your back. Headlines litter the street corners, each one more ridiculous than the last.
According to The Washington Post, you and Johnny are just friends. The LA Times and Rolling Stone insinuated you slept together. Other claimed that you've been sleeping together for quite some time, and are finally ready to go public.
Some of the more inventive publications even seem to imply that this is true love, and Johnny's halfway to buying a ring.
If only they knew the truth.
Somehow, you and Johnny have been all of the above. You've been nothing at all to each other, and everything, before landing in the murky middle ground of friends. Friends who fuck almost every time they see each other, sure. But friends nonetheless.
Really, the multitudes are almost impressive.
It would be too hard to maintain anything else. Johnny's so busy, barely even on the planet half the time. And with the constant touring, you barely know what day it is.
Long distance relationships are hard, and neither of you are built for it.
What you've got going now works. Clandestine meetups, dinners at restaurants where the waiters are sworn to absolute secrecy of the clientele, and stolen nights in each other's arms.
Until he showed up at your gig.
He was the last person you'd been expecting to see. Fraternising in public was an unspoken line. Hell, you don't even see Sue outside of controlled environments, for fear of people drawing a connection between the two of you, despite the fact that you've known her since you were sixteen.
But there he had stood.
Not at the front. Johnny Storm didn't need to be front and centre to be seen. You had spotted him during the encore, arms crossed as he leaned against the bar, nursing a beer.
At first you thought you must have been mistaken - your eyes playing tricks on you. Then you locked eyes with him, and his signature smirk gave him away immediately.
It had taken everything in you just to remember the rest of the song.
He'd appeared in your dressing room after the show.
Without an invitation, of course. He's not the kind of guy who needs permission. He'll do what he wants, and explain himself later.
You hadn't done a whole lot of talking.
Brief pleasantries, before he fucked you against the makeup table.
Leaving the venue, you'd had to steal his leather jacket in an attempt to cover the various marks that now littered your skin. Thankfully, nobody seems to have caught onto that part yet.
Dinner that night had revealed a little more. He'd been away on a mission, and things were looking quiet for the foreseeable. Reed had recommended they all take the time to enjoy themselves, settle down a little, before the next inevitable alien popped up.
So here he was.
You chatted until the early hours, giggling and reminiscing until you finally had to draw back, citing your early flight. He had walked you back to your hotel, under the privacy of the night sky, entirely unaware of the photographer who had captured your entire dinner.
Word sure travels fast around here. It had been quite the shock to wake up in your Laurel Canyon home to a furious call from your manager.
She hadn't been mad about the pairing. Far from it.
The Fantastic Four are the nation's heroes. Everything they touch turn to money and fame. Any potential partner of theirs would be catapulted to a level of attention most could only dream of.
She had just wanted a heads up.
"Carmen - Johnny and I are not a couple," You had stressed over the phone.
"Are you sleeping together?"
"We're not a couple," You repeat feebly, unwilling to commit either way.
Even in New York, while Johnny had assured you he was going to be around more for the time being, he hadn't explicitly said anything about the nature of your relationship going forward.
As far as you're concerned, you and he are continuing on in the same manner. Sleeping together, and pretending that's enough for either of you.
"Ah-ha!" She exclaims, voice rising an octave. "So, you're seeing each other - we can use that-"
"I don't want to use it-"
"C'mon, babe - this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think about what it could do for the album. For your career."
That gives you pause. While you've always committed to secrecy regarding the inspiration for your songs, it doesn't take a genius to work out who inspired most of them.
It's one of the things Johnny likes to tease you about. But you know he loves it, deep down.
Last time you saw Sue, she'd told you that your debut is all he ever plays at Headquarters. That he's on his third copy, wearing them out at an impressive rate.
You had insisted you needed some time to think about things, before hanging up on Carmen, and heading straight for Sunset. The West coast launch is tonight, at Whiskey A Go-Go - but you always need to ground yourself before a gig.
Sunset is the perfect place to do it, and you drop into Mel's for a shake, trying to make sense of everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. Part of you feels like you should try and get in contact with Johnny. See how he feels about it - if he's horrified by the attention, or if he's fine with the rumour mill.
You're back in New York next month. You'll probably see him then.
*****
The club smells like sex. Sex, weed, and sweat. Not uncommon for Whiskey, but your nose still wrinkles a little. The place is packed, probably fuller than regulations allow, but you're thrilled.
New York is great, but nothing will ever beat an LA crowd.
This time, when you spot Johnny, you're only halfway through your second song. Almost an entire set to go, and you suddenly don't remember a single word you've ever written.
He holds your gaze, and the electricity courses through your veins. It becomes a push-and-pull, tension building further and further as you sing, until you think you might burst.
All too soon, the main set is ending, and you're stepping off stage to take a breather, before your final two songs. When firm hands settle on your waist to spin you round, you should get a fright, but instead lean into the touch, coming face-to-face with Johnny Storm.
He's kissing you immediately, pulling you flush against him as you whine against his lips. He's everywhere - teeth, hands and tongue, until you finally detach yourself.
"I have a show to finish," You breathe, chest heaving.
"Fuck 'em," Johnny replies, and you laugh.
"We can't all act like entitled divas and get away with it, Johnny. I'll be fifteen minutes, okay?"
He nods, reluctantly loosening his grip on you. "Chateau Marmont's calling our names, babe. Would be rude not to answer!"
You grin, flipping him the bird as you grab your guitar, and head for the stage again.
The encore stretches on for far longer than the rest of the set seemed to, and you find your mind drifting to the man in the wings, his gaze boring into you.
It's dizzying.
Forgoing your usual practice of hanging about the venue afterwards to chat to fans, you instead let Johnny take your hand, and guide you backstage.
"What the hell are you doing here?" You mumble between kisses, trusting him entirely to get you where you need to go.
"Wanted to see you," He replies, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. "Told you I had some time off."
"Yeah, but I thought that meant I'd see you more than once a month - I didn't realise it meant you were going to fly to Los Angeles."
He shrugs. "I haven't visited in a while. Figured I should change that."
You change as quickly as possible, and ignore Carmen's very pointed looks as you exit your dressing room, hand-in-hand with Johnny.
"My car's out front - I can drive us."
"Your car?" You repeat, eyebrow raised. "The front of Whiskey's always crawling with people, Johnny. Everyone'll see us?"
"So?"
He's pushing through the front doors, hand never leaving yours as you face the onslaught of fans. Cameras flash, and people cheer, and Johnny stays with you every step of the way, grip tightening with every wave of the crowd.
There are various shouts of surprise, autographs asked from both of you. Johnny waves them all off with a charisma you've never had, and helps you into the car, pressing the quickest kiss to your temple.
Too shocked to speak at this sudden public display of affection, from the world's most emotionally stunted man, you simply allow his hand to rest on your thigh as he pulls up Sunset.
Each question dies on your tongue, feeling inadequate to sum up your decade-long history with Johnny Storm.
Of course he's staying at the Chateau. You would expect nothing less from him.
Even for a Friday night, the hotel's busy - packed to the brim with starlets and millionaires.
A hundred of Hollywood's biggest stars are currently milling around - and yet every pair of eyes snaps to you both as Johnny steps out of the car.
You're expecting a hand on the small of your back. Maybe a loose hand-hold. Instead, Johnny's hand settles on your waist, right on the strip of flesh between your flares and shirt. His fingers curl in just slightly, possessive and telling.
Drinks are passed your way, and soon you're crowded round a table, with a few musicians you know, and some socialites Johnny's familiar with. More and more people appear, all of them wanting to be in Johnny's orbit - until there are no seats left.
And when you leave to run to the bathroom, you're entirely unsurprised to find your seat taken when you return.
You recognise the girl a little. She's an actress, you think. Pretty. Probably exactly Johnny's type. With every reply, she inches the chair closer to his. In a few minutes she'll be on top of him.
But as soon as Johnny spots you, his eyes light up, and he's reaching for you.
"I'll just go get another-"
"Nah, don't worry about it-"
A tug of your wrist, and he's pulling you unceremoniously into his lap, arms circling your waist. A slight squeak escapes your lips, as his thigh crooks between yours. "Johnny!"
"Mhm?" He replies, chin resting on your shoulder as he returns to his conversation across the table.
The actress lets out a little huff, abandoning her post, and your chair. The rational part of your brain knows you should get up, take the seat back and get back in your own head.
You're just about to do it when Johnny's fingers dig into your skin a little, almost ticklish. It's a silent statement, to stay where you are.
You glance at him, and he sticks his tongue out at you.
You try and lighten up a little, stealing his drink and relaxing into his grip, but your mind is working on overtime.
What the hell is he doing? Is this his way of trying to make things official? Or is he just working the press?
You have no idea, and it terrifies you. Normally Johnny's like an open book.
It doesn't help that with every passing drink, the urge to roll your hips grows stronger. You can't help it. With every movement, the denim rubs a little further against your clit - to the point that you're biting back a whimper whenever he laughs.
As the night goes on, your face ends up tucked into the crook of his neck, simply watching as he chats to the few people still gathered. He looks natural here. Very California.
And you could get used to him being around more often.
Moving into the Laurel Canyon house, brightening it up a little.
Being yours.
And you'd be his.
Finally, you can't take it any longer. Mumbled apologies, excuses of being tired, and you're heading to his room. Very publicly. In a way that's definitely going to make the news tomorrow.
The kisses are lazy, clouded with alcohol as you stumble into the penthouse. His lips trail fire down your neck, and it's a collective fumble at your clothes to get them off.
Soon, you're braced across his lap, hips rolling against his while your nails drag down the muscles of his abdomen. "God, baby - you're such a pretty little thing," He groans, hands setting the pace.
Each time he pulls you down, you almost see stars. The denim of his jeans seems to catch just right, and your first orgasm crashes over you almost embarrassingly quickly.
He's laying you back against the bed, and pressing a soft kiss to the bridge of your nose before he moves across the room, shedding his jeans.
"Want me to put your record on?" Johnny quips, a lazy grin dancing across his face as he stands by the turntable.
You arch an eyebrow, leaning back against the headboard as you watch his form. Each movement sends a ripple of muscle across his abdomen, and a heat starts to pool low in your stomach. "You think I want to listen to myself during sex? How self-absorbed do you think I am?"
"I don't know what you LA kids are like these days - maybe that turns you on." The rapport is easy. Natural. Like this is the way you and Johnny are meant to be. "Would you rather something else?"
"I'd rather you come back to bed, but I guess if you're insisting on a choice, you could put on The Doors self-titled."
The glint in his eyes betrays his amusement. "Light My Fire, huh?"
You shrug. "If the shoe fits, Storm."
The lilt of Ray Manzarek's keys starts to waft from the speakers, and Johnny makes his way back to the bed, sliding under the covers beside you.
Arms on either side of your head, he's caging you in, a soft smile on his face. "Hi."
"Hi," You murmur, smiling back. "I've missed you."
"Missed you too."
The moment feels charged, different to how it feels when you normally sleep together.
For fear of the moment getting too serious, too real, you speak again. "You gonna fuck me or what?"
"Honey, if I ever say no to that question, I want you to find a shotgun and put me out of my misery." He's kissing you again, hand creeping downward to press you open. His thumb rubs at your clit, another finger pushing past your entrance.
"G-god, Johnny," You manage, eyes fluttering closed.
"I know, babe. Tell me what you want." Contrary to his persona, Johnny's completely cool. Entirely in control, he knows exactly how to work you.
"N-need you, please-"
"Yeah? You want my fingers or my cock?" His index curls just a little as he speaks, and you cry out. "Good girl."
His voice is almost a coo - a condescending tone if it were anybody but your best friend knuckles deep inside of you.
"Your- ah-" Your voice trails off in a whine, hips bucking up feebly to meet Johnny's ministrations. "Your cock."
He hums approvingly. "Gotta give my girl what she wants, yeah?"
My girl.
Despite the loss of contact as Johnny withdraws his fingers, your legs continue to tremble.
The stretch when he fills you is a familiar ache - dull for just a second, before giving way to the most intense pleasure. He moves slowly, inch by inch, until he's bottomed out entirely.
The slightly shuddered breath he lets out is the only indication that he's as affected by this as you are.
There's a moment where there's nothing but you and Johnny, and then he starts to move. Fingernails digging into the flesh of his back, it takes everything in you to maintain some semblance of restraint.
You've been sleeping with Johnny Storm for ten years, and he manages to outdo himself every single time.
No one can unravel you quite like he can. And he knows it.
The Doors continue to spin in the background, a symphony for your unfulfilled wishes.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Whether Johnny will keep this up, or whether he'll disappear on you like he's done before.
Instead of dwelling, you kiss his neck, and let yourself go.
It doesn't take long for either of you to come. It never does. When you're as synced as you and Johnny, you orgasm three times in the period it would take another man to get you to come once.
Of course, Johnny's near insatiable after a night of drinking. Round two has you riding him in the giant heart-shaped tub, the sound of skin slapping filling the bathroom as he murmured praise into your ears.
Round three turns out to be the softest, Johnny's front pressed against your back as he fucks into you gently, his fingers lacing through yours.
It's only after you're done, when Johnny's pressing a damp towel to your core, and pressing a kiss to your bare knee, that you have the courage to ask.
"What's going on between us?"
He looks almost surprised at your question. "I kind of thought I was making myself obvious." You shake your head, lip between your teeth, and he sighs. "Aw, shit. I knew I was going to mess this up - I wanted it to be all cool, y'know? Public debut, love confession, and boom. New power couple."
"Love confession?" You ask, but he's stumbling ahead, lost in his train of thought.
"We've always been so good together, but it was really just timing that fucked us, right? Unless I've misread it all-"
"You haven't-"
"I just thought it would be fun, I guess. To give the paparazzi something to talk about, and make a real go of this."
Despite the serious expression on his face, you laugh. "Don't you think you forgot something important in the making it official plan?"
"I thought I made my intentions clear!" He protests, but the furrow of his brows tells you he knows he screwed up. "Can I ask you now, then?"
You shake your head, trying not to grin. "I think I need more convincing."
"Oh yeah? And how would you like to be convinced?" Johnny's back in his element, banishing the nerves as he leans over to kiss you.
"Well, for starters, more sex. Jewellery never hurts, too. Oh, and maybe a trip to Paris-"
He silences with another kiss, deep and slow as he cradles the back of your neck. "I can make that happen."
"You cut me off," You pout. "I wasn't done!"
"You've got a lifetime to make your demands of me, baby. I'm at your beck and call for as long as you'll have me."
are we still down with johnny storm or has the f4 hype died down??
Summary: You finally talked Jack into ditching the hospital for a beach getaway since every other trip you've taken together has been during colder seasons, buried under layers. Stripping down to swimwear, you're reminded of how just damn good your man looks under the Italian sun.
Warning: SMUT (MDNI 18+) established relationship, language, pet names, flashbacks to so much vacation sex (p in v sex, oral - both m&f), heavy petting/teasing, insecurity (jack's leg and prosthetic), alcohol consumption, pushy italian man not understanding you aren't interested, protective jack, lots of physical touch (dat man is obsessed with you), dirty talk, praise, semi-public smut, (jack fingers you in the ocean - hallelujah), possessiveness, casual dominance, its basically a story about vacation sex, but with plot and love okay? (y'all are both severely horny for one another), jackâs perfect (as per usual)
A/N: How are there not more vacation!jack fics? Please send them all my way. I hope people have some fun upcoming vacations planned as summer ramps up! GIF by @sammy-bryant found HERE. Dividers as always by @saradika-graphics.
Thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you so much <3.
POSITANO, AMALFI COAST ITALY
You woke slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains of your suite at Le Sirenuse. Jack lay on his stomach beside you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other relaxed at his side. His face was turned toward you, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted. You had talked your man into ditching the hospital for a sunny getaway. Jack was utterly deserving of this rest. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in the faint scent of salt and his skin. He had been working tirelessly lately, and dating someone in such a high-stakes profession wasnât easy, but he had recently switched to the day shift, telling you he didnât like your opposite schedules anymore. Knowing he wanted to spend more time with you made you feel truly special.
You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positanoâs narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.
Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.
You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.
Yesterdayâs boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each otherâs arms. Â
You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldnât stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you werenât an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) youâd taken together in the two years youâd been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared homeâhe even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.
The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.
"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.
Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. Itâs perfect."
Jack lowered himself into the sofa beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.
You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.
"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"
"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."
"Weâre on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jackâs eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expressionâthe way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.
"Thatâs it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.
"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in. Â
"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.
You made sure to listen and Jackâs breathing deepenedâchest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
"God, youâre the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until youâre shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.
You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:
"I booked us that exclusive Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."
"Oh?" Jackâs expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.
"Yeah, itâs a short walk away."
His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hiddenâgem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obviousâhe probably hadnât thought about it for even a second before saying it.
You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Donât you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"
He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the sofa beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."
Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.
The water hit Jackâs skin hard, almost scalding, but he didnât turn it down. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.
Traveling with him wasnât simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.
And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.
What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.
He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and selfâloathing churn through him. Jackâs insecurities about his leg didnât usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered⌠it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like thisâless capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasnât simple for him.
Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.
He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favoritesâthat lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.
His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.
"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.
You glanced up, and he watched your expression shiftâa flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.
"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You knowâŚif you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.
He deserved that.
"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.
"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you werenât saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.
"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.
"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."
Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at a massive institution managing over $7 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.
"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."
He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.
"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."
Jack paused. "Who?â
You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "Youâre lucky youâre hot."
The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasnât deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.
You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.
A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.
"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.
"A mojito, please."
"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the palms. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.
"Grazie," you said.
The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.
You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. Youâd been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.
After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.
You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.
"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.
"Youâre not from around here, are you?"
"Nope."
"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals donât look like you."
"Lucky them," you muttered.
"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.
"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.
He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."
"I guess."
"Come on, bella. One drink. Youâll enjoy it."
"Iâm not interested."
"Oof. Youâre breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.
"Youâll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasnât going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.
"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldnât let you out of my sight, bella."
"Good thing Iâm not yours, then."
He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.
A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.
"Is there a fucking reason youâre harassing her?"
Jack stood shirtless in swim trunks, a t-shirt twisted between his hands, the afternoon light catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at peopleâŚthat did all the talking.
The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his prosthetic caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.
"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"
"Look, I didn't meanâ"
"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued.Â
"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasnât interested. Thatâs your fucking cue to leave."
The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'mâI'm g-gone."
You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.
Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.
"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.
"Yeah. I am."
He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."
"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."
You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.
After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jackâs fingers stilled. "Iâm sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, Iâve just⌠gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. HonestlyâŚ" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "âŚsometimes I wonder what youâre doing with me."
You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."
"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like thisâall the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."
"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."
"You say that nowâ"
"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change thatâit never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.
"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for usânot what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."
His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.
"For the record. Iâm loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation Iâve ever been on."
"Really?" you asked meekly.
Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.
"4 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy.
Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot heâd bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmerâs tan he would absolutely deny having).
"Weâre going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.
"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually⌠After several medical interventions."
You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left youâstroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldnât get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.
"I havenât seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "Itâs fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."
"You donât think itâs too revealing?" you teased.
"Baby, itâs perfect. You look incredible. I canât stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you⌠like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way⌠but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.
You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.
A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.
"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"
A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.
"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."
You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, waitâ" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."
"Half are asleep,â he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.
His logic was a seductive trap.
"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.
He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered, his voice a low, tender rumble. "Let me take care of you now."
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.
Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but hereâŚhere you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.
"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. "Youâre doing so good for me."
You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face⌠and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.
"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go⌠thatâs my girl."
As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his fingers moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too muchâthe focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.
Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.
"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.â
His movements became more deliberate, his fingers curling slightly, searching. When he found that sweet spot inside you, your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.
"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.
"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jackâs eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed another soft kiss to your temple. "You donât want everyone to hear, do you?"
He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.
A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or⌠maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with a filthy, knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."
He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you gasp. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a relentless counterpoint on your clit.
"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."
The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to controlâsoft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.
"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.
He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.
"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers curled, pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come again, just from my tongue."
"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.
"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."
He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you with a deep, steady rhythm that hit that perfect, devastating spot every single time.
"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"
The command in his voice, the filthy, vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.
He saw it the second it hit youâthe way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.
You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.
"You did so good for me."
He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomachâa stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.
"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."
He turned around, and you draped limply over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.
Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger. Â You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.
He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.
"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.
"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.
"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."
Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.
"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.
Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.
Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.
"I love you," you murmured.
"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.
You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. Youâd been out for over an hour.
You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.
"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.
"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"
"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."
"Tempting.â His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last, playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."
You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging briefly to his torso.
"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.
"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?
He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.
"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."
You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.
"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.
"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said, her accent a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.
He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"
"Yes," you giggled.
She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.
"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."
He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.
"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.
You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.
"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."
"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.
"Thank you," you said.
As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.
Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.
Robby: Sheâs so out of your league. Â
Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. Heâd known that from day one, and he still couldnât believe youâd chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.
Jack: I think Iâm going to do it tonight.
Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, youâve been carrying that ring around for a year.
Jack: Iâm nervous as hell.
Robby: Sheâs perfect. Go get her, brother.
Robby then sent another quick message.
Robby: You look happy. Happier than Iâve ever seen you.
Jack thought about the man heâd been before he met you. He was convinced that good things werenât meant for him. And then you showed upâŚand you made him want things heâd never let himself want.
When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.
After decades of war, Bucky finally finds some peace â until a broken kid who mirrors his past forces him to consider forgiving himself enough to start living.
⸠PAIRING & WC: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader â 3.8K
⸠WARNINGS: Insecurities, Bucky is grappling with forgiving himself, some mentions of canon-typical violence, comics!bucky so different technically from mcu!bucky
⸠A/N: wrote this when i was getting into reading comics and read the winter soldier (2018), highly recommend even if it's different from mcu bucky! anyways i loved seeing bucky in his big brother/parental role but also reckoning with the concept of forgiveness and second chances, and ended up with this idea. a lil different but hope you enjoy!
When Bucky defected from HYDRA, he never thought he would ever build himself another home. He couldâve gone back with Steve and stayed in New York. He couldâve stopped in his parentsâ hometown in Romania to lay low. Hell, he couldâve landed himself in a cozy prison cell on an isolated island if the government didnât pardon him for all his crimes as the Winter Soldier.Â
Instead, Bucky chose to go home. Back to where it all started. Shelbyville, Indiana.Â
After his parents passed, the deed to the home passed on to him. If he were to decide between a shoebox in the big city or a not-so-little house on the prairie, itâs a no-brainer. After years of war, or at least thatâs all he remembers, itâs nice to be somewhere quiet where he starts his morning with birdsongs and the sounds of life.Â
Thereâs also you. Youâre the cherry on top of his much-needed sundae. You â his neighbor who spends your days toiling away at your farm, helping out with markets in town, running community fairs. An all-around girl-next-door.Â
He had been worried about what people might think about him moving in here. After all, his case had been highly publicized. But this little town had welcomed him with open arms. They remembered his parents and made space for Bucky to slip right back in.Â
You had been a big help in his transition into the town. Showing him around town, inviting him to dinners with your friends, and even doing weekly movie nights with him. With you, Bucky finds parts of himself that he may have lost. You look at him with faith. You donât see what he sees when he looks in the mirror.
Not an ex-assassin. Not some hundred-year-old grump. Just Bucky.
Now, life should be all fine and dandy, right? Right. Except, Bucky has been thrown another curveball that he isnât quite sure how to manage.Â
When he pledged to use his powers for the greater good, he knew he wanted to focus his efforts on giving people a second chance. These are powers that he never asked for, but are ones he still has all the same. As they say, with great power comes great responsibility.Â
Trading one massive organization for another, Bucky decided to join SHIELD â or at least do some contract work for them. He only takes on jobs that give people an opportunity to make amends. To make right all the wrongs as best they can. Think of it as a product of his guilty conscience.Â
In this line of work, he never expected to stumble into the path of RJ Boyle.Â
Well, stumble is an understatement. RJ had been sent to commit cold-blooded murder against him, vibranium sword in hand to take out Buckyâs own arm. The kid was lethal, trained to be the near-perfect child soldier. He was arrogant and mouthy â and a little bit broken.Â
This kid is just that. A kid. A kid born into unfortunate circumstances. A kid whose weaknesses, whose vulnerability, had been used against him. Bucky knows more than anyone how HYDRA works; they break you down to build you back up, mold you into whoever they want you to be.Â
Itâs like looking at a reflection of himself. Younger. Angrier.Â
Itâs why Bucky decided to take him home â to his home. Show him a slice of the peace that he has managed to create since he left. Show him what his life could be outside of HYDRA. No longer does he need to follow orders to survive. He could just live.
But itâs hard to teach someone how to live when he himself is not yet familiar with the concept. He still has one foot in the real world and the other in the past. Shelbyville has become his safe haven, but parts of it still feel foreign to him. Itâs like heâs playing house in a place that is not his. A story that doesnât belong him, that is being narrated by someone else. A puppeteer from high above.Â
RJ probably feels the same way, especially since Bucky uprooted him from the only thing he knows. Every time he thinks about this, that vein in his head pulses for attention.Â
âYou need to cut yourself some slack,â you smile at him, setting the coffee cup on the table.Â
Bucky presses his fingers against his forehead, hoping that some of the pressure would ease his throbbing mind. He offers a grateful smile in return as he tips the cup back to his lips. âThank you, needed this,â he murmurs.Â
âWell, you do only come to me when you need coffee and eggs,â you say with a smirk, leaning back against your kitchen counter as your eyes sparkle at Bucky at your dining table.Â
His heart slams against his ribcage, a common response to the way you curl your lips so easily at him. Part of him deep inside screams that he wants more than coffee and eggs, an internal voice begging to be declared out loud. He wants mornings and evenings with you. He wants to wake up with your face nuzzled up against his chest or the whiff of your lavender shampoo lulling him to sleep. But he doesnât know how to ask for what he wants just yet. Not when itâs something thatâs for him and only for him.Â
Oblivious to his mental turmoil, you continue, âHowâs the kid doing?â
When he took him in, he thought RJ would be thankful, that he would want this as much as Bucky had. But he knows better than anyone that you canât just transition someone from a life built on pure survival and instinct and battle scars into a suburban, fictitious fairytale without consequences.Â
For the first time in a while, Bucky has to admit that he is at a loss. He is dealing with a trained child assassin who is clearly traumatized from decades of having his brain torn apart, washed, rinsed, and repeated. Trained to do what he was told to do to stay alive.Â
It also doesnât help that the kid is a teenager, which means he is dealing with a severe case of age-appropriate rebellion.Â
Doc Sampson, Buckyâs godsend of a therapist, is still working with him but obviously doctor-patient confidentiality prevents him from actually sharing anything meaningful. Bucky is constantly tempted to break into the office and steal the files, but he thinks that may be crossing some ethical and personal lines.Â
âIâŚâ he pauses, âI donât know.â His answer is honest, desperate even. âNever raised a kid before. Heâs not my biggest fan, which isnât surprising since he did try to kill me. Failed, but tried nonetheless.â
âYouâre a first-time parent. Heâs a kid with a temper. Give yourself some grace. Itâll take him a bit to warm up. Going from back-to-back wars and missions to a quiet farmhouse with sheep bleating in your backyard is a big change.âÂ
Bucky understands that. The lack of stimulation and noise out here is something he had to get used to. His fingers are always itching to do something â anything. He wants to throw the white noise machine that Sharon had gifted him as a joke out the window.Â
âRaising goats is easier than this.â
You laugh and the sound is sugar in his veins. Heâs an addict and heâs not even sure he wants to quit. âNot as expensive too, but also presumably less rewarding. RJ seems like a good kid, I wouldnât stress too much. Heâll come around.â
He wonders how you could say that so easily. Confidence laced into your syllables when youâve barely met the kid. The only time RJ said more than a word to you was the first time you came over, saw him on the couch, looked at Bucky, and said, âI didnât know you had a brother.â
RJ was quick to point out, âHeâs not my brother!â
Ouch.Â
âYouâve got a lot of faith in people,â Bucky mutters under his breath.
âNever had a reason not to,â you shrug. âLife gave me good people. It brought me you, didnât it?â
A blush is quick to furiously sprawl across his face, burning the skin with the heat of a thousand blazing suns. His lips unconsciously stretch into a ridiculously wide grin and he has to hide his childish delight behind the mask of his mug. Part of him knows that you like to tease him, say sweet nothings to see him squirm. Even now, he can see that devious little twinkle in his eye. Still, he canât help but drink your compliments in like a man starved for affection â which he is.Â
âDonât get shy on me, soldier,â you grin at him again, eyes cataloging his face to identify what shade of scarlet he has turned into this time.Â
Itâs almost shameful how obvious he is with his crush. He might as well be writing your name on the margins and praying that you would say yes to sitting with him at lunchtime. Before he got turned into the Winter Soldier, before he replaced an arm with a hunk of metal, Bucky liked to think he was better with women. He was suave. He was charming. He always knew the right things to say.Â
With you, he is in a perpetual state of being tongue-tied and carrying the perfect color of sunburnt. He is the epitome of constant embarrassment.Â
He didnât think it could get worse â heâs heard enough of Sharonâs not yet, Barnes? and Tonyâs wow, youâre embarrassingly slow for a super soldier â but even RJ, who has been here all of five minutes, has caught on.Â
The two of them are on a quick rendezvous to extract a former HYDRA scientist and relocate him into Sharonâs very safe hands. Right before they left, you had leaned against his doorframe, having visited to drop off some eggs.
âDinner tonight?â You ask. âI can whip up some food for you and RJ if you arenât back too late.â
Bucky should be focused on preparing for his mission. Heâs mentally calculating the travel time while also counting the number of lashes in your eyes. Youâre an incredibly delicious distraction in your dirt-covered overalls.Â
He can only dumbly respond with, âHm?â
âI said Iâll get kidnapped by aliens before you come back.â
Jerking up from looking at his gear, he cocks a brow at you. âUh, dinner, right? You said dinner.â
âYes, soldier.â
Bucky clears his throat, feeling that familiar weight of gratitude sit on his chest. âDinner sounds good. You donât have to, though. Weâll probably be back late.âÂ
âI can put something in your fridge.â
âYou really donât have to do that. Weâll raincheck it.â
âAlways too busy for me, sarge.â
Bucky freezes, eyes darting up to meet yours. Are you sayingâ no, it canât be right? You have so many friends. You probably have suitors lined up at your door, he should know this since heâs always checking on your front porch.Â
But thereâs no way that you would be flirting with him. Not seriously at least. âIâm not⌠too busy.â
You only hum, arms crossed over your chest. âGood luck. Be safe.â
He hates these moments the most. Leaving you behind. Youâre not even his and he dreads the idea of saying goodbye to you before he jets off to his next mission. He never knows if this will be the last time heâll see you, if heâll get picked off without ever telling you how he feels about you.Â
But then there is that niggling reminder that nudges the back of his brain, the one that drops a heaviness on his chest that makes the words on his tongue taste like lead. So he doesnât say it.Â
So he does what he always does. He murmurs his thanks before he slips onto his bike with RJ on his back. As he drives away, he watches your shrinking silhouette from his rearview mirror until youâre a speck in the distance.Â
Now, he and RJ are both on the lookout in this cabin.Â
âDude, youâre so lame.â
âWhat?â Bucky frowns, still frowning out into the woods as his most recent target packs up his bag. When RJ doesnât respond, Bucky reluctantly drags his eyes away to focus on the kid next to him. âWhat are you talking about? Also, did you really just call me dude?â
âYouâre sitting here mooning over a woman who lives right down the street from you. You spend every second of free time you have with her and you still canât ask her out?â
The kid may as well have struck him with a bullet, a clean shot straight through his chest. Bucky knows he isnât exactly subtle about his affections, but he didnât think he was that obvious either. At least, not to a point where even a moody, indifferent teenager would realize that heâs been secretly pining over his neighbor for the better part of his time here.Â
âItâs not that simple, alright. Focus on the mission,â he grumbles, redirecting his gaze back into the quiet woods. He should concentrate on keeping the man safe, keeping RJ safe. Â
Except, now heâs thinking about you and what youâre doing, so he isnât exactly functioning at a hundred percent.
âIâm just saying, itâs kind of pathetic to see you like this. I thought the Winter Soldier was supposed to be formidable.â
Bucky releases another grunt as he waves the kid away. âI donât go by that moniker anymore.â
âCanât erase your past, dude. So whatâs the hold up?â
The answer sits on the tip of his tongue. The words, the truth, are there. But itâs not one he is fully ready to reckon with yet. Itâs not a problem with a solution, not an easy one at least. Not one that may even come in his lifetime.Â
Saying it out loud would be admitting defeat. Itâs a confession that he would never even say to a priest, let alone the kid next to him. It is a surrender he isnât ready to commit to, especially when it means giving you up. It means being selfless one more time.Â
When the two of them return home, exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders, Bucky instinctively goes to the fridge first. He already knows what heâs going to see there, but the anticipation still has his blood thrumming in his veins. The cool air greets him before he is met with the sight of tupperwares stacked on the glass shelves. Inside, he spots his favorite dishes in a true farm-to-table experience.Â
Itâs a sight he welcomes and appreciates whenever he goes on these late-night extractions. It only took one comment from him about how heâs terrible with maintaining his schedule for you to step up and take the mantle.Â
It is in this moment of weakness, when his heart feels more tender in his chest, that he lets the admission slip.Â
At first, it is only to the silence of his home. But Buckyâs no longer alone.Â
His words are barely above a whisper, as if he is praying that the chilly night air would swallow them up and whisk them away. âIâve done a lot of things. Things Iâm not proud of. Things that I probably can never forgive myself for. While Iâve been working on atoning for my sins, itâs my burden to bear. I donât want her to shoulder that with me.â
The fridge closes with a quiet thump as desolation swiftly sinks into his bones, like the swipe of a blade across his artery. The good doctor has always told him that itâs normal to carry the guilt, but that he shouldnât let it linger. However, when his entire life has been riddled with a darkness that breeds that conscience unconsciously, Bucky has never learned any different.Â
What he doesnât expect is for RJ to say, âYouâre a fucking hypocrite.â
His brows instantly furrow as he turns to look at the kid.Â
RJ rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his body as he glares at Bucky. His gaze is a mix of irritation and fury, tinged with a disappointment that hits harder than anything else. âYouâre the one who told me that you knew what itâs like to have your life stolen from you, that you knew what itâs like to take it back. You told me that I wasnât alone, that I didnât have to be. But you canât even practice what you preach, so how am I supposed to trust you?â
Itâs ice cold in his veins. Like heâs been struck by lightning. Bucky knows heâs right, heâs always known it deep down. The demons that live in his mind will persist, but they shouldnât stop him from trying to get some semblance of normalcy in his life. To find love and happiness again. It had been a dream once upon a time â the house with the white picket fence and children running across the lawn â but that dream has changed.Â
The vision has morphed into a life that combines his past, present, and future. A life of protecting those who need it most, a life of living in the peace of his current existence, and a life of pursuing this lifelong fantasy to turn it into a reality.Â
And all he has to do is take the first step forward. He has to gather the courage and stuff down pieces of his bitter guilt one at a time until he can live with himself again. Until he can forgive himself and realize that he deserves it.Â
Deserves better things. Deserves you.Â
RJ wonât believe that redemption is possible unless Bucky believes in it himself. So he swallows thickly, resolve hardening in his veins. âAlright then, watch me.â
The kid gives him a questioning look, following hot on his trail as Bucky marches out the door into the midnight that blankets his lawn. Your place is right next door, visible enough from his porch where RJ stands with a flickering light. Alpine curls around the kidâs legs curiously.Â
His fist lifts and he moves on habit alone. He knocks on your door three times as he always does.Â
When you open the door, clearly half awake and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he stills. âBuck?â Your voice is a little raspy, the way it is in the morning when Bucky comes a few minutes too early. âWhatâs going on?â
âShit, sorry, did I wake you up?â
Maybe he shouldâve thought this through. He doesnât even know what time it is. He probably looks like an asshole banging on your door at this forsaken hour. Heâs also a mess. He smells like sweat, dirt, and gasoline. Adrenaline pumps through him faster than those hours earlier under the threat of enemy fire.Â
What he shouldâve done was shower, sleep, buy some fresh flowers from the farmerâs market, then ask you out at a normal hour. Like a normal person.
But when he glances at his house again, RJ waiting expectantly with that damned cocky eyebrow raised, he knows he canât back down now.Â
You yawn and stretch, a sliver of skin exposing as your shirt lifts. Bucky swallows. He needs to keep it together. âI fell asleep on the couch so I needed to get up to move to my bed anyway. Whatâs up?â
Donât think about you in bed. Do not. He is not a child, he has self-control. Or so he likes to think. But then he sees the poutiness of your lips and Bucky has to subtly pinch himself to stop himself from kissing you.Â
Because that would be crazy.
Right?
Once again, the words fall off somewhere in their journey from his heart to his mouth. His heart stutters against his ribs, flesh pulsing against his bones. His eyes dart around in search of comfort.Â
And they land on you with your kind eyes and your bare feet. They land on RJ who stands there slightly doubtful, slightly hopeful. They land on Alpine who still regards him with cool affection, but a year of trust. They land on his home, this land, and the stretch of space between all of the things that formulate his life today. The redemption he is working towards. The peace etched onto every surface. The work in progress that persists.Â
And he braves himself.
With a deep breath, he smiles gently at you. âI was wondering if you wanted to go out with me.â
Your lips quirk up as you slump against the doorway, tilting your head in that way that makes him want to kiss you senseless. âCame over at midnight to get a booty call? Bold even for you, Barnes.â
Bucky chokes on nothing. Absolutely nothing. Panic flares at his chest over how his actions look. Of course, youâd think heâs being a complete and utter fool. A dog that his parents would be ashamed of. âNo, not aâ definitely not. Not that I wouldnât appreciate that, but I figured I should take you out to dinner first. I want to take you out to dinner first. That Italian place down Second Street, the one with the green logo with the ravio that you like. I thoughtââ
A warm hand settles on his arm. âIâd love to,â you interrupt softly, âtonight at seven?â
He clears his throat, nodding his head a little too eagerly. âYes, I can pick you up.â Which sounds dumb in hindsight because he lives right down the street.Â
âOn that death trap?â You eye his bike warily. âAbsolutely not. Iâll meet you there.â
âNo, Iâll get a car. Iâll borrow someoneâs.â
You snort softly, lips twitching with a smile. âHow about I pick you up in my car? Donât need a knight picking me up on his white steed.â
Bucky tinges pink again. Good thing itâs dark out. âSounds good.â
âSee you tomorrow night, sarge.â Your voice is still gentle, kind. Then you look over his shoulder and wave at the sight behind him. âNight, RJ! Alpine!âÂ
He watches from his periphery as RJ gives a small wave back. For the first time in a very long time, his chest feels lighter â not in a way that it is empty, but that it is alive with hope. When he catches the shit-eating grin on RJâs face and Alpineâs look of I-told-you-so, that voice inside his head quiets.Â
Perhaps redemption is not his acts of heroism to compensate for the guilt that plagues his every slumber. Perhaps redemption comes in the unsaid forgiveness, the acts of kindness, and the optimism for something more. It starts with coffee and eggs and a promise of dinner at seven. Â
As he stands on that porch, Bucky finally lets himself believe it, even a little â that heâs home, that heâs healing, and that this time, he might just deserve it.
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!! see below for one of the scenes that inspired this fic! obviously not fully canon compliant but yknow it's the vibes
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detachedâwhile quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchnerâso here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (iâm so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosyâno, theyâre just⌠perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesnât work on all of themâyou glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a bookâat least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. âYouâre wearing a skirt.â
You cross your legs and lean back. âExcellent observation, Reid.â
âItâs impractical,â he says simply. âEspecially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. Youâre significantly more likely to trip while running.â
You roll your eyes. âGood thing Iâm not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.â
âIgnore boy genius, baby girl,â Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. âYou look good.â
You flash him a grin. âSee? Somebody appreciates me.â
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. âInteresting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotchâs proximity.â
Your stomach flips. âSpence.â
He lifts one shoulder. âWhat? Heâs not listening.â
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
âThatâs not the point, Spencer,â you mutter, turning back to him. âYou need toââ
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks inâfiles tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
âMorning,â he says, dropping the files on the table. âHope everyone had a good weekend.â
Morgan snorts. âWhat weekend?â
âYeah,â Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. âI was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.â
âThatâs because you alphabetise your paperwork,â you point out.
She gives you a look. âI enjoy being proficient.â
âWell,â you say lightly, leaning back in your chair âsome of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.â
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. âOoh, look at you. Was there a man involved?â
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. âIâm choosing to plead the fifth.â
Morgan points across the table. âThat means yes.â
âOr,â Reid says without looking up from his book, âit means she enjoys making people speculate.â
âAw, Spence,â you tease. âDonât sound so bitter.â
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threateningâbecause he knows what youâre doing. Itâs what you always do. Itâs how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the teamâReid more than the rest, because heâs your scapegoat... and your best friend.
Heâs the only one who can see through the charade. Not because heâs emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret youâre trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanationâharmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attentionâthey wonât notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. âWell, lucky for all of you, itâs a quiet week.â
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
âNo active cases as of this morning,â Hotch continues. âWhich means weâll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyoneâs apparently been neglecting.â
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
âIâm bored already,â Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. âWeâve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, Iâll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.â
Rossi nods once. âYouâll have them.â
âGarcia,â Hotch continues, âthe Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.â
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. âBut I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasnât supposed to be due for another fortnight.â
Morgan blinks. âYou colour-code your schedule?â
âObviously,â Garcia says. âHow else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?â
Reid straightens. âTechnically, organising information activates the same reward pathways asââ
âDonât,â Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. âI was just going to say gambling.â
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldnât make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. Youâre on the receiving end of it often enoughâwhenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you canât breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
âMoving on,â he says evenly, âJJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.â
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focusedâbut itâs hard. Itâs hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you canât help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what heâs actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when youâ
âThe briefing ended three minutes ago,â Reid says.
You blink hard. âWhat?â
He closes his notebook with a sigh. âThe meetingâs over. You can stop internally monologuing now.â
You frown. âIâm notââ
He gives you a look.
âUgh,â you groan. âYouâre so annoying.â
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but youâre not surprised that heâs right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desksâkeyboards clicking, pens scribblingâand thereâs a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12â18. â Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. âYou know most people throw those away, right?â
You glance sideways at him. âI donât want to forget the page numbers.â
He hums. âSure.â
âYou know,â you say, turning your chair to properly face him, âyouâre being particularly judgemental today. Whatâs your problem?â
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
âIâm experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,â he says plainly. âAnd repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, wellâyouâre increasing my irritability.â
âExactly,â he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comebackâbut your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for whatâs shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviourâuntil forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars sheâd never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollarsâ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdownâan impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you canât come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled womanâchecking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isnât enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. âReid.â
âHm?â
âTell me if Iâm overthinking this.â
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesnât stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files youâve got carefully laid out.
âOops,â he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
âThe behavioural shift feels manufactured,â you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. âBut thereâs enough legitimate stressors here that I canât tell if Iâm forcing a pattern because itâs too clean.â
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
âYouâre focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,â he says. âStress explains escalation. It doesnât explain inconsistency.â
You frown slightly.
âShe suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.â He taps the timeline. âShe still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isnât usually selective.â
Your brows lift. âSo, Iâm right?â
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. âYouâre right.â
âWhatâs she right about?â
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotchâs voiceâlow and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
âShe thinks the behavioural shift is staged,â Reid says. âAnd I agree.â
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thighâand suddenly, you canât breathe.
Heâs close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
âItâs too compartmentalised,â Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. âReal behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a personâs routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawalâsomething.â
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongueâthen flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too smallâbut you canât move. Not with Hotchâs hand still on the back of your chair.
âBut this is curated,â Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. âThe impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.â
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. âYou caught that?â
You clear your throat. âI just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.â
âHer behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,â Reid says. âI canât find a flaw in it.â
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
âGood girl,â he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
âKeep it up,â he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You donât say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldnât even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
âYou know,â he says thoughtfully, âthe age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.â
You finally blink. âWhat?â
âBecause the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraintâespecially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.â
You frown. âWhat are youââ
âBut the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you donât actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.â
Your eyes go wide. âSpencerââ
âYou have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.â
âReid.â
âFor example,â he goes on, ignoring you completely, âyou spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotchâwhich likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.â
You freeze. âReid, I swear toââ
âYou donât react this strongly to older men generally,â he continues. âYou react strongly to Hotch because heâs emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, andââ
He pauses, tilting his head.
âVery obviously your type.â
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report heâs typing. JJâs desk is empty, as usualâsheâs probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. âYou are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.â
He shrugs. âWouldnât matter if they did.â
Your brows pull together. âWhatâs that mean?â
âYouâre good at redirecting attention,â he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. âYouâre less good at hiding physiological responses.â
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
âWhatever,â you mutter. âItâs warm in here.â
Reid glances around the bullpen. âItâs sixty-eight degrees.â
âI hate you.â
âNo you donât.â
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, thereâs a brand-new stack of files on your deskâonly this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
âHotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,â Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. âSaid he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.â
âGreat,â you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath itâwritten quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. â Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. Thatâs pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJâs the first to head outânot long after fiveâtaking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that heâs got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, whoâs been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
âYou coming?â he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
âNot yet,â you reply, blinking tiredly. âHotch needs these by morning.â
Reid tilts his head. âWant me to wait?â
You wave a hand. âNah, go ahead. Iâll get security to walk me to my car.â
âAlright,â he says, already turning away. âJust remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.â
You glare at his back. âIâm reporting you to HR.â
âYouâd have to explain the context,â he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didnât miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired stateâbut youâre used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotchâs note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologneâenough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
Thereâs still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater heâd been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly heâd been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until theyâre perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind youâthe way itâd been before you stepped inside.
It doesnât take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until youâre safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leiaâyour cat, whoâs very unimpressed by your late arrivalâtake a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but youâve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you donât get to them soon, youâll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldnât have set up your own profile if youâd really wanted to.
Noâthis profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while youâd been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadnât contributed to the conversation, but youâd known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the âmessagesâ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and youâve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messagesâones youâd seen pop up on your phone but couldnât be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, youâre not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person whoâs either very funny or very mean. Iâm willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits arenât mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
âHey, sassy girl,â you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. âAlright. Sorry for loving you.â
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: Thatâs probably the best possible answer you couldâve given.
DCRunner00: So whatâs your worst personality trait? I feel like thatâs more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You?
DCRunner00: I get bored easily.
DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment.
You: Sounds like a public safety issue.
DCRunner00: Depends who you ask.
DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. Itâs late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should.
You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
âMorgan, youâre with me at district court this afternoon,â Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. âThe defence attorneyâs pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so weâll need to review our timeline before the hearing.â
Heâs wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when heâs wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. âNothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.â
Hotch ignores him completely.
âJJ, I want the media requests filtered through Straussâs office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when youâre done.â
He glances once around the table.
âIf anything urgent comes in, youâll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.â
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you donât quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, whoâs watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your bossâ ass as he walks out of the room.
âYou should probably blink.â
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. âIâll blink when I want to blink.â
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know heâs fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviourâbut thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app theyâre both obsessed with.
Youâre just about to pass Hotchâs office door whenâyou hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotchâs office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. âSir?â
âHow late were you here last night?â he asks.
You lift a shoulder. âAbout ten.â
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. âThatâs late.â
âMorgan said you needed them done by the morning.â
âI didnât mean first thing,â he says, smoothing the end of his tie. âYou couldâve finished the rest before lunch.â
You blink. âOh.â
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
âYou donât need to stay late to impress me.â
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. âOhâuhâgood to know.â
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
âStill,â he says, lower this time. âI appreciated it. The files, and⌠everything else.â
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
âAnytime, sir,â you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You donât need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he wonât admit it because he doesnât want the team to think heâs shutting them out. Heâs just more comfortable in privateâit helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man?
DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You canât help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than âWorkaholicâ.
You: You read Stephen King?
âHey, you busy?â
You glance over at Reid. âArenât we all?â
He tilts his head. âYouâre on your phone.â
âI could be working.â
âAre you?â
âNo.â
âGood,â he says, shuffling the files on his desk. âHotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.â
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. âAnd by âusâ you mean...?â
âI could use your help.â
âFine,â you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossiâs few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and mapsâeverything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
âWhere do you want to start?â
âIâm trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,â he says, âbut half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns donât align.â
You nod. âOkay, walk me through where it stops making sense.â
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. Youâve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
âItâs physically impossible,â you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
âWell, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.â
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. âIf you know so much, then why canât you figure this out?â
He still doesnât turn away from his screen. âI will. Eventually.â
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
âNo, listen to me carefully.â
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
âYou donât need to explain the problem again,â he says evenly. âYou need to tell me how youâre fixing it.â
He pauses briefly beside Reidâs desk, listening.
âThen prioritise the transfer first,â he says. âIf the paperwork isnât filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.â
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
âNo,â he says after a moment, voice lower now. âIâm not asking you to stay late. Iâm telling you this needs to be finished tonight.â
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
âGood,â he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. âCall me when itâs done.â
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. âDo you think he talks you through it?â
âProbably,â Reid says, turning back to his screen. âHigh-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.â
You go still. You hadnât actually expected an answer.
âSomeone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,â Reid continues. âThe immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.â
Your face heats.
âEspecially because heâs not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. Heâd want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.â
Oh my God.
âAnd honestly,â Reid goes on, âpeople with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investmentââ He pauses briefly. âWhich means heâd probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking heâdââ
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
â...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didnât I?â
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. âJust a couple.â
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now youâre hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throatâ
Fortunately, it doesnât take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what heâs saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. Itâs a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. Youâre not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: Iâve read a few.
DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly.
You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messagesâbut you canât reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
âThanks, pretty girl,â Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. âAnything for you, gorgeous.â
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: Whatâs your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an âanswers emails at midnightâ type of person.
You: Nah. Thatâs my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
âThanks,â Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotchâs office. You can see through the window that heâs not on the phoneâfor onceâso you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. âI didnât ask for coffee.â
âI know,â you say quickly. âBut itâs almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didnât answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldnât, by the way.â
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
âAnd I know youâve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and youâre going to try to leave early, but someoneâs definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so youâll only have enough time to get to the courthouseânot enough time to stop for coffee.â
You set the cup down in front of him.
âSo,â you tilt your head, âcoffee.â
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
âThatâs some pretty solid profiling, Agent.â
Your face heats instantly.
âWell,â you say, backing slowly toward the door, âmaybe now you owe me two.â
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but itâs enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You canât help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reidâs desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they wonât be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossiâthen you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your carâs AC to warm up.
You: Long hours.
You: Weird hours.
You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. Sheâs always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry foodâbut apparently that isnât good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So youâre one of those people.
You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though?
You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. Itâs not like you can just say youâre in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents canât just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. Itâs dangerous.
You: Mostly admin.
You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
Youâre not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring.
DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of.
You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: Iâm starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think Iâd get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy.
You: Probably.
What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. Thereâs nothing youâre really interested in watchingâsince you donât usually have the time to keep up with any showsâso you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
Heâs already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run.
DCRunner00: Read.
DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally.
You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is.
DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogsâwhatever makes them seem interestingâbut this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes.
You: Occupational hazard, I guess.
DCRunner00: And you always answer?
You: Pretty much.
You: Heâd only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: Iâm starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
Thatâs... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but heâs the one asking all the questions about your job. Itâs a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around himâin more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man?
DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think youâre spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
âOkay,â you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. âThatâs enough.â
You: Iâm going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while Iâm gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
âCome on,â you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
Youâre a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didnât even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messagesâand decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
âHeyâwoah.â Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. âYouâre early.â
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
âIs Garcia in yet?â
He frowns slightly. âI think so. Why?â
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
âI justâI need her.â
Youâre already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. Youâre just about to round the corner toward the elevators whenâ
âHeyââ Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. âSlow down. You alright?â
His hand is hovering near your waistânot quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. âSorry. Yeah. Uhâtotally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.â
His brows pull together slightly.
âAlright, well, Garciaâs not going anywhere,â he says evenly. âTake a breath.â
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
âRight,â you mutter. âBreathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.â
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth liftâbut then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garciaâs lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. âSweet mother of encryption, knock first!â
âSorry,â you say, breathless. âI need you.â
âWell, obviously,â she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. âIâm the backbone of this entire operation.â
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
âYou cannot judge me for what Iâm about to show you.â
She glances up, brows lifting. âOh. So this is serious?â
You grimace. âI donât know.â
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSlightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me whatâs happened.â
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
âYou remember the dating profile you set up for me?â
She nods.
âAlright, so, I wonât lie, I havenât really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When Iâve got time, you know? And I donât have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldnât reply all that quickly, but he didnât seem to mind.â
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
âNothing really felt out of place untilâwell, he wouldnât talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, orâI guessâlack of schedule.â
You wince.
âSo now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I donât know.â
You hesitate.
âBut then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.â
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
âMmm. Nope. Donât love that,â she says, shaking her head. âThat is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.â
You sink back in your chair. âThatâs what I thought.â
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
âHave you told Hotch?â
âNope.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âYou answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.â
âBecause the answer is no,â you say firmly, leaning forward again.
âMm-hm.â She keeps scrolling. âOkay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.â
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
âYou do mention Hotch kind of a lot.â
Your head snaps up. âHeâs my boss.â
Garcia gives you a long look.
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSure.â
âGarcia.â
âIâm just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, weâd all be making faces.â
You point at the screen. âFocus.â
âRight. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.â
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
âOkay. Hereâs what weâre going to do. Donât block him yet.â
You sigh. âI donât love that idea.â
âNeither do I, babycakes, but if heâs routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.â
You frown. âIn English?â
She gives you another look. âTimestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips upâbasic digital stalking fun.â
âOh, of course,â you say sarcastically. âNormal stuff.â
âFor me, it is normal.â She points toward the laptop. âNow reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.â
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke.
DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. âOkay, I officially donât like him.â
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. âI feel sick.â
Garciaâs expression softens slightly. âMaybe you should tellââ
âNo.â
She sighs quietly. âOkay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?â
You nod.
âGood. Donât overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.â Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. âIâll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.â
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
âYouâre the best, Pen.â
âI know.â She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. âNow go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.â
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboardâtoo anxious to have it with you during the meetingâthen quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
âHey,â you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. âEverything alright?â
You nod. âYeah. Fine. Iâll explain later.â
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterdayâs court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. Youâre pretty sure itâs the first briefing in years where you havenât spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notesâand when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
âOkay, now Iâm concerned,â he says.
You glance at him. âWhy?â
âYou didnât look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.â
You roll your eyes. âSpenceââ
âSomething must be seriously wrong.â
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
âOkay,â you say quietly, turning back to Reid. âIâm having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.â
His brows shoot up. âA guyââ
âOnline,â you add quickly.
He tilts his head. âIâm confused again.â
You sigh. âRemember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?â
âYou mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?â
You glare at him. âYes. That one.â
âThen yes, I remember it very clearly.â
âWell,â you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, âI had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now itâs gotten... weird. So, Iâm getting Garcia to look into it.â
His forehead creases. âHave you toldââ
âNo.â
âMaybe you shouldââ
âI said no.â
âAlright.â He raises both hands in surrender. âOkay. Iâm dropping it. Itâs justâŚâ
You narrow your eyes at him.
âWell, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions donât escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.â
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
âHowever,â he adds, âcyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.â
You stare at him.
âIn cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.â
He pauses, frowning faintly.
âThat was supposed to be reassuring.â
ââŚThanks, Reid,â you mutter, turning away from him slowly. âNow I feel so much better.â
When you get back to your desk, you decide itâs time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to typeâknowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: Youâre weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
Youâre about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops upâfrom Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why youâre still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, thatâs not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. Iâm working.
Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesnât work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notificationâbut thereâs nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if heâs ever gone quiet on you beforeâbut he hasnât. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
Itâs a calculated move. If heâs paying attention to response patternsâand at this point youâre pretty sure he isâthen following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think youâre pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesnât feel rightâwhich keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, youâve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me?
DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. âOh my God.â
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. âAre you wearing blue?â
âYou saw me this morning.â
âI canât remember,â she says. âAre you?â
You drag a hand through your hair. âYes.â
âHoly shit,â she whispers. âYouâve got to tellââ
âNo.â
âAre you insane?â
âMaybe, butââ You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. âOkay, justâhear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. Itâs a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.â
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
âAnd does this unsub know you work in a government building?â
âDonât call him that,â you snap. âAndâwell, kind of. I didnât tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.â
âI swear to God,â she mutters, âif I have to identify your body next week, Iâm going to kill you.â
You press your free hand against your forehead.
âYou wonât,â you say firmly. âAlright? Weâre getting ahead of ourselves.â
Garcia scoffs loudly.
âSeriously,â you insist. âIt could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.â
The line goes quiet againâthen she sighs.
âWhy are you so against telling Hotch?â
âBecause I donât want to bother him,â you say quickly. âWeâve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I donât want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.â
She sighs again, louder this time. âFine. I wonât go to Hotch.â
Your shoulders sag. âThank you.â
âOn one condition,â she adds. âIâm sleeping over tonight.â
You nearly choke. âWhat?â
âNon-negotiable.â
âPenelope, thatâs insane.â
âNo,â Garcia says firmly, âwhatâs insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.â
âHe is not stalking me,â you protest, keeping your voice low.
âMm-hm.â
âYouâre overreacting.â
âAnd yet,â Garcia says, âif you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.â
You frown. ââŚMorally complicit?â
âAccessory to murder-adjacent,â she corrects. âAnd my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. Weâre having a slumber party.â
You let out a long sigh. âOkay. Fine.â
She hums, satisfied.
âI need to reply to him again.â
âWell, donât ask me,â she mutters. âYouâre the one whoâs apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.â
You laugh despite yourself. âThanks, Pen.â
âMm-hm. And just so weâre clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.â
âI was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.â
âAbsolutely not.â
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. âFine. Romantic comedies it is.â
âGood,â Garcia says firmly. âNow hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotchâs office myself.â
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You donât have to think too hard about what to type. You donât want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three oâclock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while sheâs stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory heâs working through out loudâwhich means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotchâs voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them offâand for the first time in God knows how long, you donât stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
âHello?â
âPack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.â
You snort softly. âAlright. Iâll see you soon.â
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
âSee who soon?â Reid asks.
You glance at him. âGarcia.â
He tilts his head.
âSheâs staying over tonight.â
His brows lift. âBecause of your stalkââ
âGirlâs night,â you interrupt, eyes widening. âThatâs all.â
His gaze narrows. âShould I be worried?â
You scoff. âAbout me? Never.â
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
âReally?â Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. âBecause youâve spent most of the day staring at your phone like itâs a bomb, you spent most of Rossiâs profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.â
You pause mid-motion.
âAlso,â he continues, âyou usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerningââ
âOkay!â you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âGood talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.â
He doesnât say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. Youâre just about to press the button for the elevator whenâ
âAgent.â
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isnât frustrated or disapprovingâitâs curious.
You force a small smile. âSir.â
His eyes move over your face briefly. âYou alright?â
You nod once. âOf course.â
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. âYou sure?â
Your breath catches.
Heâs close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
âYouâve seemed distracted today,â he says.
You swallow hard. âUhâno. No. Sorry, I justâI didnât get much sleep last night.â
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if heâs about to say something elseâpress harder, maybeâbut then seems to think better of it.
âAlright,â he murmurs. âGet some rest tonight.â
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You donât move immediately. You canât. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
âHello?â Garcia calls from behind you. âI cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.â
You shake your head. âShit. Sorry.â
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Thenâ
âSo, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason youâre still singleâŚâ
You shut your eyes. âPenelope.â
âIâm just saying,â she continues lightly, âunless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, Iâm starting to develop theories.â
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then itâs only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until theyâve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat sheâs ever met that doesnât like her.
âLeia hates everyone,â you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. âEven me.â
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once sheâs satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
âHave you seen his latest messages?â she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. âNo.â
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating siteâbecause apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe youâre just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like youâre overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe Iâm just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far sheâs managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still canât lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she canâtâapparently that part would actually be pretty easyâbut because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isnât an official investigation.
âThe second I start pulling the fun federal strings,â Garcia says, typing furiously, âthereâs paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.â
You lean against the counter. âWe donât want that.â
âNot yet.â Her expression sharpens slightly. âAlso, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, thereâs always a chance heâs monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someoneâs looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.â
Your stomach twists. âOr escalate.â
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing
DCRunner00: Most people hide too much.
You: Depends what theyâre trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that Iâm exhausted? Nothing.
DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight.
You: Long day.
DCRunner00: I noticed.
You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
âNight, Pen,â you murmur, rubbing your eyes. âThanks again... for everything.â
âNight, gorgeous,â she calls, peering over the back of the couch. âWake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides itâs my time.â
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
Youâre not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasnât gone quiet for this long beforeâbut if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... itâs not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last nightâwhich is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his motherâs basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isnât entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAUâs next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until youâre both back at the office.
âHey,â Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. âYou havenât been murdered.â
You frown slightly. âGood morning to you too, Spence.â
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. âUhâwhy are we getting murdered?â
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. âBecause sheâs potentially being cyberstalked by aââ
âOh, wow, look at the time,â you interrupt, glaring at Reid. âWouldnât it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.â
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. âCyberstalked?â
âNobody is cyberstalking anybody,â you say as you drop into your chair. âAnd nobodyâs getting murderedâbut great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.â
Morgan chuckles quietly. âDamn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.â
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
âTechnically,â Reid says, âshe only implied it by refusing to answer Garciaâs question during Monday morningâs briefing.â
âAh.â Morgan leans back in his chair. âI knew this was a drought issue.â
You scowl at him. âA drought issue?â
âStatistically speaking,â Reid adds, âpeople experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.â
Morgan looks at him. âMan, just say she needs to get laid.â
âOh my God,â you snap. âI do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very muchâand frankly I think itâs deeply inappropriate that youâre all this invested in whether or not Iâm orgasming regularly.â
Reid tilts his head. âYouâre having sex?â
Morganâs brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him whenâ
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neckâbut you donât turn around. You canât.
âBriefing room. Five minutes,â Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. âJJâs got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.â
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, tryingâand failingâto smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but thereâs something dangerous lurking beneath itâsomething suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
âBe right there, sir,â you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
âOh, you are never recovering from that,â Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. âBaby girl, that was painful to watch.â
You drop your head into your hands.
âYou somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,â Reid says thoughtfully.
âI hate you all,â you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperativeâwhich Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
Itâs not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isnât much you wouldnât give to pick the sociopathâs brains. One hour with him feels dangerously shortâthat is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
âWe donât have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,â Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. âIâll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.â
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the roomâbut you donât move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You donât even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. âYep. Just thinking about how Iâll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.â
He shrugs. âHotch probably isnât even thinking about it anymore.â
You glance up at him hopefully.
âMorgan definitely is, though.â
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then thereâs a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isnât until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, thereâs one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
Youâre with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
âWow,â Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. âHe picked you pretty quickly.â
You shoot him a warning look. âSpence.â
âIâm just saying, he usually deliberates longer.â
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
âYou and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,â Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. âThat sounded more suggestive than I intended.â
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful heâs being when your phone buzzes twice against your deskâlike it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message threadâand your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. Itâs grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the streetâbut your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
âIs that... your apartment?â Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You donât answer him. You canât.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Untilâ
âIâm done!â Garciaâs voice cuts through the static. âI canât do this anymore!â
Sheâs marching right toward you, your laptopâthat sheâd still been monitoringâtucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. âWait. Is thatââ
Morgan straightens in his chair. âWhatâs happening?â
âHotchâs office,â Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. âNow.â
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
âWhatâs going on?â
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when heâs trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to youâand something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
âWhat happened?â he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back upâright at youâand something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
âWho sent this?â
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
Itâs funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to youâsomething realâthatâs when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe itâs because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides theyâre emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe itâs just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didnât do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourselfâand your friendâin danger.
âGet everyone in the briefing room,â Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. âNow.â
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reidâs wristâmaking a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotchâs eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
âReid,â he says. âPrint the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachmentsâall of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.â
You swallow hard. âTheâthe entire message history?â
Fifteen minutes later, youâre back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
âOkay,â Prentiss says. âWhere do we start?â
âVictimology,â Morgan answers immediatelyâthen he glances at you. âSorry, baby girl.â
You wave him off. âReidâs been profiling me all week. Go for it.â
Thereâs a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. Heâs sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like heâs trying very hard not to look directly at you.
âWe need to be careful building a victimology this early,â he says evenly. âEspecially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.â
Reid tilts his head. âNormally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.â He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. âStatistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.â
You grimace. âFantastic.â
âMost victims also know their stalkers,â Reid continues. âApproximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.â
âOkay,â JJ says carefully, looking toward you. âIs there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified againstâanything like that?â
You snort quietly. âDoes every criminal Iâve ever interviewed count?â
The room goes still for half a second.
âWait,â Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. âActually, that makes sense.â
Hotchâs eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
âThis escalation happened fast. Less than a week. Thatâs not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratchâthatâs somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.â
âOr angry,â Morgan adds.
âExactly,â Prentiss says. âHe doesnât lash out until she has Garcia over. Thatâs jealousy. Possessiveness.â
You sink lower in your chair.
âAnd he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,â Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. âThatâs territorial behaviour. Heâs fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.â
âNot the only one fixating on him,â Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
âOw.â
Hotch glances up sharply. âSomething to add, Reid?â
Reid straightens. âUhâno. No, I think Rossi covered it.â
Hotchâs eyes narrow slightly, like he knows thereâs something heâs missing, but he lets it go.
âGarcia,â he says instead, âtell me you found something useful.â
âOh, I found things,â Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. âDeeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.â
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing âinternet goblinâ across the table to JJ.
âOkay, soâprofile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.â
Hotch leans forward slightly. âHow sloppy?â
âSloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,â she says. âAnd before anybody asks, yes, Iâm already pulling traffic cams.â
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
âMorgan, Prentissâstart canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if thereâve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaintsâanything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.â
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
âI want to help,â you say suddenly. âThis is my mess, let me fix it.â
âYou can help,â he says evenly, âby going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what weâre dealing with.â
You open your mouth to argue.
âI mean it,â he adds, voice low.
âIâll take her,â Reid offers immediately.
âNo,â Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. âYou go with Morgan and Prentiss.â
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
âIâm taking her home.â
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, whoâs already in full FBI investigation modeâher screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender youâve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions youâd long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isnât until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his officeâfiles in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
âReady?â he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
âYep,â you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You donât even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. Itâs not like you havenât been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadnât asked for directions the whole way here.
âWait,â he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbeltâyour hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzyâbut once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, youâve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
âIâuhâwasnât really expecting company,â you say as you push the door open. âSorry.â
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trillâprobably wondering why youâre home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. âYou have a cat.â
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. âIs that really the most surprising thing youâve learned about me today?â
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. âItâs unexpected.â
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinnerâuntil she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
âOh, she doesnât really like people,â you say quickly. âSo donât take it personally if sheââ
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotchâs mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances brieflyâthank Godâinto your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. Youâve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different waysâjust not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, heâs going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, heâs going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, heâs going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstandâand then youâll actually have to fake your own death.
Because youâve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. Itâs easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isnât unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you canât really help it. Youâre strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunatelyâbut not unsurprisinglyâremains no help whatsoever.
By seven oâclock sheâs fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotchâs lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you havenât been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
âAre you hungry?â you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leiaâs back while she purrs in his lap.
âIâm fine.â
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. âAny updates?â
He glances back down at his screen. âGarcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should haveâMorgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossiâs pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who mightâve had access to your name outside the official reports.â
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
âAre you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?â
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
âYou think this is nothing?â
His voice stays calm, but thereâs something firmer underneath it now.
âYouâve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still havenât identified,â he says. âMorgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossiâs pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garciaâs been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.â
His jaw tightens slightly.
âMy job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,â he says quietly. âLet me do that.â
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasnât said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasnât.
Heâs just doing his job. Looking out for his team. Heâs not here because he wants to be. Heâs here because someone threatened one of his agents.
Thatâs all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. âIâmâuhâIâm just going to shower quickly. If thatâs alright.â
He nods once. âWant me to clear theââ
âNo,â you say immediately. âGod, no. No. Itâs fine. Totally fine.â
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while youâre dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isnât totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, theyâre just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least theyâre not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
âNo, wait for Morgan before you approach,â Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. âIf the registrationâs fake, I donât want you making contact until we know exactly whoâs inside.â
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
âAlright. Keep me updated.â
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emergedâand for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. Itâs only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
âGarcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,â he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. âThe driverâs been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldnât pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.â
Your stomach tightens.
âThe name on the reservation was fake,â he continues, âbut the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.â
The name hits you immediately.
âEthan Mercerâs brother,â you say quietly.
Hotch nods. âRossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.â
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
âEthan barely spoke during the trial,â you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. âI donât think I ever even met his brother.â
âYou wouldnât need to,â Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. âPeople build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when theyâre looking for someone to blame.â
Your skin prickles. âYou really think itâs him?â
âIt fits,â Hotch replies evenly. âEstablished emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.â
He straightens, turning back toward youâand for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. âThis probably isnât something heâs done before. But his brother has.â
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
âWell,â you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. âOn the bright side, I still think Iâve dated worse.â
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always doâeasy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
âWhy do you do that?â
You frown. âDo what?â
âDeflect.â He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. âEvery time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.â
You lift a shoulder. âMaybe Iâm just charming.â
âNo.â His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. âNo, because it changes depending on the situation.â
Your pulse stutters.
âWith Morgan itâs competitive,â he continues, setting the papers back on the table. âYou tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.â
âWow,â you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. âStarting to feel a little attacked here.â
But Hotch doesnât seem to hear you.
âThe dating profile doesnât fit,â he says, almost to himself. âNeither does the apartment.â
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
âYou project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.â His eyes flick back toward you again. âYou live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.â
âLeave Leia out of this.â
âShe doesnât like strangers.â
âShe likes you.â
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
âYou keep people at a distance,â he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. âEven the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.â He hesitates, brow furrowing. âExcept Reid.â
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
âYou trust him,â Hotch says. âNot just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when youâre stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.â He pauses, watching you carefully now. âAnd earlier you said heâd been profiling you all week.â
Oh God.
âWhich means Reid already noticed the pattern.â
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few monthsâyearsâin real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought youâd hidden quickly enough.
âYou track me.â
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like heâs still realising them.
âYou know my routines,â he continues slowly. âYou anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you canât see me.â He steps closer again. âYou know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.â
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
âYour breathing changes when I get too close to you,â he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
âYou stop fidgeting,â he continues. âYou go completely still.â His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. âLike youâre afraid movement alone is going to give you away.â
Your heart is beating so hard now youâre half-convinced he can hear it.
âYou lose verbal fluency,â he says, voice lower now. âYou trip over words you normally wouldnât. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing itââ
His eyes lock onto yours.
âYou redirect.â
You can barely breathe now.
Heâs standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where youâre perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus heâd bring to an unsubâexcept this time the thing heâs slowly uncovering is the fact that youâve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
âFigured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?â you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And thenâ
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
âHotchner,â he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You donât hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morganâs muffled voice, but you canât quite hear what heâs saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
âThey got him.â
Your head snaps up. âThey what?â
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
âIt was him. Daniel Mercer,â he says. âMorgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.â
âOh.â
âLocal PD recovered notebooks too,â he continues. âNames, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercerâs conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.â
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
âGarcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,â Hotch adds. âOnce Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. Heâd been building the grievance for months.â
He pauses, then looks at you.
âBut they got him.â
âGood,â you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
âLocal PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,â he says, sliding the papers into his bag. âGarciaâs already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorneyâs Office. Youâll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.â
You nod. âOkay.â
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
âThereâll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,â he says. âAnd if you donât want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.â
âIâll be fine,â you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. âYou can stop babysitting me now.â
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
âBabysitting?â he repeats.
âYou know what I mean.â
He steps toward you, brows drawn. âI donât think I do.â
âYou solved the case,â you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. âYou profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktailââ You let out a short, humourless laugh. âYou can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.â
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise heâs moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where heâd been when you asked him if heâd figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
âYouâre being deliberately provocative now because youâre embarrassed,â he says. âBut embarrassment isnât actually your primary response here.â
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
âIf it was,â he adds quietly, âyou wouldnât still be looking at me like that.â
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you canât.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt youâve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isnât entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
Itâs not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like heâs still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesnât last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everythingâand somehow thatâs what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip itâs deliberate, measuredâa sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere youâve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing heâs making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
âAaronââ
âBedroom,â he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. âNow.â
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakesâ
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowlyâso slowlyâtoward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
âDo you really get up this early?â he asks, voice rough with sleep.
âYeah,â you murmur. âMost days.â
His brows pull together slightly. âWhy?â
You let out a small, breathless laugh. âBecause my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
âSounds like a terrible boss,â he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater againâhard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
âYeah,â you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. âHeâs awful. Very demanding.â
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
âHeâs really hot, though,â you add, smiling despite yourself. âSo I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.â
âOh, he notices.â
Your stomach flips. âReally?â
âMhm.â
His arm tightens around your waist. âHe notices the skirts.â
Heat floods your face. âAaronââ
âHe notices the tights.â His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. âThe ones with the seam up the back.â
âOh my God.â
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
âAnd the red bra,â he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
âNoticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.â
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but itâs no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
âMy washing machine broke that week,â you whine. âIt wasnât my fault.â
âMm, sure.â
You twist around immediately. âIâm not lying.â
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesnât quite believe you, but before you can protest againâhe kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
âCareful,â you murmur, breathless against his mouth. âDonât want to be late.â
You feel his lips curve.
âGood thing Iâm the boss.â
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a âWhat Now?â conversationâthat ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadnât even hesitated when youâd finally asked what happens next. In fact, heâd answered a little too quickly.
The first thing heâd asked was whether youâd be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because heâs worried about the team finding outâhe trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point heâd even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureauâs fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed himâeffectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because heâd clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, heâd already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
âAlright, gorgeous,â Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. âTheyâll be ready for you downstairs in ten.â
You glance up at him, brows drawnâand it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what heâs talking about.
âOh.â You blink. âRight. Yeah, Iâll head down soon. Thanks.â
Prentiss looks over from her desk. âYou gonna be okay?â
You lift a shoulder. âSure. Whatâs another case report?â
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. âItâs not exactly every day youâre the victim, baby girl.â
âYeah, but nothing really happened.â
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
âBecause of the team,â you add quickly. âYou guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.â You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. âThanks for that, by the way.â
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
âYouâre in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,â he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. âMaybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.â
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvincedâbut he doesnât push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutesâwhen a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
âRossiâs taking Wallace with you next week,â Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. âI thought you were leading the interview.â
âI was.â
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
âWallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,â he says. âEspecially women.â
You frown. âHotch, Iââ
âAnd if he says something to you in that room,â he continues evenly, âor looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.â
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yoursâsteady, intense, devastatingly honest.
âRight now,â he says quietly, âIâm not sure thatâs me.â
Then heâs gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasnât just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if youâd been focused on it at all in the first place.
ââŚHuh.â
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity heâd been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader
Summary: Literally just a story about Robby finally having a breakdown in the arms of someone who cares about him
WC: 2.5k
Tags: Flangst, loving supportive relationship, high school teacher!reader, brief mention of gun violence at a school (told as a memory)
â
Robby shut the door softly not wanting to wake you. The cat you moved into his house meowed softly, weaving through his feet. Growing up, Robby hadnât been allowed a pet and they had always seemed like slightly too much work to ever get one in adulthood. But you had come with a cat. She was surprisingly long with the softest fur Robby had ever felt. Her calico pattern was smoky and made her very effective at blending in under the bed.
She was named Myrlie after a key Civil Rights leader, Myrlie Evers-Williams. You had named all your pets after prominent women in history.
Robby had met you when you hosted the local high schoolâs career day. Youâd reached out to hospitals in the area and Robby, along with Santos and Whitaker, had been volun-told to attend. He shamelessly flirted with the history and government teacher, assuming heâd never see you again.
Except the school liked him so muchâfor some godforsaken reasonâthat they asked him to train teachers in first aid. It was bleak, depressing, and triggering as hell. But he and Jack showed up and did it. You were stone faced the whole time, impeccably good at picking up on the life saving skills they were giving.
When Jack started to show how to pack an open wound, you slipped out of the room so quietly, Robby was pretty certainly only he and Jack noticed. With a subtle nod from Jack he had gone after you and found you dry heaving over a trash can in the hallway.
âNot as fun to flirt with now, huh?â You asked.
You slid down the wall and curled your legs up against yourself.
âI could still make an effort,â he said, easing down next to you. At least it made you laugh. âAre you okay?â
âI cannot imagine you want my tragic backstory,â you laughed a little tearfully.
âIâll share mine if you share yours,â he offered. âIâll even go first.â
You were quiet for a few seconds and he wondered if you were going to say no. He hadnât told many people about Pittfest, heâd barely told his current (and longest lasting) therapist.
âYeah, alright then,â you replied, wiping at your eyes.
âI was working during the Pittfest shooting,â Robby said. He felt the familiar crushing wave of emotion well up in his throat.
âChrist,â you said, leaning your head back against the wall.
âAnd for three hours body after body came through my ER. For a minute, it felt like COVID all over again. The worst part was that my stepson was at Pittfest and he comes in covered in bloodânot his own, but his girlfriendâs. Andââ Robby clears his voice to avoid it cracking. âAnd I donât save her.â
âFuck,â you said.
âFuck,â he echoed.
âI grew up in Appalachia, grew up around guns, I can shoot them and know how to handle myself around them. My first year I was a nervous wreck and I was in a rich little suburban district just on the edge of a rural county,â you said. âAnd some little dick head thought it would be funny to bring his daddyâs gun to school and scare his friends. Naturally he chose my classroom to do it in. He accidentally shot his best friend.â
âIâm so sorry,â Robby said.
âI managed to get the gun away from him and make it safe, but then I had no idea what to do with a kid bleeding out in front of me. They do not teach you that in a masters degree,â you continued. âI just saw that kid in front of me and heard his best friend sobbing. And I had to leave.â
âYou donât need to justify it,â Robby told you. âThis was our last thing we were covering anyways.â
âI appreciate you taking the time to check on me. I was about to leg it to my classroom and maybe hyperventilate there,â you said sardonically.
âYou teach history and government, right?â
âI do, good memory, Dr. Robinavitch,â you said bumping your shoulder against his. âWant to see my classroom?â
âIs that a euphemism?â
âNope. My classroom is just a couple hallways away,â you laughed. Your eyes were still a little bloodshot and puffy, but you no longer held the countenance of someone who had been crying.
âLead the way, then.â
It had started with a classroom tour, then drinks, then dinner, then two months, then six months, then a year. There was a brief freak out at a year that you calmly pointed out was his brain looking for problems and not an actual problem. And then when Robby was confident that he didnât want to cut and run, he asked you to move in with him.
He had been surprised at your reluctance at first. But you didnât want to become his homemaker just because you were a âjustâ a teacher and he was a big important doctor. It took nearly a month and the reminder he employed a cleanerâone he did not plan on firingâfor Robby to finally convince you.
His only stipulation was the cat was not allowed in the closet because he didnât want to risk cat dander on his scrubsâwhich you were more than happy to accommodate.
After shift though, your cat would shit next to the bench where the two of you stored your shoes and wait until Robby had unlaced his shoes, taken off his backpack and shrugged off his scrub top before she would give him a single warning âmrrp!â and launch herself into his arms.
She had been doing this long before you both moved in together but now it was a regular event after he returned home from a shift. But she seemed to only do it when he came back from the hospital. With Myrlie in his arms he would scratch under her chin, rub her cheeks and then bury his face in the soft fur of her side.
You claimed Myrlie was not an emotional support animalââshe loves to bite my ankles too muchââbut on night like this, where Robby ended up home far later than usual, weary and weather worn, she always let him soak in her comfort.
Robby wasnât sure how long he stood in the entry way with his face buried in his girlfriendâs cat, but eventually even Myrlie got tired and began to wiggle. Reluctantly, Robby let her go.
It was a little past eleven. Even though he had left the hospital doors a bit after nine a handful of the Pitt staff went to the park to decompress. It was an apartment fire tonight. One that claimed the lives of more children than he wanted to count. Unfortunately, it was his job to count.
How had Monty done this job for so long?
You were normally asleep by this time of night, even on a Friday. When he eased open the bedroom door he found you sitting in bed by the lamplight, your own glasses on reading through essays. There was a forgotten mug on your side table and the bed was littered with high school papers.
âHey,â you said without looking up. âGo shower and Iâll have the bed cleared off when youâre done.â
Robby couldnât make words happen so he just hummed in what he hoped was an affirmative tone. He stepped through to the en suite. Despite the fact you didnt want to become his live in assistant and maidâneither of which he wanted eitherâyou still were thoughtful in ways that took his breath away.
You had already put a towel in the towel warmer for him, laid out a change of clothes, and put some kind of aromatherapy bullshit in th shower. You didnât believe in the healing power of smells and Robby certainly didnât but he appreciated the thought. Your caring burgeoned him though the shower.
He tried to do the same for you during hard stretches. The emotional whiplash of being a teacher: watching students succeed and blossom only to be verbally abused the next day left you raw often. Every passive aggressive parent email or bleak understanding of readings scores pulled at you. On your bad days, Robby would cook you dinner, sit you down in front of him on the couch and knead the stress away in your shoulders. He learned that a scalp massage was the fastest way to ease your overactive system. So the evening would always end with you in his lap, slowly rubbing away any negative energy until your slow breathing was the only thing he could hear.
Tonight though, even with the strong shower smelling salts, he could still rememberâalmost tasteâthe burnt flesh and soot clinging to his nose. He remembered when you got a sinus infection a few months ago and you bought one of those neti-pots. After he turned off the water and toweled off with the pre-heated towel, he dug through the cabinet until he found it.
He pulled on the pajama pants you laid out for him but forwent the shirt until he finished rinsing out his nose. It was weird and uncomfortable and Robby was certain he didnât do it right. But placebo or not, he felt better afterwards. When he finally came out of the bathroom you were stacking the essays on your dressers.
âHey babe,â you said turning to look at him. âOh no, youâre not okay.â
There was something about that statement that took Robby so off-guard. So many people ask him if heâs okay. So many people need him to be okay. But you didnât. Your cat didnât. Not just that, but you hadnât need him to say anything. You knew immediately there was nothing good going on in his head.
All of it culminated into a sob that wretched itself out of Robbyâs body without his permission. His eyes blurred and burned as tears welled up. The tightness in his chest constricted and constricted until another inhuman sound came from him.
He felt you rush up to him and instead of pulling him into a hug like he expected, you pulled him onto the bed. His mind and body were so disconnected he wasnât sure how he ended up curled around you sobbing in your lap. All he knew is that your nails were softly raking through his hair and down his scalp.
Each heave of his body had you pulling him in closer.
âI have you,â he heard you say at one point. âIâm not going anywhere.â
And for some reason that made his body react worse. It felt like as soon as he felt he had control over his emotions, you would caress him and they would release like a tidal wave again.
âSorry, Iâm so sorry,â he said.
âDonât apologize. Donât ever apologize for this, Michael,â you said firmly. âCry as much as you want and let me hold you.â
And thatâs what happened. He remained tucked against your body held behind your arms and against your chest. At some point he sunk down into your lap and you continued to run your fingers through his hair and rub his back until eventually the full body sobs ceased and only the tears remained.
But even those dried either out of exhaustion or dehydration, Robby really wasnât sure at this point.
âIâm sorry,â he croaked, trying to sit up.
âDonât apologize for something you havenât done wrong,â you said sharply. He had a sudden vision of why you were such an effective teacher.
âIt was a lot.â
âWhen was the last time you were able to let go like that?â You asked. You were still running your fingers through his hair and he could help but lean into the touch.
âI donât know,â Robby replied.
âHave you ever let go like that?â
âNot with another person,â he said quietly.
âI think youâre not touched enough,â you said.
âWhat?â
âI think we should cuddle more because the moment I held you your body went haywire.â
âI donât think my body cares,â Robby said gruffly.
âBullshit.â
Robby didnât said anything. You sighed and leaned down to kiss his temple.
âDo you feel better at least?â
Did he feel better? Did embarrassing himself by crying in the lap of his girlfriend ease some long standing woundâŚunfortunately the answer was yes.
âYeah, a bit.â
âWell thatâs something. I want you to know that I want you to come to me if you need this. It makes me happy to do things like this for you,â you told him softly.
Robby couldnât figure out what emotion he was feeling in his throat and chest so he said, âWill you hold me and tell me about your day. I really donât want to think about mine anymore tonight.â
âSure, Iâm going to get you some water and snack before we get settled, okay?â
âYeah,â he said hoarsely. You kissed him softly and Robby felt it from his lips to the tips of his toes.
When you returned, you made him chug the water before you let him crawl between your legs laying face down on your chest and stomach, arms wrapped around you. Suspecting he needed pressure and contact, you wrapped your arms and legs around him along with the duvet.
âSo weâre talking about the Gilded Age, right? And one of the big conversations is who is an Americanâwho gets the right to be called an American. Itâs really timely with modern politics and it was so great to watch them connect dots. So naturally I ask them who they think Americans are and this is my first period class,â you begin.
âIs this one AP?â Robby asked, semi-muffled by your shirt.
âNo, these are my normies. Donât tell anyone, but I like them a little more. And when I ask this Iâm always a little afraid Iâm going to have to deal with an âismâ or and âobiaâ. Instead, Carlton, that little fucker who used ChatGPT on his essayââ
âIs he the kid who used âacquiescedâ but didnât know what it meant?â Robby asked?
âYes! Unfortunately heâs also very funny, so itâs hard to hate him. Anyways heâŚâ
Robby let your story wash over him, relaxing his nervous system one anecdote at a time. Your body heat warmed him to his very core and he wondered if this is how safe everyone feels with their partner. He found himself laughing with you and holding you just as tightly as you were holding him.
It was like being laid bare before you and yet you choosing him over and over anyways. You had seen him have a full breakdownâsomething he had always promised himself he would never allow himself to do and instead of running for the hills you held him tighter, you made him drink water, you continued to tell him about your day.
âI think youâre right,â Robby said eventually.
âI normally am, but about what, this time?â
âI think this is good for my body and nervous system,â he mumbled. You snorted and kissed the top of his head.
Being in love with Scott Miller isnât for the faint of heart â especially when you have to watch him fall for someone else.
⸠PAIRING & WC: Scott Miller x F!Reader â 2.6K
⸠WARNINGS: Implied sex (no graphic descriptions), fwb to lovers, idiots in love, un-unrequited love basically, hurt/comfort
â¸Â A/N: first actual scott fic i wrote (and with plot!), pls go easy on me. thank you dear shay @lunexiax for giving me this opportunity to finally test him out <3 if you see similarities in the miscomm between this and right to love, no you didnt (jk i outlined for that one and thought the vibes would kinda fit scott too). more scott to come!!!
⤠main masterlist
Scott Miller is not the kind of guy you marry â hell, heâs not even the kind of guy you date. The closest heâll ever get to wedlock is his marriage with his job. For as long as you can remember, heâs always been the numbers guy. Calculating the probability of success and conducting risk analyses to see if something is worth the effort.Â
With you, he has determined from day one that, while your friendship is worth investing in, a real relationship with you is not.Â
Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each otherâs sides for as long as you can remember. Heâs a few years older than you and you grew up chasing after his footsteps, and he never seemed to mind. You never curbed that habit.
Not when you ended up graduating from the same university, with a major that complemented his future career. Not when you recruited for StormPAR because he was leading investor relations there. Not when you decided to pack up your life and move to the midwest to chase tornadoes.
In the first week of your three-month research project for the new sensors, you and Scott had a little too much to drink. One kiss led to another and suddenly youâre falling into bed with him.Â
Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind â so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings.Â
He only grunts in agreement before he slides into you. His mouth is hot, distracting, and the unsaid agreement is signed with the burning ache between your legs.Â
So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you.Â
Because, for Scott, youâll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue.Â
It should be fine â this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when youâre in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crazy weather fanatics. Theoretically, it should be fine.
But you never expected the addition of a new variable â Kate.Â
Kate is⌠perfect. Sheâs gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, sheâs leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data theyâve never been able to capture. Sheâs quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone â whether itâs the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.
Once again, it should be fine, except youâve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. Sheâs different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. Youâve always only had your name, heâs never had a cute pet name for you. You canât help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.
If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when youâre in bed with him, his mind is sometimes far away. He absentmindedly traces your bare shoulder, keeping you close even if his attention seems elsewhere.
You canât watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.
He doesnât stop you.
One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it â even if it means you have to move to New York.
Because, while you love Scott, you also canât bear to watch him fall for someone who isnât you.
As youâre leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. Heâs still naked in his bed, sheets pooled around his hips, as he catches your hand. The look on his face is indifferent when he asks you why you donât stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.
Youâre shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. âI have to get up early tomorrow. Iâve got an interview.â
Maybe you shouldnât have revealed that, but youâre exhausted and the honest answer slips.
âAn interview? With who? For what?â He sounds more alert now.
âJust a job.â
âYouâve already got a job,â Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.
âI donât know. I might want to try something different.â
He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. âSomething different,â he echoes slowly.
âItâs not a big deal,â you brush him off, âI donât even know if Iâll get it. Iâll see you in the morning, okay?â
Scott, again, doesnât say a word.
It seems so⌠easy for him to let you go. You know it isnât on him to love you the same way you do him; thatâs not a fair ask. But you also have enough pride to know when to take a step back.
Creating physical distance is not the challenging part; itâs dealing with the emotional toll. Every time you have to avoid your silently-designated spot next to him at bars or how you opt to take Javyâs car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You donât come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.
Scottâs not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesnât say anything.
On the other hand, he actually starts talking more with Kate, private chats in the corner of a bar or early mornings over coffee. Sometimes his gaze would flick over to you, harden, and ultimately return to her. That used to be you, but you left that space empty for someone else to fill.
Then you finally get the call.
âI got the job,â you tell him quietly that night.
You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before â for the first time in your life â you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.
The two of you are side by side in bed, youâve slipped on his t-shirt, drowning in the cotton and his familiar storm-stained scent. You allow yourself to indulge in your last night.
Scott doesnât look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. âDo you want it?â
No, no, you donât. You want to stay here â with him and the rest of the team. But this is also a great opportunity, both for your career and the survival of your heart. âI think so.â
He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. âYou think so? Youâre not even sure?â
âWell, itâs a big jump, but I might take it,â you swallow.
âYou shouldnât do it unless youâre absolutely sure.â
You roll your eyes at him. âIâm never absolutely sure about anything.â Except for the fact that Iâm in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.
âThen donât go. Stay here.â
His words are cold and stiff. Itâs calculated. You are an asset to the team. It would be a pain to hire a new analyst in the middle of tornado season and get them fully trained to do what you do. Maybe you could stay just another month until all this is over, maybe you can get them to postpone your start date.
But could you really do it? Could you stand by the sidelines and swallow your feelings long enough to last until the bitter end?
Sighing, you know your answer. âIâm not going to lie. I donât think I can do this anymore. I donât think I can be here anymore.â
âWhat do you mean?â
Itâs now or never. If youâre leaving anyway, you might as well confront him â if you canât have him, then at least Kate could.
âIâm not stupid, you know. I can see it.â
âWhat are you talking about?â
âYouâre in love.â
The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.
âIâm notââ he stops himself, âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. âIâve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever weâre doing.â He frowns. âKate is wonderful, so I understand.â
Scottâs furrow only deepens. âWhat the hell are you going on about?â
âYou and Kate,â you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. âYou guys make a good pair. Iâm happy itâs working out, but I just canât be here to watch that happen so Iâm going to take the offer and move to New York. I know itâs tough to replace my work during this time, Iâll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwardsââ
âFuck that,â he snaps, âlike hell youâre leaving. What do you mean you canât be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?â
Maybe he thinks youâre badmouthing her. âSheâs great! Iâm happy for you. Iâm justââ your chest constricts. âIâm in love with you. Shit. Iâve been in love with you, Scott. I canât do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps youâll let me have, but I canât. Especially not when youâre falling for someone else.â
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. âWho said anything about falling for someone else? Also, youâre in love with me? Since when?â
A groan slips past your lips. âThis is so humiliating. Can we drop it?â
âOh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?â
âForever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?â You grumble, âI was in love with you before⌠this even started.â
You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. âWhy didnât you tell me?â
âBecause youâre my friend, Scott.â
âApparently not if you didnât fucking tell me,â he glares.
âWould it have changed anything?â
Disbelief colors his face. âIt wouldâve changed everything. Are you kidding me? Youâve been in love with me all this time and you didnât tell me?â
Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? Heâs got his hands balled into fists on the sheets, jaw clenched like he would rather be anywhere but here. While the possibility of him rejecting you has always crossed your mind, you didnât think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.
Heâs right. This changes everything.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper, âI shouldnât haveââ your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. âI shouldnât have said anything. I donât want this to change anything between us. Weâll stay friends.â
âWe canât stay friends,â he scowls. Your heart sinks.
You press the heel of your palms against your eyes, praying the tears away. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him. âI canâtâ Iâm gonna go. I need toââ
âNo, youâre staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.â
For a second, you canât hear past the rushing in your ears, the frantic urge to leave. But when his words settle in and your brain slowly digests each individual syllable, you pull your wet hands away from your eyes. Scott swallows thickly when he sees your face.
âYou think what â that I was in love with Kate?â He scoffs but thereâs no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. âWhat gave you that idea?â
You balk at him. Itâs your turn to be confused. âYouâ youâre literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for godâsâ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?â
âThatâs because Iâm bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name â and I keep watching her because sheâs like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?â
You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.
âAnd that job? I canât fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well Iâd never let that happen. If you really wanted it â and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but youâre out of your mind if you donât think Iâll be following you to the ends of the earth.â
Your lungs stutter against your ribs. âWhat?â
Scott turns to face you, hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. To really look at him. âIâm in love with you. Iâve been fucking in love with you.âÂ
You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, âSince when?â
âForever.â
âWhy didnât you tell me then?â
âYou were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didnât want to date.â
âThatâs because youâre always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!â
Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if youâre the fool in this situation. âExcept when it comes to you! Jesus, youâre never a pain. Youâre the best part of my day. I think about you all the goddamn time. Sometimes, I want you to stop doing this tornado chasing thing because itâs dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But youâre passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.â
âBut youâ whatâ this canât be happening.â
âYouâre a goddamn idiot.â
Your lips press together. âYou love me and youâre calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?â
âThatâs because you are. Fuck. I canât believe I wasted all this time. I canât believe I even let you take that interview,â Scott grouses, mostly to himself. âI need you to get it through your thick skull that I donât want anyone else. Itâs always been you. You think Iâd let anyone tail me around like you did?â
A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. âI just thought you felt bad for me.â
âYou somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,â he mumbles. âI love you. Iâm not letting you out of my sight, you hear me. Need you in my car every day. Next to me every time we go out. I need you in my bed every night and I donât want you leaving either. Weâll share one room from now on.â
You sniffle, âThatâs very fiscally responsible of you.â
Scott chuckles, âWell, Iâll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Canât have you getting bored with me.â
âPlease,â you roll your eyes with a smile, âif weâve survived this long without getting sick of each other, whatâs forever, right?â
The reality of what youâve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.
âI meanââ
âIs that a proposal?â He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.
Sweet, slow, steady.
âBecause Iâve got a ring with your name on it back at home. Iâve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.â
âYouâre unbelievable,â you mutter, cheeks warm.
âYeah, well, you love me anyway.â
That, you canât deny.
+ sam: you know how excited i was to write this and i hope it didnt disappoint. ily queen thank you for always matching my freak and my yap mwah!!
scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz
wc: 1,307 // tags: Â flower shop au, cassie mckay x reader, slow-burn, pining, fluff, age gap, mutual pining, confessions, established reader owns a shop, cassie is a disaster lesbian, mutual pining, happy ending
takes place after cassie asked the reader on a date, so this is their first date.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
The next day, Cassie texts you at 4:00 PM.
"Still on for tonight?"
You stare at your phone for a full minute before typing back.
"Yeah. Where are we going?"
"There's a place. Italian. Low key."
"I like Italian."
"Good. Me too. I'll pick you up at 7."
"You don't have to pick me up. I can meet you."
"I want to pick you up."
You stare at your phone again. Maya is watching from the cafĂŠ.
"Who are you texting?" Maya asks.
"No one."
"You're smiling at your phone like an idiot."
"I'm not smiling."
"You're smiling."
You put your phone in your pocket. Go back to work. You're still smiling.
---
Cassie pulls up at 7:00 on the dot.
You're waiting outside the shop. You locked up early. Changed twice. Settled on a sweater and jeans. Not too dressy. Not too casual. You've been standing on the sidewalk for five minutes, pretending you weren't watching for the car.
Cassie's sedan pulls up. The window rolls down.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey."
"You look..." She stops. Starts again. "You look nice."
"Thanks. You too."
Cassie is wearing a dark sweater. The same brown leather jacket. Her hair is down. She looks nervous.
You get in the car. The passenger seat is still pushed back too far. There's a hoodie on the back seat and a granola bar wrapper in the cup holder.
"Sorry about the mess," Cassie says.
"It's fine, Cassie."
"Ok... cool."
She puts the car in drive.
---
The restaurant is small. Red checkered tablecloths. Candles in glass jars. A man at a piano in the corner playing something slow.
Cassie holds the door open. You walk in.
"Reservation for McKay," Cassie tells the host.
"Right this way."
You're led to a table by the window. Cassie pulls out your chair. You sit. Cassie sits across from you. She puts her hands on the table. Then takes them off. Then puts them back on.
"You're nervous," you say.
"I'm not nervous."
"Your hands are shaking."
Cassie looks down at her hands. Puts them in her lap.
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
The waiter comes. You order. You both get water. The waiter leaves.
"You're not drinking?" Cassie asks.
"I don't really drink."
"Good. Me neither. I mean â I don't. Not anymore."
You nod. Don't ask.
"I used to," Cassie says anyway. "A long time ago. Different life."
"Okay."
"You're not going to ask about it?"
"Do you want me to?"
Cassie thinks about it. "No. Not yet."
"Then I won't."
Cassie looks at you. Really looks. Like she's trying to figure something out.
"You're different," she says.
"Different how?"
"I don't know. Easier. Most people ask too many questions."
"I figure you'll tell me when you're ready."
Cassie nods. Picks up her water glass. Puts it down.
---
The food comes. Pasta for you. Gnocchi for Cassie. You eat. You talk. Nothing heavy. Where you grew up. How you ended up in Pittsburgh.
You talk about the shop. How you opened it three years ago. How it was a laundromat before. How you gutted it yourself.
"You did the renovation?" Cassie asks.
"Most of it. My friend helped with the electrical."
"That's impressive."
"It's just drywall and paint."
"It's not. It's a business. You built it."
You look at her. Cassie is serious.
"Thanks," you say.
Cassie talks about Harrison. His obsession with video games. His refusal to eat vegetables. The way he leaves his shoes in the middle of the hallway every single day.
"He sounds great," you say.
"He's a pain in the ass. But yeah. He's great."
"Does he know you're here?"
"He knows I have a date. He's with his dad this weekend."
"And he was okay with it?"
"He said you were nice. And that your shop smells good."
You laugh. "That's high praise from a twelve-year-old."
"He's not wrong about the shop."
Cassie says it like it's nothing. Then she adds, quieter: "Or about you."
You look down at your pasta. Feel your face warm.
---
After dinner, you walk back to the car. The street is darker now. The shops are closed. A few cars pass. The air is cold.
"I had a good time," you say.
"Me too."
"I was nervous."
Cassie looks at you. "You were?"
"Yeah. I thought you were going to be smooth."
"Me? Smooth?"
"You're older. I thought you'd have it together."
Cassie laughs. "I don't have anything together."
"I'm starting to realize that."
"Is that a problem?"
You stop walking. Turn to face her.
"No," you say. "It's not."
Cassie stops too. You're standing under a streetlight. Her blue eyes are almost gray in this light.
"Can I kiss you?" Cassie asks.
"Yeah."
Cassie leans in. Slow. Like she's giving you time to change your mind.
You don't change your mind.
The kiss is soft. Brief. Cassie tastes like wine and something else. Something warm.
She pulls back. Looks at you.
"Okay," she says.
"Okay."
"That was..."
"Yeah."
Cassie nods. Shoves her hands back in her pockets.
"I should take you home."
"Yeah."
---
You drive back in comfortable silence. Cassie keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console. Your hand is on your own leg. Your fingers are inches apart.
Cassie pulls up in front of the flower shop. Your car is parked out front.
"This is you," Cassie says.
"This is me."
You don't get out.
"I had a really good time," you say.
"Me too."
"Like, really good."
Cassie smiles. A real smile. "Yeah."
"Do you want to come in?" you ask. "For tea or something?"
Cassie hesitates.
"I have to open early tomorrow," you add. "So not late. Just... tea."
"Tea," she repeats.
"Tea."
Cassie turns off the car.
---
Inside the shop, you flip on the lights. The cafĂŠ is dark. The flowers are quiet. You lead Cassie to the back, where the small kitchen is.
"Sit," you say, pointing to a stool.
Cassie sits.
You put the kettle on. Get two mugs. Tea bags. Honey.
"You don't have to do all this," Cassie says.
"I want to."
You wait for the water to boil. The kitchen is small. You're close. Cassie's knee is almost touching your hip.
*"Can I ask you something?"* Cassie says.
"Sure."
"Why gardenias?"
You lean against the counter.
"My grandmother grew them," you say. "In her backyard. She had this whole garden. It was the only thing she was precious about. Everything else she let grow wild. But the gardenias, those were hers. She'd spend hours on them. Watering. Pruning. Talking to them."
"Talking to them?"
"She said they needed encouragement."
Cassie smiles.
"She died when I was twenty," you continue. "The garden died with her. I couldn't keep them alive. Tried for a year. Killed three plants."
"So you understand the succulent thing."
"I understand the succulent thing."
The kettle clicks off. You pour the water. Hand Cassie a mug.
"So now I sell them," you say. "Instead of growing them. It's easier."
"Do you miss it?"
"The garden?" You think about it. "Yeah. Sometimes. But the shop helps. Watching other people take them home. Keep them alive. It's not the same, but it's something."
Cassie wraps her hands around her mug.
"I'm going to keep mine alive," she says.
"The gardenias I gave you?"
"Yeah."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"Good pressure."
You drink your tea. The shop is quiet. The street outside is quiet.
"I should go," Cassie says finally. "You have to open tomorrow."
"Yeah."
You walk her to the door. Cassie stops on the sidewalk.
"Same time next week?" she asks.
"I'd like that."
"Okay."
Cassie leans in. Kisses you again. Slower this time. Less nervous.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
You watch her drive away.
You lock up. Turn off the lights. Go to bed.
You can't stop smiling.
ââââŕ¨ŕ§ââââ
Rynâs Fic Recs @rynsficrecs - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
2087
izzy806
gracieabrams
prguitarman
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
vaporwave
