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), jack’s 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 wasn’t easy, but he had recently switched to the day shift, telling you he didn’t 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 Positano’s 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.
Yesterday’s 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 other’s arms.
You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d 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 home—he 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. It’s 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."
"We’re 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. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.
"That’s 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.
"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.
You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest 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, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re 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?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.
"Yeah, it’s 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 hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.
You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t 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 Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t 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 this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t 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 favorites—that 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 shift—a 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 know…if 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 weren’t 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?”
You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re 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 wasn’t 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. You’d 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.
"You’re not from around here, are you?"
"Nope."
"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t 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. You’ll enjoy it."
"I’m not interested."
"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.
"You’ll 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 wasn’t 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 wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."
"Good thing I’m 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 you’re 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 people…that 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 mean—"
"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.
"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 wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."
The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'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. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve 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. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re 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 this—all 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 now—"
"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 that—it 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 us—not 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. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve 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 he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).
"We’re 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 you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t 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 haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."
"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.
"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t 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, wait—" 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,” 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 here…here 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. "You’re 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… that’s 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 much—the 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.”
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. Jack’s 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 don’t 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 control—soft, 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 you—the 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 stomach—a 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. 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. You’d 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.” 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: She’s so out of your league.
Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.
Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.
Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.
Jack: I’m nervous as hell.
Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.
Robby then sent another quick message.
Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.
Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d 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 — 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 — 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 could’ve gone back with Steve and stayed in New York. He could’ve stopped in his parents’ hometown in Romania to lay low. Hell, he could’ve landed himself in a cozy prison cell on an isolated island if the government didn’t pardon him for all his crimes as the Winter Soldier.
Instead, Bucky chose to go home. Back to where it all started. Shelbyville, Indiana.
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, it’s a no-brainer. After years of war, or at least that’s all he remembers, it’s nice to be somewhere quiet where he starts his morning with birdsongs and the sounds of life.
There’s also you. You’re the cherry on top of his much-needed sundae. You — 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.
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.
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 don’t 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 isn’t quite sure how to manage.
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.
Trading one massive organization for another, Bucky decided to join SHIELD — 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.
In this line of work, he never expected to stumble into the path of RJ Boyle.
Well, stumble is an understatement. RJ had been sent to commit cold-blooded murder against him, vibranium sword in hand to take out Bucky’s own arm. The kid was lethal, trained to be the near-perfect child soldier. He was arrogant and mouthy — and a little bit broken.
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.
It’s like looking at a reflection of himself. Younger. Angrier.
It’s why Bucky decided to take him home — 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 it’s 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. It’s like he’s playing house in a place that is not his. A story that doesn’t belong him, that is being narrated by someone else. A puppeteer from high above.
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.
“You need to cut yourself some slack,” you smile at him, setting the coffee cup on the table.
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. “Thank you, needed this,” he murmurs.
“Well, you do only come to me when you need coffee and eggs,” you say with a smirk, leaning back against your kitchen counter as your eyes sparkle at Bucky at your dining table.
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 doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants just yet. Not when it’s something that’s for him and only for him.
Oblivious to his mental turmoil, you continue, “How’s the kid doing?”
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 can’t just transition someone from a life built on pure survival and instinct and battle scars into a suburban, fictitious fairytale without consequences.
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.
It also doesn’t help that the kid is a teenager, which means he is dealing with a severe case of age-appropriate rebellion.
Doc Sampson, Bucky’s 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.
“I…” he pauses, “I don’t know.” His answer is honest, desperate even. “Never raised a kid before. He’s not my biggest fan, which isn’t surprising since he did try to kill me. Failed, but tried nonetheless.”
“You’re a first-time parent. He’s a kid with a temper. Give yourself some grace. It’ll 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.”
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 — anything. He wants to throw the white noise machine that Sharon had gifted him as a joke out the window.
“Raising goats is easier than this.”
You laugh and the sound is sugar in his veins. He’s an addict and he’s not even sure he wants to quit. “Not as expensive too, but also presumably less rewarding. RJ seems like a good kid, I wouldn’t stress too much. He’ll come around.”
He wonders how you could say that so easily. Confidence laced into your syllables when you’ve 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, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
RJ was quick to point out, “He’s not my brother!”
Ouch.
“You’ve got a lot of faith in people,” Bucky mutters under his breath.
“Never had a reason not to,” you shrug. “Life gave me good people. It brought me you, didn’t it?”
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 can’t help but drink your compliments in like a man starved for affection — which he is.
“Don’t get shy on me, soldier,” you grin at him again, eyes cataloging his face to identify what shade of scarlet he has turned into this time.
It’s 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.
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.
He didn’t think it could get worse — he’s heard enough of Sharon’s not yet, Barnes? and Tony’s wow, you’re embarrassingly slow for a super soldier — but even RJ, who has been here all of five minutes, has caught on.
The two of them are on a quick rendezvous to extract a former HYDRA scientist and relocate him into Sharon’s very safe hands. Right before they left, you had leaned against his doorframe, having visited to drop off some eggs.
“Dinner tonight?” You ask. “I can whip up some food for you and RJ if you aren’t back too late.”
Bucky should be focused on preparing for his mission. He’s mentally calculating the travel time while also counting the number of lashes in your eyes. You’re an incredibly delicious distraction in your dirt-covered overalls.
He can only dumbly respond with, “Hm?”
“I said I’ll get kidnapped by aliens before you come back.”
Jerking up from looking at his gear, he cocks a brow at you. “Uh, dinner, right? You said dinner.”
“Yes, soldier.”
Bucky clears his throat, feeling that familiar weight of gratitude sit on his chest. “Dinner sounds good. You don’t have to, though. We’ll probably be back late.”
“I can put something in your fridge.”
“You really don’t have to do that. We’ll raincheck it.”
“Always too busy for me, sarge.”
Bucky freezes, eyes darting up to meet yours. Are you saying— no, it can’t be right? You have so many friends. You probably have suitors lined up at your door, he should know this since he’s always checking on your front porch.
But there’s no way that you would be flirting with him. Not seriously at least. “I’m not… too busy.”
You only hum, arms crossed over your chest. “Good luck. Be safe.”
He hates these moments the most. Leaving you behind. You’re 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 he’ll see you, if he’ll get picked off without ever telling you how he feels about you.
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 doesn’t say it.
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 you’re a speck in the distance.
Now, he and RJ are both on the lookout in this cabin.
“Dude, you’re so lame.”
“What?” Bucky frowns, still frowning out into the woods as his most recent target packs up his bag. When RJ doesn’t respond, Bucky reluctantly drags his eyes away to focus on the kid next to him. “What are you talking about? Also, did you really just call me dude?”
“You’re 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 can’t ask her out?”
The kid may as well have struck him with a bullet, a clean shot straight through his chest. Bucky knows he isn’t exactly subtle about his affections, but he didn’t think he was that obvious either. At least, not to a point where even a moody, indifferent teenager would realize that he’s been secretly pining over his neighbor for the better part of his time here.
“It’s not that simple, alright. Focus on the mission,” he grumbles, redirecting his gaze back into the quiet woods. He should concentrate on keeping the man safe, keeping RJ safe.
Except, now he’s thinking about you and what you’re doing, so he isn’t exactly functioning at a hundred percent.
“I’m just saying, it’s kind of pathetic to see you like this. I thought the Winter Soldier was supposed to be formidable.”
Bucky releases another grunt as he waves the kid away. “I don’t go by that moniker anymore.”
“Can’t erase your past, dude. So what’s the hold up?”
The answer sits on the tip of his tongue. The words, the truth, are there. But it’s not one he is fully ready to reckon with yet. It’s not a problem with a solution, not an easy one at least. Not one that may even come in his lifetime.
Saying it out loud would be admitting defeat. It’s a confession that he would never even say to a priest, let alone the kid next to him. It is a surrender he isn’t ready to commit to, especially when it means giving you up. It means being selfless one more time.
When the two of them return home, exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders, Bucky instinctively goes to the fridge first. He already knows what he’s 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.
It’s a sight he welcomes and appreciates whenever he goes on these late-night extractions. It only took one comment from him about how he’s terrible with maintaining his schedule for you to step up and take the mantle.
It is in this moment of weakness, when his heart feels more tender in his chest, that he lets the admission slip.
At first, it is only to the silence of his home. But Bucky’s no longer alone.
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. “I’ve done a lot of things. Things I’m not proud of. Things that I probably can never forgive myself for. While I’ve been working on atoning for my sins, it’s my burden to bear. I don’t want her to shoulder that with me.”
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 it’s normal to carry the guilt, but that he shouldn’t 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.
What he doesn’t expect is for RJ to say, “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”
His brows instantly furrow as he turns to look at the kid.
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. “You’re the one who told me that you knew what it’s like to have your life stolen from you, that you knew what it’s like to take it back. You told me that I wasn’t alone, that I didn’t have to be. But you can’t even practice what you preach, so how am I supposed to trust you?”
It’s ice cold in his veins. Like he’s been struck by lightning. Bucky knows he’s right, he’s always known it deep down. The demons that live in his mind will persist, but they shouldn’t 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 — the house with the white picket fence and children running across the lawn — but that dream has changed.
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.
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.
Deserves better things. Deserves you.
RJ won’t believe that redemption is possible unless Bucky believes in it himself. So he swallows thickly, resolve hardening in his veins. “Alright then, watch me.”
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 kid’s legs curiously.
His fist lifts and he moves on habit alone. He knocks on your door three times as he always does.
When you open the door, clearly half awake and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, he stills. “Buck?” Your voice is a little raspy, the way it is in the morning when Bucky comes a few minutes too early. “What’s going on?”
“Shit, sorry, did I wake you up?”
Maybe he should’ve thought this through. He doesn’t even know what time it is. He probably looks like an asshole banging on your door at this forsaken hour. He’s 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.
What he should’ve done was shower, sleep, buy some fresh flowers from the farmer’s 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 can’t back down now.
You yawn and stretch, a sliver of skin exposing as your shirt lifts. Bucky swallows. He needs to keep it together. “I fell asleep on the couch so I needed to get up to move to my bed anyway. What’s up?”
Don’t 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.
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.
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.
And he braves himself.
With a deep breath, he smiles gently at you. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me.”
Your lips quirk up as you slump against the doorway, tilting your head in that way that makes him want to kiss you senseless. “Came over at midnight to get a booty call? Bold even for you, Barnes.”
Bucky chokes on nothing. Absolutely nothing. Panic flares at his chest over how his actions look. Of course, you’d think he’s being a complete and utter fool. A dog that his parents would be ashamed of. “No, not a— definitely not. Not that I wouldn’t 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 thought—”
A warm hand settles on his arm. “I’d love to,” you interrupt softly, “tonight at seven?”
He clears his throat, nodding his head a little too eagerly. “Yes, I can pick you up.” Which sounds dumb in hindsight because he lives right down the street.
“On that death trap?” You eye his bike warily. “Absolutely not. I’ll meet you there.”
“No, I’ll get a car. I’ll borrow someone’s.”
You snort softly, lips twitching with a smile. “How about I pick you up in my car? Don’t need a knight picking me up on his white steed.”
Bucky tinges pink again. Good thing it’s dark out. “Sounds good.”
“See you tomorrow night, sarge.” Your voice is still gentle, kind. Then you look over his shoulder and wave at the sight behind him. “Night, RJ! Alpine!”
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 — not in a way that it is empty, but that it is alive with hope. When he catches the shit-eating grin on RJ’s face and Alpine’s look of I-told-you-so, that voice inside his head quiets.
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.
As he stands on that porch, Bucky finally lets himself believe it, even a little — that he’s home, that he’s 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 detached—while 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 hotchner—so 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 (i’m 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 nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at 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. “You’re wearing a skirt.”
You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”
“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”
“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”
You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”
Your stomach flips. “Spence.”
He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”
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.
“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”
Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”
“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.
She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”
“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”
Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”
“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”
“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s 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 team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.
He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s 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 you’re trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”
Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”
“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”
Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”
“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”
Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”
“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”
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 shouldn’t 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. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s 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 can’t 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 he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—
“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.
You blink hard. “What?”
He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”
You frown. “I’m not—”
He gives you a look.
“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s 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 desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – 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. “You know most people throw those away, right?”
You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”
“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but 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 what’s 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 behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isn’t 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. “Reid.”
“Hm?”
“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.
“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”
You frown slightly.
“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”
Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”
“What’s she right about?”
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”
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 thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.
He’s 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.
“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then 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 small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.
“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”
You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”
“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
“Good girl,” he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t 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.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”
You finally blink. “What?”
“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”
You frown. “What are you—”
“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”
Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”
“You 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.”
“Reid.”
“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”
You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”
“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”
He pauses, tilting his head.
“Very obviously your type.”
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 he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s 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. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”
“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”
Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
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, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” 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 it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. That’s 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. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s 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, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
“You coming?” 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.
“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”
Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”
You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”
“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”
You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
“You’d have to explain the context,” 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 didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re 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 Hotch’s 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 cologne—enough 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.
There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until they’re 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 you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.
It doesn’t 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 you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take 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 you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll 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 couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.
No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d 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 hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d 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 ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve 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 messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
“Hey, sassy girl,” 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. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”
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: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given.
DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s 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. It’s 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
“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”
He’s wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”
Hotch ignores him completely.
“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”
He glances once around the table.
“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”
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 don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.
“You should probably blink.”
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but 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 they’re both obsessed with.
You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you 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 Hotch’s office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”
“How late were you here last night?” he asks.
You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”
“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”
“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”
You blink. “Oh.”
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
“Anytime, sir,” you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You don’t 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 won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it 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 can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than ‘Workaholic’.
You: You read Stephen King?
“Hey, you busy?”
You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”
He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”
“I could be working.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”
“I could use your help.”
“Fine,” 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 Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
“Where do you want to start?”
“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”
You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve 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?
“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”
You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, 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.”
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”
He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
“No, listen to me carefully.”
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.
“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”
He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.
“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”
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. “Do you think he talks you through it?”
“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”
You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.
“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”
Your face heats.
“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d 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.”
Oh my God.
“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d 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 he’d—”
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”
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 you’re 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 throat—
Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s 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. It’s 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. You’re 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: I’ve 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 messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like?
DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person.
You: Nah. That’s my boss.
You: My schedule is chaos, though.
“Thanks,” 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 Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”
You set the cup down in front of him.
“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”
Your face heats instantly.
“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t 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 Reid’s 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 won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then 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 car’s 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. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t 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 you’re 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. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s 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.
You’re 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: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked.
You: I think I’d 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. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
He’s 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 dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but 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: He’d only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm.
DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
That’s... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in 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 you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”
You: I’m going to sleep.
You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
“Is Garcia in yet?”
He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
“I just—I need her.”
You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—
“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”
His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”
His brows pull together slightly.
“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but 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 Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”
“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”
“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”
She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”
You grimace. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”
She nods.
“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t 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 couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t 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, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”
You wince.
“So 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 don’t know.”
You hesitate.
“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”
You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
“Have you told Hotch?”
“Nope.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”
“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.
“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”
Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”
Garcia gives you a long look.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
“Garcia.”
“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”
You point at the screen. “Focus.”
“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”
You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”
“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”
You frown. “In English?”
She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”
“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”
“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”
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. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”
Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”
“No.”
She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”
You nod.
“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
“You’re the best, Pen.”
“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”
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 keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then 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.
“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”
You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s 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. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why?”
“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”
You roll your eyes. “Spence—”
“Something must be seriously wrong.”
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.
“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”
His brows shoot up. “A guy—”
“Online,” you add quickly.
He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”
You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”
“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”
You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”
“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”
“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”
His forehead creases. “Have you told—”
“No.”
“Maybe you should—”
“I said no.”
“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”
You narrow your eyes at him.
“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking 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.”
You stare at him.
“In 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.”
He pauses, frowning faintly.
“That was supposed to be reassuring.”
“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”
When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: You’re weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot.
You: Workaholic, remember.
You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, that’s not the reason.
Garcia: So there IS a reason?
You: Shh. I’m 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 doesn’t work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re 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 doesn’t feel right—which 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, you’ve 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. “Oh my God.”
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”
You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”
“No.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”
“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”
“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”
You press your free hand against your forehead.
“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”
Garcia scoffs loudly.
“Seriously,” you insist. “It 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.”
The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.
“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”
“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”
She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”
Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”
“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”
You nearly choke. “What?”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Penelope, that’s insane.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”
“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”
You frown. “…Morally complicit?”
“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”
You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”
She hums, satisfied.
“I need to reply to him again.”
“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”
You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”
“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”
“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”
“Absolutely not.”
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”
“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t 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 o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s 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 off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t 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.
“Hello?”
“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”
You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”
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.
“See who soon?” Reid asks.
You glance at him. “Garcia.”
He tilts his head.
“She’s staying over tonight.”
His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”
“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”
His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”
You scoff. “About me? Never.”
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”
You pause mid-motion.
“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”
“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—
“Agent.”
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 isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.
You force a small smile. “Sir.”
His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”
You nod once. “Of course.”
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”
Your breath catches.
He’s 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.
“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.
You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You don’t move immediately. You can’t. 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.
“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”
You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”
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.
Then—
“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”
You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”
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 it’s 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 they’ve 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 she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.
“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once she’s 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.
“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe.
DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe I’m 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 she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.
“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”
You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”
“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”
Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”
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 they’re trying to hide.
DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide?
You: Besides the fact that I’m 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.
“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”
“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s 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 night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.
“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”
You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”
“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”
“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”
Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”
“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”
You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”
“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”
Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”
“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”
Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”
Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to 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 there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
“Be right there, sir,” 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.
“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.
“I hate you all,” 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 uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
It’s 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 isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t 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 don’t 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 alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”
He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
You glance up at him hopefully.
“Morgan definitely is, though.”
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 there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner
Subject: Wallace Interview
You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”
You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”
“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like 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 thread—and your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment]
DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but 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.
“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You don’t answer him. You can’t.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Until—
“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”
Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”
“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”
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.
“What’s going on?”
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
“What happened?” 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 up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
“Who sent this?”
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.
It’s 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 you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.
“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotch’s 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.
“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”
You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”
“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, you’re 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.
“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”
“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”
You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”
There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s 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 he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.
“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”
Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”
You grimace. “Fantastic.”
“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”
“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”
You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”
The room goes still for half a second.
“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”
Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”
“Or angry,” Morgan adds.
“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”
You sink lower in your chair.
“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”
“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
“Ow.”
Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”
Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”
Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.
“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”
“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.
“Okay, so—profile 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.”
Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”
“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
“Morgan, Prentiss—start 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 there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything 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.”
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”
“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
You open your mouth to argue.
“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.
“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.
“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
“I’m taking her home.”
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her 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 you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d 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 isn’t 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 office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t 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 hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.
“Wait,” 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 seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but 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, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”
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 dinner—until 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.
“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”
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.
Hotch’s 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 briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just 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, he’s 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, he’s 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, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.
Because you’ve 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. It’s 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 isn’t 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 can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.
By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
“Are you hungry?” 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 Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.
“I’m fine.”
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”
He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
“You think this is nothing?”
His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.
“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.
He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.
That’s all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”
He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”
“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”
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 you’re dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re 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.
“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
“Alright. Keep me updated.”
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”
Your stomach tightens.
“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”
The name hits you immediately.
“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.
Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”
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.
“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”
“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”
Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”
“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established 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.”
He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”
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.
“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
“Why do you do that?”
You frown. “Do what?”
“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”
You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”
“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”
Your pulse stutters.
“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You 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.”
“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”
But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.
“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”
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.
“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”
“Leave Leia out of this.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“She likes you.”
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”
Oh God.
“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.
“You track me.”
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.
“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”
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.
“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” 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.
“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”
Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.
“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”
His eyes lock onto yours.
“You redirect.”
You can barely breathe now.
He’s 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 you’re 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 he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve 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.
“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” 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 then—
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s 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?
“They got him.”
Your head snaps up. “They what?”
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan 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.”
“Oh.”
“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once 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. He’d been building the grievance for months.”
He pauses, then looks at you.
“But they got him.”
“Good,” 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.
“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”
You nod. “Okay.”
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”
“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
“Babysitting?” he repeats.
“You know what I mean.”
He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”
“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d 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.
“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”
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 can’t.
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 you’ve 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 isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesn’t 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 everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a 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 you’ve 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 he’s making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
“Aaron—”
“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”
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 wakes—
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 slowly—so slowly—toward 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.
“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard 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.
“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”
“Oh, he notices.”
Your stomach flips. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”
Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”
“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”
“Oh my God.”
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
“And the red bra,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Mm, sure.”
You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he 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.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”
You feel his lips curve.
“Good thing I’m the boss.”
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.
The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he 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 he’d 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 Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because he’d 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, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”
You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.
“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”
Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”
You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”
“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t 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 minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”
“I was.”
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”
You frown. “Hotch, I—”
“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.
“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”
Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t 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 you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.
“…Huh.”
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d 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)
—
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 hadn’t 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 school’s career day. You’d 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 he’d never see you again.
Except the school liked him so much—for some godforsaken reason—that 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.
“Not as fun to flirt with now, huh?” You asked.
You slid down the wall and curled your legs up against yourself.
“I could still make an effort,” he said, easing down next to you. At least it made you laugh. “Are you okay?”
“I cannot imagine you want my tragic backstory,” you laughed a little tearfully.
“I’ll share mine if you share yours,” he offered. “I’ll even go first.”
You were quiet for a few seconds and he wondered if you were going to say no. He hadn’t told many people about Pittfest, he’d barely told his current (and longest lasting) therapist.
“Yeah, alright then,” you replied, wiping at your eyes.
“I was working during the Pittfest shooting,” Robby said. He felt the familiar crushing wave of emotion well up in his throat.
“Christ,” you said, leaning your head back against the wall.
“And 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 blood—not his own, but his girlfriend’s. And—“ Robby clears his voice to avoid it cracking. “And I don’t save her.”
“Fuck,” you said.
“Fuck,” he echoed.
“I 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,” you said. “And some little dick head thought it would be funny to bring his daddy’s gun to school and scare his friends. Naturally he chose my classroom to do it in. He accidentally shot his best friend.”
“I’m so sorry,” Robby said.
“I 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,” you continued. “I just saw that kid in front of me and heard his best friend sobbing. And I had to leave.”
“You don’t need to justify it,” Robby told you. “This was our last thing we were covering anyways.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to check on me. I was about to leg it to my classroom and maybe hyperventilate there,” you said sardonically.
“You teach history and government, right?”
“I do, good memory, Dr. Robinavitch,” you said bumping your shoulder against his. “Want to see my classroom?”
“Is that a euphemism?”
“Nope. My classroom is just a couple hallways away,” you laughed. Your eyes were still a little bloodshot and puffy, but you no longer held the countenance of someone who had been crying.
“Lead the way, then.”
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 didn’t want to cut and run, he asked you to move in with him.
He had been surprised at your reluctance at first. But you didn’t want to become his homemaker just because you were a “just” a teacher and he was a big important doctor. It took nearly a month and the reminder he employed a cleaner—one he did not plan on firing—for Robby to finally convince you.
His only stipulation was the cat was not allowed in the closet because he didn’t want to risk cat dander on his scrubs—which 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 ‘mrrp!’ 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 animal—“she loves to bite my ankles too much”—but 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 wasn’t sure how long he stood in the entry way with his face buried in his girlfriend’s 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.
“Hey,” you said without looking up. “Go shower and I’ll have the bed cleared off when you’re done.”
Robby couldn’t 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 maid—neither of which he wanted either—you 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 didn’t believe in the healing power of smells and Robby certainly didn’t 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 remember—almost taste—the 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 didn’t 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.
“Hey babe,” you said turning to look at him. “Oh no, you’re not okay.”
There was something about that statement that took Robby so off-guard. So many people ask him if he’s okay. So many people need him to be okay. But you didn’t. Your cat didn’t. Not just that, but you hadn’t 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 Robby’s 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 wasn’t 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.
“I have you,” he heard you say at one point. “I’m not going anywhere.”
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.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize for this, Michael,” you said firmly. “Cry as much as you want and let me hold you.”
And that’s 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 wasn’t sure at this point.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked, trying to sit up.
“Don’t apologize for something you haven’t done wrong,” you said sharply. He had a sudden vision of why you were such an effective teacher.
“It was a lot.”
“When was the last time you were able to let go like that?” You asked. You were still running your fingers through his hair and he could help but lean into the touch.
“I don’t know,” Robby replied.
“Have you ever let go like that?”
“Not with another person,” he said quietly.
“I think you’re not touched enough,” you said.
“What?”
“I think we should cuddle more because the moment I held you your body went haywire.”
“I don’t think my body cares,” Robby said gruffly.
“Bullshit.”
Robby didn’t said anything. You sighed and leaned down to kiss his temple.
“Do you feel better at least?”
Did he feel better? Did embarrassing himself by crying in the lap of his girlfriend ease some long standing wound…unfortunately the answer was yes.
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Well that’s 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,” you told him softly.
Robby couldn’t figure out what emotion he was feeling in his throat and chest so he said, “Will you hold me and tell me about your day. I really don’t want to think about mine anymore tonight.”
“Sure, I’m going to get you some water and snack before we get settled, okay?”
“Yeah,” 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.
“So we’re talking about the Gilded Age, right? And one of the big conversations is who is an American—who gets the right to be called an American. It’s 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,” you begin.
“Is this one AP?” Robby asked, semi-muffled by your shirt.
“No, these are my normies. Don’t tell anyone, but I like them a little more. And when I ask this I’m always a little afraid I’m going to have to deal with an ‘ism’ or and ‘obia’. Instead, Carlton, that little fucker who used ChatGPT on his essay—“
“Is he the kid who used “acquiesced” but didn’t know what it meant?” Robby asked?
“Yes! Unfortunately he’s also very funny, so it’s hard to hate him. Anyways he…”
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 breakdown—something 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.
“I think you’re right,” Robby said eventually.
“I normally am, but about what, this time?”
“I think this is good for my body and nervous system,” he mumbled. You snorted and kissed the top of his head.
Being in love with Scott Miller isn’t for the faint of heart — especially when you have to watch him fall for someone else.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Scott Miller x F!Reader — 2.6K
▸ WARNINGS: Implied sex (no graphic descriptions), fwb to lovers, idiots in love, un-unrequited love basically, hurt/comfort
▸ 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 — hell, he’s not even the kind of guy you date. The closest he’ll ever get to wedlock is his marriage with his job. For as long as you can remember, he’s always been the numbers guy. Calculating the probability of success and conducting risk analyses to see if something is worth the effort.
With you, he has determined from day one that, while your friendship is worth investing in, a real relationship with you is not.
Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides for as long as you can remember. He’s 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 you’re falling into bed with him.
Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind — so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings.
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.
So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you.
Because, for Scott, you’ll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue.
It should be fine — this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when you’re 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 — Kate.
Kate is… perfect. She’s gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, she’s leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data they’ve never been able to capture. She’s quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone — whether it’s the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.
Once again, it should be fine, except you’ve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. She’s different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. You’ve always only had your name, he’s never had a cute pet name for you. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.
If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when you’re 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 can’t watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.
He doesn’t stop you.
One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it — even if it means you have to move to New York.
Because, while you love Scott, you also can’t bear to watch him fall for someone who isn’t you.
As you’re leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. He’s 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 don’t stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.
You’re shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve got an interview.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have revealed that, but you’re exhausted and the honest answer slips.
“An interview? With who? For what?” He sounds more alert now.
“Just a job.”
“You’ve already got a job,” Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.
“I don’t know. I might want to try something different.”
He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. “Something different,” he echoes slowly.
“It’s not a big deal,” you brush him off, “I don’t even know if I’ll get it. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Scott, again, doesn’t say a word.
It seems so… easy for him to let you go. You know it isn’t on him to love you the same way you do him; that’s 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; it’s 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 Javy’s car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You don’t come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.
Scott’s not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesn’t 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.
“I got the job,” you tell him quietly that night.
You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before — for the first time in your life — you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.
The two of you are side by side in bed, you’ve 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 doesn’t look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. “Do you want it?”
No, no, you don’t. You want to stay here — 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. “I think so.”
He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. “You think so? You’re not even sure?”
“Well, it’s a big jump, but I might take it,” you swallow.
“You shouldn’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”
You roll your eyes at him. “I’m never absolutely sure about anything.” Except for the fact that I’m in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.
“Then don’t go. Stay here.”
His words are cold and stiff. It’s 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. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
It’s now or never. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well confront him — if you can’t have him, then at least Kate could.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I can see it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re in love.”
The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.
“I’m not—” he stops himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever we’re doing.” He frowns. “Kate is wonderful, so I understand.”
Scott’s furrow only deepens. “What the hell are you going on about?”
“You and Kate,” you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. “You guys make a good pair. I’m happy it’s working out, but I just can’t be here to watch that happen so I’m going to take the offer and move to New York. I know it’s tough to replace my work during this time, I’ll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwards—”
“Fuck that,” he snaps, “like hell you’re leaving. What do you mean you can’t be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?”
Maybe he thinks you’re badmouthing her. “She’s great! I’m happy for you. I’m just—” your chest constricts. “I’m in love with you. Shit. I’ve been in love with you, Scott. I can’t do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps you’ll let me have, but I can’t. Especially not when you’re falling for someone else.”
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. “Who said anything about falling for someone else? Also, you’re in love with me? Since when?”
A groan slips past your lips. “This is so humiliating. Can we drop it?”
“Oh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?”
“Forever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?” You grumble, “I was in love with you before… this even started.”
You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re my friend, Scott.”
“Apparently not if you didn’t fucking tell me,” he glares.
“Would it have changed anything?”
Disbelief colors his face. “It would’ve changed everything. Are you kidding me? You’ve been in love with me all this time and you didn’t tell me?”
Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? He’s 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 didn’t think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.
He’s right. This changes everything.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I shouldn’t have—” your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want this to change anything between us. We’ll stay friends.”
“We can’t stay friends,” 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. “I can’t— I’m gonna go. I need to—”
“No, you’re staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.”
For a second, you can’t 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.
“You think what — that I was in love with Kate?” He scoffs but there’s no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. “What gave you that idea?”
You balk at him. It’s your turn to be confused. “You— you’re literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for god’s’ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?”
“That’s because I’m bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name — and I keep watching her because she’s like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?”
You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.
“And that job? I can’t fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well I’d never let that happen. If you really wanted it — and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I’ll be following you to the ends of the earth.”
Your lungs stutter against your ribs. “What?”
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. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been fucking in love with you.”
You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, “Since when?”
“Forever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“You were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didn’t want to date.”
“That’s because you’re always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!”
Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if you’re the fool in this situation. “Except when it comes to you! Jesus, you’re never a pain. You’re 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 it’s dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But you’re passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.”
“But you— what— this can’t be happening.”
“You’re a goddamn idiot.”
Your lips press together. “You love me and you’re calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?”
“That’s because you are. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasted all this time. I can’t believe I even let you take that interview,” Scott grouses, mostly to himself. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You think I’d let anyone tail me around like you did?”
A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. “I just thought you felt bad for me.”
“You somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,” he mumbles. “I love you. I’m 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 don’t want you leaving either. We’ll share one room from now on.”
You sniffle, “That’s very fiscally responsible of you.”
Scott chuckles, “Well, I’ll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Can’t have you getting bored with me.”
“Please,” you roll your eyes with a smile, “if we’ve survived this long without getting sick of each other, what’s forever, right?”
The reality of what you’ve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.
“I mean—”
“Is that a proposal?” He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.
Sweet, slow, steady.
“Because I’ve got a ring with your name on it back at home. I’ve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, cheeks warm.
“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”
That, you can’t 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: 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.
────୨ৎ────
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 café.
"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 — 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 café 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.
The One Where Cassie Keeps Buying Flowers She Doesn't Need
wc: 1,780 // tags: 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
a/n: i might do a part 2 of this or something idk yet lol
────୨ৎ────
The first time Cassie walks into the flower shop, it's a Tuesday in early October. The bell above the door chimes and you look up from the arrangement you're working on, roses and eucalyptus for a wedding order, and you see her.
She's wearing a brown leather jacket, worn at the cuffs, and a flannel underneath. Her hair is messy, choppy bangs grazing her eyelashes. Blue eyes. She's standing just inside the door like she's not sure why she came in.
"Hi," you say. "Let me know if you need help finding anything."
"Thanks."
She starts wandering. Picks up a succulent. Puts it down. Touches a peony. Reads a label on a bag of potting soil like it's the most interesting thing she's seen all day. She doesn't buy anything. But before she leaves, she walks to the counter.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"What's your favorite flower?"
You blink. No one's ever asked you that. Customers ask about meanings, about longevity, about what's in season. They don't ask what you like.
"Gardenias," you say. "They're complicated. Finicky. Need the right conditions or they won't bloom. But when they do, they're worth it."
She nods like she's filing that away.
"I'm Cassie."
"YN."
She says your name once, quiet, like she's testing it out. Then she leaves.
The bell chimes. Your employee Maya appears at your elbow.
"She was staring at you."
"She was looking at the flowers."
"She asked your favorite flower. No one asks that."
You don't have an answer. You go back to your roses.
---
She comes back three days later. This time she's in black scrubs, a grey zip-up hoodie over them, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She looks tired. The kind of tired that comes from a long shift and a longer week.
"You're a doctor," you say.
"PTMC. Pittsburgh Emergency Medicine."
You nod. That explains it.
She walks to the buckets of flowers. Stares at them without really looking. Her heart's not in it. She's just moving her eyes across the colors.
"You don't have to buy anything," you say.
She looks up.
"You can just stand here. If you need to decompress. I won't make you buy something."
"That's bad business."
"I'm good at business. But I'm also good at knowing when someone just needs a minute."
She doesn't say anything. But her shoulders drop. Just slightly.
She stays for almost twenty minutes. Doesn't buy a thing. Just stands by the window watching the street. Before she leaves, she walks to the counter.
"Gardenias," she says.
"What about them?"
"I looked them up."
Your heart skips. You keep your face neutral.
"Yeah?"
"They are finicky."
She holds your gaze for a moment. Then she leaves.
---
The third time, she buys flowers. A bouquet of pink roses and white lilies. You ask what they're for, and she says, "A friend," and you nod, wrap them up, and she pays and leaves. Maya, one of your workers, watches her go.
"Friend, my ass."
"Maya."
"What? No one buys that many flowers for a friend."
You ignore her. But you're thinking about it too.
---
The fourth time, she says they're for her son's teacher. You raise an eyebrow but don't comment. Yellow tulips and purple iris. She pays. Leaves. Doesn't make eye contact the whole time.
"She doesn't have a son," Maya says after the door closes.
"You don't know that."
"She's lying."
"About having a son?"
"About why she's buying flowers."
You shake your head and go back to work. But Maya isn't wrong about everything.
---
The fifth time, she doesn't buy anything at first. She stands by the succulents for a long time, staring at them like she's trying to solve a problem. You're behind the counter, pretending to do inventory, but you're watching her. You're always watching her now.
"Do you need help?"
She jumps. Turns around. Her face does something complicated.
"No. Yes. I don't know."
You wait.
"I need flowers for..." She stops. Her mouth opens and closes. Then she makes a face, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed together, like she's just said something incredibly stupid and she knows it.
"For?"
"For my fish."
You stare at her.
"Your fish?"
"My fish. Died. I need flowers for the funeral."
You keep staring. She's turning red.
"I don't have a fish," she admits. "I don't know why I said that."
You try not to laugh. You fail. A small one escapes.
She closes her eyes. "I'm going to leave now."
"Don't."
She stops.
"Just tell me what you actually want."
She looks at you. Her blue eyes are embarrassed but something else too. Something softer.
"I don't know how to say it."
"Try."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"I like coming here," she says. "That's all. I just... like coming here."
You nod.
"You don't need to buy flowers for that," you say. "You can just come."
She stares at you.
"Really?"
"Really."
She exhales. "Okay."
"Okay."
She doesn't buy anything that day. But she stays for a while. Sits in the café corner with a cup of tea. You don't talk. You just work and she watches and it feels like something.
---
Over the next few weeks, it becomes a thing. She comes by after shifts, sometimes in scrubs, sometimes not. Sometimes she buys flowers, always something different, like she's grabbing whatever's closest, like she didn't plan it, and sometimes she just gets tea and sits by the window.
Over the next few weeks, it becomes a thing. She comes by after shifts, sometimes in scrubs, sometimes not. Sometimes she buys flowers — always something different, like she's grabbing whatever's closest, like she didn't plan it — and sometimes she just gets tea and sits by the window.
Maya and Derek have opinions. They share them loudly when they think you can't hear.
"She's buying roses again. Who's she cheating on?"
"Maybe she's not cheating. Maybe she's just bad at buying flowers."
"She's bad at something, but I don't think it's flowers."
You tell them to get back to work. But you're smiling.
---
One afternoon, a boy walks in. Maybe eleven or twelve. Dark hair. Blue eyes like Cassie's. He's holding a twenty-dollar bill and a torn piece of notebook paper.
"Are you YN?" he asks.
"I am."
"My mom said to get flowers. She wrote it down but I lost the paper."
"Your mom is Cassie?"
He nods. "She said you'd know what to get."
You feel something warm spread through your chest.
"What's her favorite?" you ask.
He shrugs. "She likes the white ones. The ones you gave her that one time."
Gardenias.
You put together a small bouquet. White petals. Dark green leaves. You tuck a few sprigs of lavender in there too, because you want to. Because you can.
The boy, Harrison, he tells you, pays and takes the flowers. He's almost to the door when he turns back.
The boy — Harrison, he tells you — pays and takes the flowers. He's almost to the door when he turns back.
"She talks about you a lot," he says.
"Yeah?"
"She said you're pretty." He makes a face. "It's weird."
Then he leaves.
You stand there for a full thirty seconds.
Maya is grinning at you from the café. You ignore her.
---
The next time Cassie comes in, she's alone. No Harrison. No scrubs. Just a flannel and jeans and that tired look she always has.
She walks to the counter. Doesn't look at the buckets. Doesn't glance at the café.
"Harrison came by," you say.
"I know."
"He said you think I'm pretty."
She closes her eyes. "I'm going to kill him."
"Don't. It was cute."
She opens her eyes. Looks at you.
"He also said you like gardenias."
"I do."
"I got the ones you gave me. They lasted two weeks. I've never kept flowers alive that long."
"Maybe you're better with plants than you think."
"I'm not. I killed a succulent once. They're supposed to be impossible to kill."
You laugh. She watches you laugh. Her mouth does something small, not quite a smile, but close.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"You can ask me anything."
She hesitates. Her hands are in her jacket pockets. She's not looking at you anymore.
"Are you seeing anyone?"
Your heart stops. Just for a second.
"No," you say. "I'm not."
She nods. Keeps nodding. Like she's processing.
"Okay," she says. "Good. I mean, not good. I mean..." She makes that face again. The one where she knows she's messing up and can't stop.
"Cassie."
"I should go."
"Cassie."
She stops.
"I'm not seeing anyone," you say. "And I haven't been for a while. And if you're asking because you want to ask me something else, you should just ask."
She stares at you.
"I'm old," she says.
"So?"
"I'm forty-three."
"I'm aware."
"I have a twelve-year-old. I have an ex-husband. I have," she gestures at herself, "baggage. A lot of it."
You lean on the counter. Look at her.
"I own a flower shop," you say. "I have two employees who gossip about me constantly. I drink too much coffee and I talk to my plants and I've been waiting for you to ask me out for three months."
She blinks.
"Three months?"
"I'm good at math."
"You never said anything."
"Neither did you."
She runs a hand through her hair. Messes it up more than it already was.
"I don't know how to do this," she admits.
"Do what?"
"This. Dating. Flirting. I'm not, I'm not smooth. I buy flowers for my dead fish. I send my son to do my dirty work. I'm a mess."
You smile.
"I like you," you say. "Fish lies and all."
She stares at you.
"Really?"
"Really."
She doesn't say anything. But she's not leaving.
"So," you say. "Dinner?"
"Dinner," she repeats.
"Tomorrow night?"
She nods slowly. "Tomorrow night."
"It's a date."
She almost smiles. Almost.
Then she looks at the buckets of flowers. Back at you.
"Can I have some gardenias?" she asks.
"For your fish?"
She laughs. A real laugh. It changes her whole face.
"For my apartment," she says. "So I can look at them and think about you."
You put together a bouquet. Bigger than usual. White petals. Dark leaves. You don't charge her.
She takes them. Holds them carefully.
"Tomorrow," she says.
"Tomorrow."
She walks out. The bell chimes.
Maya appears at your elbow.
"Did that just happen?"
"Yes."
"Are you going on a date with the flower murderer?"
Pairing: Cassie McKay x f!Reader
Summary: A little shop, a kind proprietor, and maybe the chance at more than one date.
WC: 2k
Tags: fluff, flirting, "meet cute", street team cassie, mention of homelessness
a/n: this might end up being a short fluffy series of cassie finding love again. also that pose in the last photo is sooooo cassie (or perhaps how I imagine her).
not proofread at all btw.
Cassie didn’t know what exactly she would do after her residency. She was considering a handful of fellowships, namely addiction and pain management. Different fellowships with the same outcomes—so to speak. Working with the street team had changed her even more than her own experiences changed her. Each person she treated had a story, a history, friends and family. They were owed dignity and respect.
More than that, working with the community and other mutual aid groups kept her going on days when it felt like the world was no longer fighting for those that needed it. This country was big, vast, and unforgiving. It would eat you up and spit you out without a second thought. And yet, there were also people dedicated to caring, to pushing back on the jaws that tried to grind and destroy. Cassie hoped she was one of those.
Every kind of person worked in mutual aid. While it was uncommon, there were handful of rich business people, more often than not though, it was young people who saw the changes in their community and wanted to push back.
Cassie hadn’t been sure what to make of you, though.
She first heard about you from Yasmin and Petunia, two older women who had probably been living on the streets longer than not.
“The art and gift shop down the road, she lets us use her shower and her nice products,” Yasmin told Cassie conspiratorially. “And she helped re-bandage Jimmy’s foot.”
“Really?” Cassie asked, her eyebrows raising. “Sounds generous.”
“There are rules, but we all tend to abide by them.”
“What rules?” Cassie asked.
“Not to steal products, only take what you need, things like that. Sometimes, she cooks us dinner. It’s not very good, but she’s nice about it,” Petunia replied.
“She lives above the shop, so when Carlos had his overdose, she is the one who called 911 and gave him narcan,” said Yasmin.
There were a couple dozen or so homeless neighbors (Kiara preferred house-less, but Cassie didn’t mind either way. When she was homeless it wasn't just because she was lacking a house; she was lacking a home.) In the five block radius of the community clinic corner. Every week one of the street teams would deploy to this area and people would come by and seek out whatever services they needed. Cassie deployed a lot of methadone and gave away a lot of narcan.
“She gives away sterile needles, too. She had a bin in her alleyway for people to get rid of them safely,” piped in Alexander. He was younger than the two women; they seemed to have adopted him. He had only been on the street for the last few months. Both women were trying to convince him to take advantage of more than just the medical services the street team provided.
“That’s really kind of her,” Cassie replied.
“She pays me to clean up the needles around the street. Gave me stick proof gloves and everything,” Alexander continued. He fished them out of his coat pocket and handed them to Cassie.
Whoever this woman was, whoever you were, Cassie was determined to meet you before the day was up.
After a long day walking along the homeless encampment under the bridge, Cassie trudged up to the high street and found the juxtaposition startling. The tree covered idyllic road was covered in pedestrians, cars, and young families taking advantage of the cool fall day. Each meandering person was so unaware that on the underside of the bridge were dozens of people who were never guaranteed food, water, or any kind of safety.
But that’s often how people preferred it.
Still, Cassie shouldered her backpack and made her way into the crowd eventually landing in front of your storefront.
Uncommon Goods.
The shop was the same orange-ish red brick as its neighbors, with an inset door and a wide window decorated with a display of goods. There were art pieces, herbs, jewelry and more based on the window. There was a hand painted sign that displayed: Local artisans. Local goods. Local prices.
Cassie thought it was a clever way of saying expensive, but she couldn’t begrudge. It was expensive just to exist now-a-days and if advertising unique hand-crafted goods with euphemistic pricing is how you stayed in business, well, so be it.
Pushing through the door, there was a soft tinkle of bells above her. The smell was not as strong as Cassie had been expecting, not that Cassie could identify any of the scents. She had lost most of her sense of smell years ago. There were tall shelves full of beautiful artwork, decor, hand crafted items. There were also herbs and things that might suggest the store moonlighted as a witch’s coven.
You were sitting at the counter, perched on a stool. It had been years since someone had taken her breath away. Frankly, Cassie had thought that she had been mostly desensitized to the visuals of a human body, considering how often she had seen it in so many different states. However, you were as close to a goddess as Cassie had ever seen in real life. Tattoos were covering your arms, jewelry stacked on your ears, fingers, and neck.
Despite the eccentricities of the shop, you were wearing a simple shirt and jeans. Cassie suspected if she could peak behind your counter, heavy boots would adorn your feet. You looked exactly as she was expecting and also nothing at all. It was hard to pin an age on you and Cassie wasn’t too interested in trying.
Instead, she moseyed around the shop, looking at hand crafted soaps, candles and even pottery. When the customer you had been helping finished, Cassie made her way over to you and said,
“This is an impressive place.”
You looked up from your computer and beamed at her. Briefly, Cassie wondered if this is what a heart attack felt like. She wanted all of your attention and none of it at the same time. It was like you had wrapped her in a magic spell, not that Cassie was in any hurry to leave.
“Thank you,” you replied. Even your voice was magnetic. “First time in?”
“Yeah, I got it on recommendation,” Cassie replied.
“Oh? From whom?”
Even your grammar was impeccable.
“Petunia and Yasmin,” Cassie replied.
“Really?” Your face was unreadable and Cassie realized you were waiting to see why Cassie was here. She wondered if the women below the bridge were still being harassed by the local PD after their protesting against demolishing the community center down the street.
“I’m with PTMC’s street team. We come out to the bridge every week to check on the neighbors,” Cassie replied.
Your smile relaxed and you said, “What’s your name?”
“Cassie McKay.”
“Oh! Yes! They’ve mentioned you.”
“I wanted to meet the woman who is so kind to them,” Cassie replied. “I’ve grown to care about them a lot.”
“They’re good people. They have a rotating schedule of who uses the showers so everyone gets water and a chance at being clean.”
“Sounds like them, they run that place like the navy,” Cassie replied. “How long have you worked here?”
“I opened the shop in 2022,” you replied. “Not very long, but long enough that I think we’re here for awhile.”
“Everything is created by people in Pittsburgh?”
“Definitely, the art, pottery, jewellery, everything.”
“Do you make anything?”
“I do the stained glass and some of the jewelry,” you replied. “Hold on a second.”
You stood (Cassie was right about the boots) and disappeared through a beaded curtained off doorway. Shifting from foot to foot, Cassie found herself amused by the stickers and key chains waiting for an unsuspecting tourist on the counter. A cute cartoon bird that said “Support Your Local Murder” was emblazoned on a key chain and sticker. Cassie picked it up the sticker for Harrison and key chain for her name badge
When you returned, you had a small pair of earrings in your hand. They were a faded orange, like the last vestiges of a sunset. Neither were identical, instead, were a long oblong shape, maybe an inch long. Cassie thought they were beautiful.
“For you,” you said, sliding them over to you. “For all the work you do for my neighbors.”
“I can’t accept this,” Cassie said. “Let me pay for it.”
“No way,” you leaned closer and whispered, “Between you and me I went viral on tiktok a while back. I’m not hurting for customers.”
“At least let me pay for the sticker. It’s for my son,” Cassie said. She wasn’t sure why she mentioned Harrison.
Your smile didn’t change, but you almost looked…disappointed?
“Still, no. But if you tell me you want something for your husband and not wife, I might be inclined to charge you. We’re very pro women here, well, perhaps we’re anti-cis men,” you amended.
Cassie felt her cheeks flush. “No husband or wife, or partner.”
“Really?” You asked. “Shame.”
“Shame?”
“Well, not for us single women in Pittsburgh,” you said winking.
“Are you flirting with me?” Cassie found herself spluttering.
“I’m trying to.”
“And what would you do if I flirted back?”
“I’d ask the most beautiful doctor I’ve ever seen on a date and then brag about how I went on a date with a doctor. What else would I do?”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Even though I have a son?”
“I’ve always had a thing for MILFs,” you said sitting back on your stool and crossing your legs. Cassie’s eyes couldn’t help follow the lines of your legs.
“What if I’m a terrible person?” Cassie challenged. Why was she challenging this? A beautiful woman was kind of asking her out and she was fighting it?
“Then Petunia and Yasmin wouldn’t like you,” you said simply. “Do you have any other silly questions or can I get your phone number and pick you up the next time you’re free?”
“I’m free tonight,” Cassie heard herself say.
“You don’t say. Tell me, Cassie, do you like sushi?”
“Yes.”
“When do you get off your volunteering shift?”
“In an hour.”
“The shop closes at six.”
“I could meet you back here. Maybe when I am not dressed in scrubs.”
Your eyes clearly roved over her form. “They certainly do something for you.”
“That is bullshit,” Cassie laughed. You just grinned at her and said,
“Meet me here at six. I’ll wine you, dine you, and maybe if I’m lucky you’ll come upstairs with me.”
“I don’t do that on the first date,” Cassie said, almost apologetic.
“Well, I guess I should make sure I’m fun enough for a second date.”
“I guess you should,” Cassie replied, still struck by how she walked in without a date and left with plans. “The earrings weren’t to bribe me on a date, were they?”
You snorted but said, “No, they were thank you gifts for treating my friends with dignity. Anyone else from your team is welcome to stop in, too.”
“I kind of want to keep you to myself,” Cassie muttered. She didn’t realize you could hear her until your wind chime laugh erupted.
“Don’t worry, Dr. McKay. I think you’ve bewitched me too much for another to catch my eye so soon.”
The heat that had been slowly building in Cassie's gut bloomed into butterflies. Not even Chad had spoken to her in such a blatantly flirty way. It wasn’t even true that she didn’t sleep with people on the first date—that’s almost exclusively what she did. But for some reason she didn’t want you to only be interested in sex. She wanted to keep you in her orbit for however long you were willing to stay.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Don’t worry, my actions will back me up, too,” you said. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Cassie.”
Summary: You wake up from surgery, unfamiliar with the man hovering over you. Your husband copes.
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: Surgery/medical procedures, mention of death, hurt/comfort and cutie a little :)
a/n: I still cannot writeeeee 🥲 but I wrote this so please enjoy it's a fun trope <3 ily bye <3
Masterlist
~~
Jack was not used to being in waiting rooms. He was used to walking through them, maybe taking a glance to grab a family, but he was never the one waiting. He found that he didn’t like it; the chairs were uncomfortable, and the magazines on the side tables were from 12 years ago, all fraying and discolored where others’ hands had been. The light felt off as it filtered through tinted windows, and he could hear each person’s issues as they checked in for their own procedures. Jack leaned his elbow on the thin, wooden arm of his chair, hand over his mouth, and he waited in possibly the worst place on Earth.
You would be fine.
He told you you would be fine, and he believed that.
But Jack was also starting to believe that waiting rooms were intentional harbingers of doubt, and with each tick of the clock sitting above the receptionist’s desk, he felt himself spiralling into anxiety.
What if you weren’t fine? What if you believed him, and then you died or there was a complication or several other things all aligned perfectly, and you were patient zero for some strange, unresolvable medical anomaly? It was all possible, even if the chances were slim, and waiting in this dismal room was making him consider it all. He wished he had gone into surgery. He wouldn’t be going through any of this if he were a surgeon.
Jack’s knee had begun to shake when a nurse finally entered the waiting room and looked around. It was the same nurse who had assured him, several times, that they were aware of your allergies and would call him immediately if anything went wrong, so Jack shot up from his chair. He ignored the ache in his leg and brushed down the material of his jeans, and he walked over to her before she could even register who he was.
“How’s she doing?” Jack greeted, hands pressed together to look casual, but he was anything but casual. His wife was lying in a hospital bed, and he wasn’t there, and that was not casual.
Nurse Caroline, Jack had taken it upon himself to remember, gave him a soft smile. She still had a scrub cap on and didn’t look stressed or nervous, but Jack was familiar with compartmentalizing in front of patients’ families, and he was a patient’s family. He held his breath and tried to look casual again.
“She’s doing just fine, Dr. Abbot. There was a minor complication with bleeding, but nothing we couldn’t handle. We’ve been observing her for the past half hour, and she’s responding well to the titration of meds. Starting to wake up, but she’s pretty out of it. Don’t be alarmed.”
“What kind of complication?” Jack asked, right on the heels of nurse Caroline as she guided him through the maze of patient rooms. “Something surgery-related or a predisposition?”
Caroline hooked her chin over her shoulder. “I’ll give you the full note in her discharge summary, how about that? You can review the entire procedure.”
“Not sure I need to do that,” Jack muttered under his breath, though the thought comforted him. “Just a rundown would be fine.”
“Right. And I’m sure about a thousand follow-up questions after? I know how you doctors are.” She pointed at him with a teasing smile. “And I especially know how you are when we’re working on your wives. You can read the summary and bring any questions to her post-op in two weeks, capiche?”
Jack grumbled something back, the sound left in the hall as he entered your room. And you looked… fine. About what he expected you to look like after surgery. He didn’t particularly enjoy the bleary way you were staring up at the ceiling, your waning skin, or even that you were in a hospital bed at all, but those were all temporary things. He could pack away the comparisons to nightmares he’s had about you in the ED and lower his tone to a comforting decibel. You needed that more than you needed a panicky, nauseous husband.
“Hey, baby,” Jack all but whispered, his hand coming to rest on the top of your head. He leaned down and tried to enter your line of sight. “How you feeling?”
You didn’t answer right away, or even focus your gaze on him. Jack’s thumb rubbed along your forehead, and he looked up to Caroline in the corner of the room, her attention fixed on the computer. “How long did you say she’s been awake?”
“Only a few minutes,” nurse Caroline replied. “Some people just take a little longer to come out of it, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“But—”
“Just give it a sec, Dr. Abbot. Before you freak out.”
Jack nodded—to himself, as Caroline hadn’t looked up from her computer once—and furrowed his brow as he turned his gaze back down to you. He blinked as he realized you were already looking at him, a layer of relief resting atop his panic. He offered you a smile that radiated fondness and adjusted his hand on your head, brushing your hair back.
“There’s my girl,” Jack quietly encouraged. “Feeling pretty crappy, huh?”
You squinted and nodded, and Jack asked, “Do you have her on pain meds?” which nurse Caroline quickly affirmed. She seemed very well-versed in treating doctors and related categories, and Jack was subtly grateful for her nonchalance. He wondered if she was chosen specifically for the ED attending’s case, and then stopped wondering as you started to speak.
“Are you my doctor?” you hoarsely asked, grimacing as you shifted on the bed.
Jack’s smile widened. “Not today. Tried to be, but they told me I don’t have enough specialized training to remove a gallbladder.”
“They took my gallbladder?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. It was causing you more trouble than it was worth. Better to take it out.”
You made a worried sound, your eyes hazy. “Can I live without my gallbladder? Can I have someone else’s?”
Jack quietly chuckled to himself, his fingers continuing to draw shapes along your temples, your forehead, your jaw. “You can live a perfectly healthy life without one. I’ll help you figure it all out, okay? Worst case scenario, I’ll find a way to give you mine.”
You hummed, leaning into his touch, and Jack felt his chest warm. Everything was fine. You were uncomfortable and confused, but you were fine. He was about to ask Caroline more about your post-op appointment and when you could be discharged when you jolted against him. He snapped his gaze down to you instantly, assessing for anything that could have gone wrong. His hands went from caressing you to hovering an inch over your body, afraid to do more.
“What is it?” he pressed out.
But your wide eyes were not filled with pain. Instead, they were tracking the wedding band on Jack’s left hand, a hint of fear in your expression. “Are you married?” you whispered.
Instinctively, Jack rolled the ring in his fingers. He slowly replied, “Yes,” and let caution simmer in the space between you. Somewhere behind him, Caroline had finally turned away from her computer, brows raised at the scene.
“Oh my god,” you groaned, and Jack winced as you shoved your head back against the bed. “And to think I was being all… like that with you. How mortifying.”
“I don’t—”
“And you were being all… touchy. You have a wife.” You ran a hand over your face, your IV trailing alongside you and making Jack wince again as he worried for the tangled lines. “I am so embarrassed.”
Jack didn’t quite know what to say. You were very clearly still out of it, your brows furrowed in confusion and your eyes looking lost, but all the usual tactics he would use to comfort you were not going to work. His adoring husband repertoire was effectively useless. Jack felt his heart break a little at the notion of being a stranger, but this was temporary. You likely wouldn't even remember it.
Jack swallowed, cleared his throat, and shoved his hands in his pockets because he couldn’t just have them hanging. “Hey, no need to be embarrassed. I’m… uh—I do have a wife, but—”
“But he’s your post-op nurse,” Caroline cut in from behind him. She threw him a look that said don’t confuse her when she’s coming off of anesthesia and rounded the other side of your bed. “The touching is necessary. In fact, he’s also going to be your driver home. New service we have.”
“Oh,” you mumbled out, playing with your fingers in your lap. Jack felt his own hands twitch in his pockets at your slight pout. “So everything is fine?”
It took Jack a moment to realize you were looking at him. He sprang into action as he caught your expecting gaze. “Oh, more than fine, sweet—uh, miss. We’re going to get you home, and I’ll be back for more post-op care.”
“Be back at my house?”
“Yeah. I’ll… be there a lot.”
“Lucky me,” you yawned. “But not lucky wife.”
Jack pressed his lips into a line to stave off the laugh. “My wife’s okay with it. She knows it’s part of the job.”
Caroline had begun checking final vitals and milling about your bed. She removed your IV and scanned your hospital bracelet before returning to the computer. Jack watched each step carefully, hands still shoved into his pockets, and nodded when discharge paperwork was sent to his email. He didn’t really need it, but he knew the procedure notes would be attached, so he would read every word as you slept. A quick check-in from the surgeon was the final key to going home, and Jack had carefully guided you into a wheelchair with hands that knew you better than he led on. You were half-asleep by the time you reached his truck.
“Hey, wake up for me, baby. Gotta get you settled in.”
You squinted and grimaced, and Jack wished he could have just carried you in without the hassle, but the nurse said your stitches were in a delicate zone and you needed careful movement. You threw an arm over his shoulders, and Jack fought the urge to kiss your head as he buckled you into the seat. He didn’t want to startle you. It took physical force to shut the door without touching you more.
He opted for a soft smile when your head rested against his passenger-side window, feeling jittery as he started the engine and backed out of the employee parking garage at the PTMC. You spoke again when you were a few miles away from home.
“Your wife must really love you,” you sleepily pointed out, eyes struggling to stay open. “If you treat her like you treat your patients.”
The lingering warmth in Jack’s chest made his heart skip a beat. He kept his eyes on the road. “I like to think I treat her just a little more special.”
“Really love you, then.”
“Yeah, that’s the hope,” Jack smiled to himself. “But pretty sure I love her a whole lot more than that.”
“That’s nice, Nurse.”
And when you got into the house just a couple of minutes later, your wedding pictures sprawled across the walls, Jack’s belongings mixed with yours, your jaw dropped, a starry-eyed gaze turning on your “post-op nurse.”
“Am I your wife?” you gaped.
Jack took the opportunity to finally touch you, bringing his hands from the clinical guidance around your shoulders to rest delicately around your waist—just to help you walk inside. And maybe because it had only been a car ride, but he missed touching you like he was your husband. He smiled at you from over your shoulder.
“Yeah, baby. We had a pretty fun wedding. You’ll remember it when you wake up.”
“Ho-ly shit,” you replied, stunned as Jack led you through the living room filled with your life together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jack let his nose brush along your temple. “Better to leave things simple when you wake up from a surgery. Wouldn’t want to stress you out with big news.”
“Are you actually a nurse?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Shit,” you repeated. Jack took on more of your weight as you started to fall forward.
“Okay, no more big news until you’re lying down,” Jack stressed, gently tucking your hair back as you approached the bed and struggled to sit down. You swayed slightly where he put you, and Jack crouched down to meet your dazed expression. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know after you sleep some of this off. Promise.”
“Where’s my wedding ring?”
He took your hand into his, kissing the empty space. “No jewelry in surgery. Did you hear me? Sleep first, then information.”
“Am I a doctor? I don’t think I am. Do we have children?”
“I love you so much.” Jack paused, tapping your cheek lightly. “It’s time to sleep.”
pairing: foreman!Bucky Barnes x ranch owner!Reader
summary: You were born to run the ranch, Bucky was raised to work the land. Somewhere between exhausting days of work, barn hookups and ten months of something neither of you dared to name you've crossed a line you can't uncross. But love doesn't mean the same thing to both of you. And when pride, class, and everything Bucky thinks he should be start pulling him away from you you realize loving him might not be enough to make him stay.
word count: 19.8 k (longest one posted yet omg)
warnings: +18 MNI explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), secret affair, angst, mutual pining, class difference, miscommunication, power imbalance, harassment, attempted intimidation, physical violence, alcohol use, happy ending. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry for any grammar mistake or mystipo
a/n: as some of you may or may not know, I'm from Mexico so that means I grew up watching telenovelas full of drama and all of that, this idea came to me when I suddenly saw a picture in pinterest and my mind started thinking a lot of what if? I hope you enjoy it! dividers by @saradika-graphics & beta read by my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysdecaflove & Denice ꨄ︎
read in AO3
The sun hasn't cleared the horizon when you step onto the porch, coffee mug in hand. The ranch is already awake. You can hear the low murmur of cattle in the distance, the sharp whistle of someone calling the dogs, the creak of the barn doors and machinery coming to life. This was your ranch. Your responsibility. Your pride.
You'd grown up with dirt under your fingernails and hay in your hair, your father's shadow stretching long over every fence post and pasture. He'd raised you to run this place since you were little. Mainly, because you were his only child, but also because he knew you would take care of the land accordingly.
Now the shadow is yours and you wear it well.
"Morning, wildfire."
The voice comes from near the equipment barn. You don't have to look to know who it is—you'd recognize that low rasp anywhere, the way he says that nickname with practiced ease.
Bucky Barnes leans against the fence, one boot propped on the lower rail, his work shirt already dusty though the day's barely started. His dark hair is combed back, a few strands escaping to frame his face, and his blue eyes track you as you descend the porch steps.
"Morning," you say, keeping your voice level professional. "Crew's here?"
"Most of 'em. Sanchez is running late—truck trouble. I sent Pete to pick him up." He straightens, falling into step beside you as you head toward the barn. "We're rotating the herd to the north pasture today. Fencing's solid, checked it myself yesterday."
"Good." You pause at the barn entrance, turning to face him. "What about the irrigation system? Johnson said there was a blockage in sector three."
"Already working on it, it should be cleared by noon."
You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. This is how it always goes—Bucky anticipating problems before you have to ask, handling details before they become emergencies. Your father had hired his dad twenty years ago, and when the old man got sick, Bucky stepped into the role like he'd be born for it.
Which in a way, he had been.
"You're thinking too hard," Bucky says, his mouth quirking. "I can see those gears turning."
"Well, I'm always thinking. Kind of part of my job."
"Yeah, well." He shifts his weight and for a moment, something flickers across his face, something soft and unguarded… you blink and it's gone. "Try to not hurt yourself."
You shoot him a look that would wilt lesser man. He just grins and tips an imaginary hat before heading toward the equipment barn, leaving you with your coffee and the creeping warmth in your chest that you refuse to name.
By midday, you're elbow-deep in the business of running the ranch, fielding calls from suppliers, reviewing feed costs, checking the schedule for the county livestock show next month. Your office is a converted tack room in the main barn, all exposed beams and the faint smell of leather and hay. You liked it here. It feels real in a way that glass and steel never could.
You're on the phone with the feed supplier, arguing about bulk pricing, when Bucky appears in the doorway. He doesn't interrupt, just leans against the frame and waits, and you're hyper-aware of his presence in a way that's become second nature over the past— how long has it been? Ten months since that first kiss in the summer heat, all sweat and impulse and that kid of chemistry that burns.
Ten months of this thing between you that has no name, no rules, no promises.
You finish the call—a victory, 10% discount— and set the phone down. "What's up?"
"Got a situation with the new colt. He's favoring his left foreleg, might be nothing, but I want you to take a look before I call the vet."
You're already standing. "Show me."
The colt is in the training pen, a gorgeous chestnut with a white blaze and too much attitude for his own good. You'd purchased him at auction three months ago, saw the potential in his bloodline and the fire in his eyes. Now he's limping, and your stomach tightens.
Bucky's already in the pen, speaking low and calm as he approaches the colt. The animal sidesteps, nervous, but Bucky doesn't rush. Just keeps talking, that steady murmur that works in horses and people alike, until the colt allows him close enough to run a hand down his neck.
"Easy, buddy."
You slip through the fence rails and approach from the other side, moving slow. The colt's ears flick toward you, but he doesn't spook. Between you and Bucky, he's boxed in by a kind of trust, and after a moment he settles.
"I've got his head," Bucky says. "Check the leg."
You crouch, running your hands carefully down the colt's foreleg, feeling for heat, for swelling, for anything out of place. The colt shifts but doesn't pull away, and you can feel Bucky's presence above you, solid and grounding.
"There," you murmur, fingers finding a tender spot just above the fetlock. "Minor strain, I think… it's not serious, but he needs rest."
"Figured." Bucky's voice is close—closer than you expected. You glance up and find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "You want me to call Doc Johnson anyway?"
"Yeah, better be safe than sorry." You straighten, brushing dirt from your jeans. "Good catch."
"Just doing my job."
"You do it well."
Something passes between you— a look, a breath, the weight of words unsaid. The colt stamps impatiently, breaking the moment, and you step back.
"I'll handle the rest of the rotations," Bucky says, his tone careful and neutral. "You've got that conference call at two, right?"
You'd forgotten. "Shit, yeah. Thanks."
"Anytime, wildfire."
There it is again. That nickname. The way he says it—affectionate and just a little bit awed, like you're something bright and untamed and worth admiring from a careful distance.
You walk away before you can do something stupid like ask him what it means, why he started calling you that. If it means what you think it might.
That evenings you stop by Miller's feed store in town to pick up supplements. Bucky's with you—he'd been checking on a part for the tractor at the hardware store next door.
Old Miller's behind the counter, and his eyes light up when he sees you.
"Well if it isn't the lady rancher herself," he says warmly. "How's business?"
"Good, been busy lately." You hand him your list. "Need these loaded up when you get a chance."
"You got it," he glances at Bucky. "And how's your foreman treating you" Working you too hard?"
It's a joke, everyone knows you're the one who sets the pace, but you see Bucky's jaw tighten slightly.
"Bucky runs a tight ship," you say. "Couldn't do it without him."
"That's good, that's good. 'Course your daddy always said the Barnes men were the best workers in the county." Miller starts pulling items from shelves. "You keeping busy, Bucky? Staying out of trouble?"
"Yes, sir" Bucky says evenly.
"Good man," Miller chuckles. "Though I gotta say, at your age, figured you'd have your own spread by now. Following in your old man's footsteps is fine work, but eventually a man wants something of his own, you know? Something to build on."
The words are casual, friendly even, but you see Bucky's shoulders stiffen.
"I'm exactly where I want to be," Bucky says, but there's an edge to it.
You pay quickly and get out of there, but the damage is done. Bucky's quiet on the drive back, staring out the window with that same look from earlier.
"Miller's an old gossip," you say. "Don't listen to him."
"He's not wrong though." Bucky's voice is carefully neutral. "I'm thirty-two and I don't own anything but a truck and a cabin on someone else's land."
"You own half the knowledge that keeps this ranch running," you counter. "That's worth more than—"
"It's not the same," he cuts you off gently. "And you know it."
You don't know what to say to that. Because in the world you both live in—where land equals legacy and property equals status— maybe he has a point.
But it doesn't make it right.
By the time the crew clocks out, the sky is bruising purple and gold, the heat of the day giving way to the cool promise of night. You make your rounds, checking that everything's secured, the animals settled, the equipment stored. It's a ritual, this final sweep and you always find peace in it.
You're in the main barn, running through inventory counts one last time, when you hear footsteps behind you.
You don't turn around. "Thought you left already."
"Had some things to finish." Bucky's voice is low in a way that sends heat curling through your belly. "Saw your truck was still here, figured you were doing your obsessive end-of-day check."
"It's not obsessive, it's thorough."
"Right." He's closer now, close enough that you can smell him—sweat and hay and something uniquely Bucky that makes you want to turn around and close the distance, and— "You done?" he asks and there's an edge to his voice that makes your pulse quicken.
You set down the clipboard and turn to face him.
He's still in his work clothes, shirt untucked and streaked with dust, hair falling loose from its tie. There's smudge of grease on his jaw and his eyes are dark in the dim light of the barn, and you know this look. Know what comes next.
"Yeah," you say, your voice already dropping to something lower. "I'm done."
The space between you evaporates. You don't know who moves first—maybe it doesn't matter. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make you gasp, and your fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer. Then his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding, and you open for him immediately.
God, you'll never get tired of kissing him. The way he tastes like coffee and the mint he chews when he's working, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the way he kisses like he's starving for you.
His tongue slides against yours and you moan into his mouth, pressing closer, needing more. His hands slide from your hips to your ass, squeezing, lifting, and suddenly your feet aren't touching the ground anymore. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your core even through layers of denim, and the friction makes you both groan.
"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, walking you backward "You feel—"
"Don't talk," you manage, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. "Just—"
Your back hits the wall of the tack room and he pins you there with his hips, grinding against you making your head fall back and desperate sounds tear from your throat. His mouth moves to your neck, teeth and tongue and the kind of rough attention that you crave. Your hands are already fumbling with his belt, impatient, needing him out of these fucking clothes.
"Wildfire," he murmurs against your throat, and the nickname sounds different now. "Let me—"
He sets you down just long enough to yank your shirt over your head, his flannel following seconds later. Then his hands are on your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric of your bra, and the sensation shoots straight between your legs.
"Off," you demand, reaching behind yourself to unhook it, and he helps, tossing it aside before his mouth replaces his hands.
The first pull of his lips around your nipple makes your knees buckle, makes you grab his hair to stay upright. He works you with his mouth—sucking, biting, soothing with his tongue—while his hands work open the button of your jeans. You're already shoving them down your hips, kicking off your boots in a graceless rush, and then you're standing there in nothing but your underwear, while he's still mostly dressed.
"Not fair," you gasp and he pulls back just enough to flash you a wicked grin before dropping to his knees. Oh. "Bucky—"
"Let me," he says again, and this time it's not a question. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear, and when he leans forward and presses his mouth against you through the fabric, you nearly come apart right there.
"Jesus Christ," you manage, fingers tightening in his hair as he mouths at you, the friction not nearly enough. "Stop teasing."
He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags your underwear down, helping you step out of them, and then he's right there, face level with your cunt, looking up at you like you're something sacred.
"You're so fucking wet already," he murmurs and then his tongue is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.
He eats you out like it's his religion—long, slow strokes of his tongue followed by focused attention on your clit that makes you shake. Your fingers are fisted in his hair, hips rocking against his face, and he takes it all, groaning like your pleasure is his, like this is what he needs.
When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you cry out his name.
"That's it," he encourages, voice muffled against you. "Let me hear you, wildfire. Let me—"
The orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, sudden and devastating, and you come with his name on your lips and your legs shaking and his fingers still working inside you, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling.
He pulls back, mouth glistening, and the look on his face is pure hunger.
"I need you," you manage, still catching your breath. "Now."
He's on his feet in seconds, shedding his jeans and boxer in quick, efficient movements, and then he's sitting on the old wooden bench and you're straddling him, lining him up, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion that makes you both groan.
He feels so good, thick and hard and perfectly filling, the stretch of him always just on the edge of too much in the best possible way.
"Christ," Bucky grits out, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're fucking perfect."
You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm that works, and his head falls back against the wall, throat exposed, jaw clenched. You lean forward and bite the tendon in his neck, and his hips buck up involuntarily.
"Harder," you demand against his skin. "Don't hold back."
His hands tighten on your hips and he starts to thrust up into you, meeting your movements, and the angle is perfect—hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You brace your hands on his shoulders and ride him harder, chasing the pleasure building in your core, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "You look so beautiful like this, taking what you need from me—"
"Bucky," you gasp, rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds. "I'm—"
"I know, wildfire, I can feel that pretty cunt of you squeezing me so tight…" His other hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. "There you go, come for me wildfire. Wanna feel you come on my cock."
His touch and relentless thrust sends you over the edge and the orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him. You can hear him curse as he follows you over, spilling inside you with your name broken on his lips.
For a moment, neither of you moves. You just lay down breathing, tangled together in the half-dark of the barn, the smell of hay and sex and the summer breeze in the air, your bodies still joined, hearts pounding against each other.
Then—and this is different, this is new—Bucky doesn't pull away immediately.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, and your head finds the curve of his shoulder like it was made to rest there. His hand slides up yous spine, tracing patterns on your bare back, and you feel him press a kiss to your temple.
That wasn't part of your routine. The sex? Yes. The intensity? Definitely. But this tenderness, this soft aftermath… that was new territory.
"Hey," you say quietly, not moving from where you're tucked against him.
"Mm?"
"You okay?"
He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds your hair, fingers threading through the stray strands absentmindedly.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds strange. "Yeah, I'm just… catching my breath."
You pull back just enough to look at him, and what you see in his face makes your chest tighten. There's something unguarded there, something raw and almost frightened, like he's said too much, shown to much.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for a second you think he's going to say something important, something that will change the shape of this thing between you.
But then he blinks and the moment fractures.
He lifts you gently, helping you off him, and you both reach for your clothes in a silence that feels heavier than before. You watch him dress—jeans first, then his shirt, fingers working the buttons with a focus that seems excessive for such a simple task. He doesn't glance at you once.
"Same time tomorrow?" You ask, trying to sound casual, trying to rebuild the easy rhythm that's kept this simple for ten months.
He stills, shirt half-buttoned, and for a long moment he doesn't answer.
When he finally looks at you, there's something in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. Something that looks like longing and resignation all tangled together.
"Yeah, sure."
Not "same time, wildfire" with that hint of warmth. Just "yeah, sure". Like you're asking him to check the fences, not meet you here tomorrow night.
He finishes dressing in silence, and you pull on your own clothes, hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. When you're both decent again, he moves toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he pauses. Doesn't turn around.
"You know Miller's not wrong," he says quietly. "About… a man wanting something of his own."
Your stomach drops. "Bucky—"
"I'm just the foreman," he continues, still not looking at you. "Always will be. That's—" He shakes his head. "That's just how it is."
"That's not—you're more than—"
"Goodnight, wildfire."
The nickname sounds wrong in his mouth now. Distant like he's already pulling away.
Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and you're left in the tack room, fully dressed now but somehow feeling more exposed than when you were naked.
You sink onto the bench, hand drifting to where his thumb had traced patterns on your back, and Miller's words echo in your head.
Eventually a man wants something of his own.
And Bucky's response: I'm just a foreman, always will be.
Like that's all he'll ever be. Like that's all he thinks he's worth. Like loving you—if that's what this is— means settling for scraps instead of building something real.
The thought settles in your chest like a stone, and you realize with creeping dread that something's changed. And if Bucky's convinced himself he's not good enough, that he can't give you what you deserve because he doesn't own land or have money or status… you don't know how to fight that. Or if he'll even let you.
The first sign that something's wrong comes three days after that night in the tack room. You're going over breeding schedules when Bucky comes in to report on the north pasture rotation. He's all business, standing near the door instead of leaning against the frame like usual, keeps his eyes on the clipboard in his hand.
"Rotation's complete," he says. "Moved the last of the herd this morning without issues."
"Good," you wait for more—the usual back and forth, the easy conversation that filled spaces between work tasks, but he just nods.
"Need anything else?" He asks instead.
You, you want to say. I need you to look at me like you did three nights ago. I need you to stop acting like a stranger.
"No," you say instead. "That's all."
He's gone before you can figure out how to ask what's wrong.
Within the days, things get worse.
Bucky starts sending Pete or Sanchez to give you reports instead of coming himself. When you do see him, he's never alone; he's always with the crew, always busy, always with a reason he can't try for long. The nickname disappears entirely. Now he calls you by your name, said in a tone so professional it feels like a reprimand.
Meals with the crew become exercises in studied avoidance. He sits at the opposite end of the table, talks to everyone but you and leaves as soon as he's done eating.
The nights are the worst. You wait in the barn like always, telling yourself you're just finishing paperwork, but he doesn't come. Not that night,not the next, not the one after that.
On the fifth night, you stop waiting.
On the sixth day, you corner him in the equipment barn.
"We need to talk," you say, closing the door behind you.
He doesn't look up from the harness he's mending. "Kind of busy."
"Bucky, what the hell is going on?"
"Nothing's going on, just work."
"That's bullshit," you move closer and he shifts away and the retreat stings. "You've been avoiding me for almost a week, you won't look at me, won't talk to me—"
"I talk to you every day, about work."
"That's not what I mean and you know it."
His jaw tightens. "Don't know what else you expect from me."
"I want you to tell me what changed!" Your voice rises despite yourself. "I want you to tell me why you're acting like—like we're nothing to each other."
"We're not nothing." He finally looks at you, and his eyes are so carefully blank it makes your chest ache. "You're my boss, I'm your foreman, that's what we are."
"That's not— we're more than that. You know we are."
"Are we?" He sets down the harness, standing up. "Or was it just convenient? You scratch an itch, I scratch an itch, nobody has to call it anything more?"
The words hit like a slap.
"You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" His voice is even, controlled, and somehow makes it worse than if he was yelling. "Been thinking about it, about what this is, and maybe Miller was right, maybe it's time I figure out what I want instead of just—" He gestures vaguely. "Instead of this."
"Instead of me, you mean."
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe— but it's gone too fast to be sure.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." You're trying to keep your voice steady and failing. "If you want to end this, Bucky, just say it. Don't make up excuses about figuring out what you want."
"I'm to making excuses." His hands clench at his sides. "You're running a multi-million dollar operation, you're smart, successful and I'm just—"
"Stop." You know where this is going and you can't stand to hear it. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
"I'm the hired help," he says anyway. "That's the reality, and maybe it;s time we both stopped pretending it's anything else."
You laugh, but it's an ugly sound. "Is that really what you think you are to me? After everything we—"
"After everything, that's still what I am." His voice is flat. "That's all I'll ever be."
You stare at him, at this man you've known for years, loved for months even if you haven't said it out loud… and you don't recognize the stranger looking back at you.
"You're a coward," you say quietly.
He flinches. "Maybe I am."
"This isn't about what you are, this is about you being too scared to—"
"I need to finish this repair," he cuts you off, turning back to the harness. "Was there something work-related that you needed?"
The dismissal is clear and absolute.
You leave before he can see you cry.
The Hillside County Livestock Show is your least favorite event of the year, and that's saying something considering you spend most of your life covered in dust and dealing with literal bullshit. But there's something about the forced socializing, the political maneuvering disguised as friendly conversation, the way everyone sizes up everyone else's cattle like they're comparing dick sizes—it grates.
Still, you go. Because your ranch has a reputation to maintain, and because your breeding program produces some of the best cattle in three counties, and because your father never missed a year and neither will you.
You're standing near the action ring, catalog in hand, watching a decent Angus heifer go for more than she's worth, when you feel someone approach from your left.
"Impressive animal," a voice says. Deep, smooth, with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. "Though I'd say she's overvalued by at least fifteen percent, maybe is some sentimental bidding."
You glance over. The man beside you is older, mid forties probably, with silver threading through dark hair and a smile that has probably charmed plenty of people. Expensive boots, custom shirt, a watch that costs more than most people's trucks. Everything about him screams money.
"Sentimental bidding keeps the market interesting," you reply neutrally, turning back to the ring. "Besides, she's got excellent bloodlines, she'll be worth the premium to the right buyer."
"Spoken like someone who knows her stock," he extends a hand. "My name is Clayton Sheridan, I just purchased the Meadow brook Ranch, east of your property."
So this was your new neighbor. You'd heard someone bought old man Peterson's spread after he retired to Arizona, but you hadn't paid much attention to the details.
You shake his hand briefly. "Welcome to the area."
"Thank you, I've heard impressive things about your operation, fastest-growing herd in the county, certification for quality genetics…" His hand lingers a moment too long before you pull away. "It's rare to see a woman running a ranch this size… and running it so well."
There it is. There it's the compliment wrapped in condescension, the implication you're an exception rather than simply capable.
"My father raised me for it," you say, voice cool. "Gender doesn't have much to do with whether you can read a market or manage a land."
"Of course, of course." His smile doesn't falter. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise, just… admiration. It must keep you very busy, handling everything by yourself."
"I have an excellent crew."
"Ah yes, your foreman Barnes, isn't it? Son of your father's foreman?" Something in his tone makes your jaw tighten. "Lucky to have someone who knows the place so well, family legacy and all that."
You're trying to formulate a response that's polite but firm when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky, standing near the equipment displays about thirty feet away, his attention locked on you and Clayton with an expression you can't quite read.
Even from there, you can see the tension in his shoulders.
"Excuse me," you say to Clayton, not waiting for a response before you start walking toward Bucky.
But by the time you navigate through the crowd, he's already gone.
You get home from the show late, exhausted and frustrated. The house is dark and empty, and you should go to bed, but instead you find yourself walking to the stables.
Copper's in his usual stall, the big bay gelding lifting his head when you approach. Twenty-two now, long retired, but still your father's horse.
"Hey, old man," you murmur, letting yourself in. He presses his nose into your palm, warm and familiar, and you lean your forehead against his neck. "Long day."
He huffs softly, patient like always.
You're running your hand down his shoulder when you hear footsteps.
"Thought I saw the lights on."
Bucky's in the stable entrance, hands in his pockets.
"Couldn't sleep," you say.
"Yeah, me neither." He shifts his weight. "How's old Copper doing?"
"Good, little stiff in the mornings." You stroke the horse's neck. "I should take him out to pasture more."
"I can do it tomorrow if you want," Bucky offers quietly. "Give him a good walk, let him stretch his legs."
Something in your chest aches at the offer. Even with all this distance between you, he's still thinking about what you need.
"You don't have to."
"I know," he takes a step closer. "But Copper's important to you."
"My dad's horse," you say quietly. "He was the first horse I rode."
"I know," his voice is gentle. "I remember."
For a moment, the walls between you feel thinner. Like maybe you could reach across this space, say what needs saying. Then Copper shifts, and Bucky clears his throat.
"I should let you finish up. Just wanted to check you were okay."
"I'm fine."
It's obviously a lie, but he doesn't call you on it.
"Goodnight, wildfire," he says softly, and then he's gone.
"He still cares," you tell the horse. "He wouldn't check on me if he didn't, right?"
Copper just snorts and goes back to his hay.
You stay a while longer, taking comfort in the familiar routine of checking water, running your hands over Copper's legs to make sure he's sound, whispering all the things you can't say to Buck into the horse's patient ear.
When you finally head back to the house, you see Bucky's cabin light is still on.
Neither of you is sleeping tonight.
Clayton Sheridan doesn't understand the concept of boundaries, as you discover the next two weeks.
The flowers arrive first, expensive arrangements delivered to your door with cards that are just on the edge of appropriate.
Looking forward to being neighbors.
Thinking of you.
You throw most of them away.
Then, he starts showing up: at the feed store when you're picking up supplies, at the diner where you grab Saturday breakfast, at the county planning meeting where you're discussing water management.
"What a coincidence," he says every time, with that practiced smile.
It's not a coincidence and you both know it, but he keeps playing his game.
The gifts escalate: wine, a leather portfolio with your ranch name embossed, an invitation to some charity gala in the city, hand-delivered.
"I think we'd make quite an impression together," Clayton says when he drops off the invitation. "Power couple of the ranching community."
You haven't even said yes to coffee.
"I'll think about it," you answer, because outright rejection seems to make him more persistent.
Through it all, Bucky gets quieter, more distant. Like he's disappearing piece by piece.
You catch him watching sometimes— watching Clayton talk to you, watching the gifts arrive, watching you navigate the attention with gritted-teeth politeness. And every time, his expression is the same: resigned, like he's watching something inevitable play out.
Like he's already decided how this story ends.
Three weeks into Clayton's courtship, you're in the barn doing evening checks when Bucky appears in the doorway. Your heart jumps at the sight of him. This is the first time he's sought you out in almost a month.
"Hey," you say carefully.
"Hey." He shifts his weight, not quite meeting your eyes. "Wanted to let you know… the mare's showing signs, probably foaling tonight or tomorrow."
"Okay, you need help monitoring?"
"No, I got it." He starts to turn away, then pauses. "Your neighbor came by today. Sheridan, he was looking for you."
Your stomach sinks. "What did he want?"
"Didn't say, just asked where you were, when you'd be back." Bucky's jaw tightens. "Seemed pretty comfortable helping himself to the property."
"I'll talk to him."
"Sure." Another pause. "He seems… interested."
"Bucky—"
"Just an observation." His voice is carefully neutral. "A guy like that— successful, established. Probably looking to settle down with the right person."
"I don't care what he's looking for."
"Maybe you should." Bucky finally looks at you and there's something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. "Opportunities like this don't come around often."
"Opportunity?" You stare at him. "He's a stranger who won't take a hint, that's not an opportunity, that's a problem."
"Is it?" Bucky's voice is soft, almost sad. "Or is it exactly what someone in your position should be looking for?"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Means he can give you things, things I—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching again. "Just think about it."
He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in the barn with a sick feeling in your stomach.
Clayton makes his move the following week. You're at Miller's feed store, alone for once, when he corners near the grain.
"I was hoping to run into you," he says, blocking your path to the checkout. "Saved me a trip to your property."
"I'm kind of in a hurry—"
"It'll just take a moment." He steps closer, and you resist the urge to step back. "I've been patient, I think. Given you time to get to know me. And I'd like to think we've developed a… bond."
"Clayton—"
"Let me take you to dinner." It's phrased like a request, but it feels like a demand. "A real dinner, not as neighbors, not as business associates… a date."
"I appreciate the offer, but—"
"I know I can give you what you need," he continues, like you haven't spoken. "Partnership, stability. A merger of our operations could be incredibly beneficial for both of us. I know you're a smart woman, you have to see the potential."
There it is, the assumption that this is about business, about strategy, like you're an asset to be acquired.
"I'm not interested," you say clearly. "In dinner, in partnership, in any of it. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but—"
"The wrong impression?" He interrupts you again, his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You've been accepting my gifts, letting me court you."
"I've been polite, there's a difference."
"Is there?" He is closer now, close enough that you can smell his cologne. "Or are you just playing hard to get? Because I have to tell you, it's getting old."
"I'm not playing anything," your voice goes cold. "I said no. That's final."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, then anger, quickly masked.
"You're making a mistake," he says quietly.
"That's my choice to make."
"Is it?" He glances toward the window, where your truck is parked. "Or does your foreman make your choices for you?"
Your blood runs cold. "That's none of your business."
"In a town this size, everything is everyone's business." His smile turns cruel. "You're fucking the help, everyone knows it. So stop acting high and mighty with me when you're spreading your legs for some ranch hand who'll never be able to give you what a real man could—"
"That's enough." The voice comes from behind you. Miller is standing at the end of the aisle with a bag of feed in his arms and steel in his eyes. "Mr. Sheridan, I think it's time for you to leave my store."
Clayton's expression smooths back into charm "We're just having a conversation—"
"I heard what kind of conversation you were having." Miller sets the feed down with a heavy thump. "And I won't have you speaking to a lady like that in my establishment. Time to go."
"This is ridiculous—"
"Now." Miller's voice is firm. "Before I call sheriff Morrison and have you removed for harassment."
Clayton looks between you and Miller, jaw tight with barely contained rage. Then, he smooths his expression into something coldly polite.
"Of course, my apologies if I caused any… discomfort." But his eyes hold a dark promise when they land on you. "We'll continue this conversation another time."
He's gone before you can tell him there won't be another time. Miller waits until the door closes before turning to you with concern.
"You alright, honey?"
You nod, but your hands are shaking. "Thank you for stepping in."
"That man's got a mean streak under all that polish," Miller says. "My wife had a cousin who dated a man like that once, all charm until you say no, then…" He shakes his head. "You be careful. Men like that don't handle rejection well."
"I will."
"And for what it's worth?" Miller's voice gentles. "Whatever that jackass said about you and Bucky? That's your business and nobody else's. Young Barnes is a good man, his father was good people and he is too. Don't let anyone tell you different."
The kindness breaks something in you and your eyes sting. "Thank you, Mr. Miller."
"Call me if you need anything. And tell Bucky to keep an eye on that one, Clayton Sheridan strikes me as the type to hold a grudge."
You pay for your supplies in a daze and load them into your truck with shaking hands. You should go home, go straight to your bed. Instead, you park near the stables.
Copper's in his stall, and he lifts his head when you approach, nickering softly.
"Hey, old man," you manage, voice cracking.
You let yourself into the stall and he immediately presses his nose to your chest, and that's when you break.
You cry into Copper's neck—from anger, from humiliation, from the way Clayton looked at you like you were something he could buy or break. From the fear that maybe he's right, that everyone is talking about you and Bucky, judging you, seeing something shameful in what feels sacred.
"He doesn't know anything," you whisper into Copper's mane. "He doesn't know us, doesn't know what we—"
But even as you say it, Clayton's words echo: Fucking the help.
Is that what people see? Not two people who care about each other, but something tawdry and wrong?
You're still crying when you hear footsteps.
"Wildfire?"
You straighten quickly, wiping at your eyes, but it's too late. Bucky's standing at the stall entrance, and even in the dim light, you notice he's been drinking. Not drunk yet, but there's a flush on his cheeks, a looseness to his shoulders that means he's had a few. And his eyes look sad, pained.
"You heard," you say flatly.
"Whole town's heard by now," his voice is rough. "Was at the diner grabbing lunch and Pete and Sanchez were with me. Table next to us was talking about how Sheridan got turned down by the ice queen rancher who's too busy fucking her foreman to see a real opportunity."
You flinch at his words.
"They didn't know we were there," Bucky continues, stepping into the stall. "Didn't know Pete and Sanchez were ready to flip the table. I had to practically drag them out before they started throwing punches."
"Bucky—"
"Then I heard the rest of it, how you rejected him at Miller's, how he got nasty about it, how old Miller had to throw him out." His jaw clenches. "And I wasn't there, I was checking fence posts while he cornered you and I wasn't fucking there."
"You couldn't have known—"
"I should've been there!" The words burst out of him. "I should've been the one telling him to back off, to leave alone, to—" He stops, hands clenching into fists. "But I can't, can I? Can't defend you publicly without everyone knowing exactly what we are to each other. Can't step in without proving every goddamn thing they're saying about us. Can't stand next to you in town and tell assholes like Clayton Sheridan that you're mine."
"I don't need you to—"
"Well maybe you should." His voice drops. "Maybe you should have someone who can do all that, someone who can take you out without counting cents."
"Stop," you cut him off, voice shaking.
"Why? He's right about one thing, wildfire. I can't give you what someone like him could. Can't give you respectability, or stability, I can't give—"
You cross the stall in two strides and kiss him hard. He freezes for half a second, then he's kissing you back something that feels like desperation… and fear.
His hands fist in your hair and you grab his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to erase Clayton's words, the town's gossip, the shame trying to creep into something that's never felt shameful before.
"I don't want respectable," you gasp against his mouth. "I don't want public dinners, or whatever the hell you think I need. I want you."
"You're upset."
"I'm fucking furious," you correct. "At Clayton for being an entitled asshole, furious at this stupid town for their gossip, furious for you thinking any of it matters—"
He kisses you again, harder this time, walking you backward until your back hits the stall wall. His body presses against yours and you can feel how much he wants this despite all his protests about what you deserve.
"We shouldn't," he breathes against your neck. "You're upset, I've been drinking, this is—"
"I don't care," your hands work at his belt. "I need this, I need you, please Bucky—"
Something breaks in him. He lifts you and you wrap your legs around his waist, and then you're fumbling with clothes, desperate and graceless. When he pushes inside you, you both groan like it's a homecoming and a goodbye all at once.
The sex is different this time. Rougher, more desperate. Like you're both trying to prove or forget something. Or like you're trying to hold onto something that feels like it's slipping away.
When you come, it's with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks. He follows moments later, your name broken and his forehead against your shoulder. For a moment, you stay like that, connected, breathing hard, coexisting in the same space. Then he sets you down carefully and reality crashes back in.
You both fix your clothes in silence. The air feels heavy, charged with everything still unsaid.
"I'm sorry," Bucky says finally. "For drinking, for not being there when Clayton—"
"Stop apologizing." Your voice comes out sharper than intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Didn't I?" He won't look at you. "Miller threw him out, Miller defended you. And where was I?Where the fuck was I?"
"You were working, doing your job."
"My job." He laughs, but it's bitter. "Right, because that's what I am. The foreman, the employee, not the—"
"Not the what?" You push. "Say it."
"Not the boyfriend," he says quietly. "I heard what he said about you, about us. And I wanted to kill him, wanted to drive straight to his ranch and—"
"But you didn't."
"Because what would that accomplish? Everyone would know then, would see exactly what we are and—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe they're right to gossip, maybe we are—"
"Would you please stop?" You grab his arm, forcing him to look at you. "Don't let him do this, don't let their gossip make this into something shameful."
"It's not shameful," he says. "But it's not right either. You deserve better than barn hookups and secrets, you deserve someone who can stand next to you proudly, take you to dinner, court you the way you should be courted—"
"I don't wanna be courted by anyone else!"
"Well maybe you should! Maybe you should want someone who can give you a normal relationship, someone who's—" He swallows hard. "Someone who's your equal."
"You think you're not my equal," you say slowly.
"I know I'm not." His voice is flat. "I'm the foreman, you're the owner. And no matter what we feel, that's the reality, that's what everyone sees when they look at us."
"I don't care what they see—"
"Well, maybe I do." He's breathing hard. "Maybe I care that I can't defend you without it looking like the hired help overstepping. Maybe I care that men like Clayton can say whatever they want about you and I have to just— just take it because what am I? What right do I have?"
"The right of someone who loves me," you say, and watch his face go white.
"Don't," he whispers.
"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" You step closer. "You love me, and I—"
"Don't say it," he backs away, hands up like he's warding off a blow. "Please don't say it."
"Why not?"
"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice breaks. "It doesn't change that I can't give you what you deserve. It doesn't change that I will never be enough. I'll never be enough for you, wildfire. And the sooner we both accept that, the—"
He doesn't finish, just turns and walks out of the stall, leaving you standing there with Copper and the ruins of your heart. You sink down onto the bench and Copper nuzzles your shoulder gently.
"He's wrong," you tell the horse. "He's so wrong."
But the words feel hollow even as you say them. Because how do you fight someone who's convinced themselves they're not worth fighting for?
You threw yourself into work because work didn't require you to think about the way Bucky's jaw had tightened when you'd said the word "love".
Work was spreadsheets and feed orders and the county extension agent calling about soil testing. Work was quantifiable, solvable, something you could actually control… unlike the man who was currently avoiding you like you carried some contagious disease.
It had been two weeks since the stable. Two weeks of Bucky sending Pete or Sanchez to deliver reports that he used to give himself, two weeks of catching glimpses of him across the property—always busy, always moving, always just out of reach. When you did cross paths, his eyes would slide past you like you were part of the landscape, something to navigate around rather than toward.
"Boss?" Pete stood in your office doorway, hat in hand. "Bucky wanted me to tell you the irrigation system's back online, no more issues in sector three."
Bucky wanted me to tell you. Not "Bucky said", or "Bucky asked", like even the mention of his name in connection with you required careful phrasing.
"Thanks, Pete." You kept your voice level. "Anything else?"
"No, ma'am, that's all." He hesitated. "Though uh… if you need anything else, I can—"
"I'm fine," the lie came easily now. "Tell the crew I'll do the evening walk-through myself tonight."
After Pete left, you sat back in your chair and let your eyes drift to the window. You could see the training pen from here, the fence where you and Bucky had worked with the colt just weeks ago, where his hands had been steady on the animal's neck, his voice low and soothing, and the three of you—you, him, the skittish colt— were the only things that mattered in the world.
Your mind drifted before you could stop it, reaching back to a different summer. You'd been sixteen, and Bucky had been nineteen, home from community college for the summer to help his dad with the heavy work.
Your father had sent you both to check the fence line at the north property border, and you'd spent the whole afternoon trying not to stare at the way Bucky's shirt stuck to his back in the heat, the flex of his forearms as he drove new posts into the hard ground. He'd caught you looking once and grinned—that easy, boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—and you'd turned away so fast you nearly tripped over the wire spool.
Later, sitting in the shade of the truck bed sharing a canteen of water, he'd looked at you differently. Not like his boss' daughter, not like the kid who used to chase him around the barn.
"You've got dirt on your face," he'd said.
"Where?"
Instead of answering, he'd reached out and brushed his thumb across your cheekbone, so gentle it barely counted as touch. Your breath had caught, and then… so quick you almost thought you'd imagined it, he'd leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
Just a peck, soft and sweet and over in a heartbeat.
He'd pulled back immediately, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have—"
"It's okay," you'd whispered.
But he was already climbing out of the truck bed, putting distance between you, and the rest of the drive back had been silent. Neither of you mentioned it again, not that summer, not the next. By the time he came back to work full-time after his dad got sick, you'd both learned how to pretend it never happened.
Except you've never forgotten.
And now, seventeen years later, he was looking at you the same way: like you were something he wanted but couldn't let himself have. Only this time it wasn't because you were too young, or because he was overstepping with the boss' daughter. This time he'd convinced himself you were too good for him.
You pressed your palms against your eyes, willing yourself not to cry in your office in the middle of the workday.
Your phone buzzed, another text from Clayton Sheridan that you immediately deleted without reading. He'd been trying to "apologize" for a week now, messages that sounded sincere until you read between the lines and saw the entitlement still lurking here.
The afternoon sun slanted through the window, dust motes dancing in the golden light, and you forced yourself back to the feed cost analysis spreadsheet on your screen. Work didn't ask questions you couldn't answer, work didn't look at you with resignation and longing tangled together… work was safe.
So you buried yourself in it and pretended you couldn't feel the Bucky-shaped hole in your chest getting wider every day.
Bucky sat at his kitchen table with his laptop open and a beer he hadn't touched going warm beside him. The numbers on the screen hadn't changed in the last hour, no matter how many times he refreshed the page or recalculated his math.
$58,000 in savings. Fifteen years of hard work, of living cheap and saving steady, and that's what he had to show for it.
He pulled up another tab showing land listings in the county. The cheapest viable spread was listed at $425,000. The nicer properties started at $650,000 and went up from there.
He took a long pull from the beer, grimacing at the taste. The smart move would be to look further out, maybe two counties over where land was cheaper, but that would mean leaving the ranch, leaving you, and what was fucking point of building something if you weren't part of it?
His phone sat face-down on the table. He'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, trying to decide if he should call his cousin Hugh. He had made something of himself, built a successful business in Denver, bought a house. Hugh would probably tell him to forget the ranch work, come to the city, learn a trade that paid better..
But Bucky wasn't Hugh. He didn't want an office or a crew of subcontractors or a house in the suburbs. He wanted land, cattle and horses and the kind of legacy his father had helped build for someone else's family. He wanted to be able to stand next to you and not feel like he was taking something he hadn't earned.
His father's voice echoed in his head, rough from years of cigarettes and dust: A man provides for his family, son. You work hard, build something and give your wife and kids a life worth living.
His old man worked himself into an early grave trying to live up to that standard, died at sixty-two with nothing but a paid off truck and a pension that barely covered his medical bills. Bucky's mother had held it together with grit and his father's life insurance, but she's had to move into town and had to make herself smaller to fit into what was left.
Bucky had sworn he'd never put a woman in that position, that he'd build something solid before thinking about settling down… and then you'd kissed him in the barn last summer with dirt on your jeans and challenge in your eyes, and every promise he'd made to himself had evaporated.
Ten months of telling himself it was just physical, just chemistry, just two people scratching an itch. Ten months of lying to himself and to you and pretending it wouldn't end in exactly this kind of pain,
He opened a new tab for job listings this time. Foreman positions at other ranches—most paid about what he was making now, maybe five thousand more if he was lucky. Manager positions required degrees he didn't have. The oil and gas jobs paid better but required months away at a time, and what good was money if he couldn't be near you?
He closed the laptop harder than necessary.
This was about building something with you, about not being that guy who moved into your house, worked your land, lived off your success. He'd seen it before: men who married into ranching families and became permanent accessories, useful but ultimately replaceable.
His pride wouldn't let him become that.
But how the hell was he supposed to close a $400,00 gap? Even if he worked himself into the ground, saved every penny, made all the right moves he'd still be forty before he had enough to buy anything worth having.
And you'd be what? Waiting around for him to get his shit together? Turning down men like Clayton Sheridan who could give you everything right now? The thought of you with Sheridan made him want to put his fist through the wall, made him want to drive to that bastard's ranch and make it crystal clear that he'd never speak to you like that again.
But he hadn't, because what right did he have? He wasn't your boyfriend or your husband. He was just an employee, the man who was too proud to be with you on your terms and too poor to offer his own.
His phone buzzed, it was a text from Pete:
Boss asked me to tell you she's doing the evening rounds herself tonight, thought you should know.
Bucky's chest tightened. You were avoiding the crew now, doing the work yourself rather than risk running into him. Or maybe you didn't trust him to do his job anymore.
He typed back: Thanks, I'll check the north pasture, make sure everything's locked down.
It was cowardice, making sure he'd be on the opposite end of the property when you made your rounds. But he wasn't strong enough yet to see you and not break, he wasn't ready to look into your eyes and see the hurt he'd put there.
Not until he had a plan and could offer you something more than apologies and empty promises.
Bucky drained the flat beer and got back to work on the numbers. Somewhere in these spreadsheets, in these listings, in the careful mathematics of sacrifice and saving, there had to be an answer, there had to be a way to become the man you deserved… he just had to find it.
You found him in the equipment barn three days later, and this time you didn't let him walk away. You were done avoiding him.
He was replacing the hydraulic line on one of the tractors, his shirt off in the afternoon heat, and for a moment you just watched him work, watched the flex of his shoulders, the concentration on his face, the competent sureness of his hands. This was the Bucky you'd grown up with, the one who could fix anything, who moved through the wold with quiet capability.
The one you'd loved since you were sixteen years old.
"We need to talk," you said.
His hands stilled on the wrench, but he didn't look up. "Kind of in the middle of something."
"I don't care." You stepped into the barn, letting the door swing shut behind you. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks, I'm done pretending this isn't happening."
"Nothing's happening," his voice was carefully flat. "I'm working, you're working, that's all there is."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
He finally looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes made your chest ache. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to stop running," you move closer. "I want you to stop deciding what's best for me without asking me what I actually want."
"I know what you want."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've built this whole story in your head about what I need and what you can't give me."
His jaw tightened. "You deserve someone who can give you a real future."
"I deserve someone who loves me," you countered. "Everything else is just details."
"They're not just details!" His voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "They're the difference between being your partner and your charity case. I don't want to just be the guy who lives in your mansion, works your land and gets to be with you because you're generous enough not to care that he's got nothing to offer."
"That's not—"
"It is, though." He set down the wrench, finally giving you his full attention. "You're telling me the money doesn't matter, that the land doesn't matter, that I don't need to be able to provide anything because you've already got it all covered. You're telling me to just… accept the fact that I'll never contribute equally to this relationship, that I'll always be the hired help who got lucky enough to fuck the boss."
The crudeness of it made you flinch. "Don't talk about us like that."
"Why not? That's what everyone else is saying." His laugh was bitter. "And maybe they're right. Maybe that's exactly what this is—you slumming it with the help because it's convenient and exciting, and me being too stupid to see that I'm just a phase before you settle down with someone appropriate."
The accusation stung like a slap. "You think you're just a phase to me?"
"I don't know what I am to you!" His voice cracked. "Because you keep saying it doesn't matter, that we'll figure it out,that love is enough, but it's not! Not when I lie awake every night doing math that doesn't add up, not when I have to watch men like Clayton Sheridan circle you like sharks because I can't protect you… not when I know that staying with me means you'll never have a man who can stand beside you on his own as an equal—"
"You're my equal—"
"I'm your foreman! I earn in one year what you make in one month! We're not equals, no matter how much you want to pretend we are."
"Money doesn't make someone more or less valuable, Bucky. We—"
"It's not about value!" He ran both hands through his hair, pulling slightly like he wanted to tear something out. "It's about being able to build something together, about me being able to contribute more than just labor and good intentions… about not feeling like a kept man every time you solve a problem I can't afford to fix."
"So what do you want from me?" Your voice shook. "You want me to pretend I don't have money? Want me to apologize for inheriting this ranch? To make myself smaller so you can feel more like a man?"
"No! Christ, no, it's completely the opposite. I want—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I want to be worthy of you, I want to look at you without feeling like I'm stealing something that should belong to someone better. But I can't do that with fifty-eight thousand dollars in savings and a truck I've had since college."
Fifty-eight thousand dollars. That number hit you like a gut punch. He'd been counting, calculating, measuring himself against some impossible standard and finding himself lacking.
"Bucky," you said softly, stepping toward him. "I don't care how much money you have, or if you own land or if you live in that cabin for the rest of your life. I care about you because I love—"
"Don't," he backed away, hands up. "Please don't say that again."
"Why not? It is the truth."
"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice was ragged. "You saying you love me doesn't change the fact that I can't give you what you deserve, doesn't change that I wake up every morning knowing I'm not enough or that I want to be the kind of man who can take care of you."
"I don't need you to take care of me, I can take care of myself, I just… I just need you to be here, to stop running from our love, to—"
"That's exactly the problem." His voice went quiet, deadly calm. "You don't need me, not really. You need a good foreman and a warm body in your bed, and I can be both of these things but that's not what I want to be. I want to be necessary, I want to provide for you. I want to build you a life instead of just existing in the one you already have. And you telling me none of that matters, that I should just be grateful that you want me anyway…"
He laughed, but it sounded like something breaking.
"I don't need your pity, ma'am."
The formality hit like a physical blow. Not wildfire, not your name, not even a cold distant boss. Just ma'am, with all the professional distance that implied, with all the class and power differential laid bare.
Your throat closed. "That's not— I'm not pitying you, Bucky, I'm trying to tell you that I love you—"
"And I'm trying to tell you that's not enough. Not when loving you means giving up every shred of pride and self-respect I have left."
"So what?" Your voice broke. "You'd rather have your pride than have me?"
"I'd rather become someone worthy of having you." He picked up his shirt, pulling it on with sharp, angry movements. "And I won't let you settle for less than you deserve just because you think you love me."
"I don't think I love you, I know I love you, I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old." He froze, shirt half buttoned. "That kiss by the north fence, you think I forgot about it? You think I didn't spend the last decade wondering what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away?"
"Stop," the world was barely a whisper. "Don't do this."
"Don't tell me what I feel, Bucky, don't tell me I'm wrong about loving you, and don't you dare walk away just because you've convinced yourself matters more than—"
"Don't you understand? It's not about the money!" He shouted, and you'd never heard him yell like that, not in twenty years. "It's about what the money represents, about being able to look my father's ghost and say I built something… it's about not being the guy who couldn't make it on his own, so he shacked up with the rich girl who felt sorry for him. It's about not being enough, and I'm not, not yet. I have to at least try to become someone who can stand next to you without shame."
You stared at him, this stubborn, proud, heartbroken man and realized you were fighting a ghost. Not just his father's expectations, but generations of them… every man in his family who'd worked someone else's land and dreamed of their own. Every lesson about what it meant to be a provider, the man of the house.
"And what if you never have enough?" You asked. "If the math never adds up and the land prices keep rising and you're still chasing this impossible standard in ten years? What then?"
His silence was answer enough.
"You're going to let this destroy us," you said. "You're going to choose pride over love, over happiness, over us, because you can't accept that maybe your father's way isn't the only way. That maybe I don't need you to own land to prove you're worthy of me."
"It's not about what you need," he said quietly. "It's about what I need. And I need to be able to respect myself when I look in the mirror, which I can't do right now."
He moved past you toward the door, and you didn't stop him this time. At the threshold, he paused, but didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry, wildfire," he said and the nickname sounded like a goodbye. "I'm sorry I'm not the man you think I am."
Then he was gone, and you were alone in the equipment barn with the smell of motor oil and the wreckage of your heart scattered across the concrete floor. You sank down onto the workbench, pressing your palms against your eyes and let yourself finally break.
Because he was right about one thing: love wasn't enough. Not when one person had already decided they weren't worthy of it.
You were in your office when you heard a truck. The engine was too loud, too aggressive, not the familiar sounds of Pete, Sanchez or Bucky's trucks. Something was wrong.
You looked up as footsteps approached, uneven and heavy on the gravel outside, and Clayton Sheridan appeared on your doorway. The smell of whiskey hit you before his expression did.
"There you are," his words spurred slightly at the edges. "Been looking for you."
Your hand moved toward your phone on the desk, but he saw the movement and stepped fully into the small office, blocking the only exit. The space suddenly felt suffocatingly small.
"Clayton, you need to leave." Your voice came out steady, but without its usual steel. You were so tired lately, tired of fighting, of hurting, tired of everything. "You're drunk, this isn't—“
"This isn't what?" He moved closer, and you stood up instinctively, chair scraping back. "Isn't appropriate? Since when do you care about appropriate? You've been fucking your foreman for months, don't talk to me about appropriate."
"Get out of my office."
"Or what?" He was close enough that you could see the anger in his bloodshot eyes, the mean set of his jaw. "You gonna call your cowboy to come save you? Oh, wait. I heard you two had a falling out, guess even he figured out you're not worth the trouble."
The words hit hard, landing right on the wound Bucky had left bleeding. Your breath caught, and Clayton saw the flinch, the way you'd gone still.
"That's it, isn't it?" His voice dropped, almost soothing, which made it worse. "He finally wised up, left you all alone in this big ranch, and now you're realizing what a mistake you made by turning down a real man for some hired hand who couldn't even stick around."
You should tell him to leave again, move past him, get out of this small room, get your phone, do something. But you felt frozen, hollowed out, like all the fight had been burned out of you in that equipment barn when Bucky had called you ma'am and walked away.
Clayton took another step, you backed up until your hip hit the desk.
"I'm trying to be reasonable here," he was so close, invading your space, using his size to intimidate. "Trying to give you another chance, because despite you embarrassing me, rejecting me and making me look like a fool, I'm still willing to overlook it. Still willing to offer you a real partnership."
"I don't want—" Your voice came smaller than intended, and you hated how weak you sounded. But you were so empty, so worn down by weeks of heartbreak and loneliness and loving someone who'd convinced himself he wasn't worthy of being loved back.
"Don't want what?" Clayton's hand came up, palm flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. "Don't want stability? Success? A man who can actually provide for you instead of living off your charity?"
You turned your head away, trying to duck under his arm, but he shifted and suddenly you were truly cornered, desk behind you, Clayton in front, his other hand coming up to block your escape route.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," his voice had gone hard. "I've been patient, I've been courteous. I've given you space and time and you've thrown it back in my face over and over, and I'm done being nice.
"Let me go," you tried to put command in it, but it came out defeated.
"Not until you listen and understand what you're throwing away by being stubborn about some ridiculous idea of love with a man who has already given up on you. He doesn't want you enough to fight for you, but I do. So you're going to stop being difficult and—"
"Get your fucking hands off her."
The voice came from the doorway, low and lethal, and you'd never heard Bucky sound like that. Clayton turned, hands dropping, and you could see him trying to recalibrate, trying to pull on charm or authority, but he didn't get the chance. Bucky had already crossed the small office and his fist connected with Clayton's jaw with a sickening crack.
Clayton staggered backward and hit the wall. "What the hell—"
"You don't fucking touch her." Bucky hit him again, this time in the ribs and Clayton doubled over with a wheeze. "You don't corner her, or come to her property drunk and put your hands near her talking like she's something you can intimidate into—"
He grabbed Clayton by the shirt and hauled him toward the door. Clayton tried to swing back, caught Bucky's cheek with a glancing blow, but Bucky barely seemed to notice. He shoved Clayton out into the barn aisle, following him out.
You stood frozen in the office, watching through the doorway as Bucky grabbed Clayton again and drove his fist into his stomach. Clayton crumpled, coughing and Bucky dragged him upright.
"You ever come near her again," Bucky's voice was shaking with barely controlled rage, "and I will fucking end you. I don't care about consequences, or going to jail, you don't get to scare her and make her feel small. Are we clear?"
"You're insane—" Clayton choked out.
Bucky shoved him toward the barn entrance. "Get the hell out."
He punctuated it with a kick to Clayton's ass that sent him stumbling forward. Clayton caught himself, turned back like he might try to fight, but whatever he saw in Bucky's face made him think better of it. He spat blood onto the barn floor and shot you a look full of venom before limping toward the exit.
"This isn't over," Clayton said.
"Yeah, it is." Bucky's voice was flat. "You're done. Now get the fuck off this property before I make you."
Clayton left, and you could hear his truck start up moments later, tires spitting gravel as he sped away.
Silence filled the barn. You were still standing in the office doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, shaking. Not from fear but from shock, from the crash of adrenaline, from everything finally being too much. Bucky turned to look at you, and his expression crumpled.
"Did he hurt you?" He stayed where he was, like he was afraid to get closer. "Did he touch you?"
You shook your head, the words wouldn't come.
"Jesus Christ," he ran both hands through his hair, pulling hard. "I was just walking back from the equipment barn, heard his voice and— If I hadn't been walking by, if I hadn't heard him say that shit about you, if he'd—"
He couldn't finish, his hands were shaking, knuckles already swelling and split.
"Bucky—" You managed, but your voice sounded wrong and distant, like it belonged to someone else.
"Boss!" Pete appeared in the barn entrance, Sanchez right behind him. They must've seen or heard the commotion. Pete took in the scene: you trembling in the office doorway, Bucky with blood on his knuckles, the tension still cracking in the air. "What happened?"
"Sheridan," Bucky's jaw was tight. "Showed up drunk, cornered her in the office. I handled it."
"Handled it?" Sanchez was looking at Bucky's hands. "Jesus, man."
"Is he gone?" Pete asked.
"Yeah," Bucky's eyes hadn't left you. "He's gone."
Pete moved toward you carefully, like you might spook. "Boss? You okay?"
You nodded, but it was a lie and everyone knew it. You weren't okay, hadn't been for weeks, and this had just broken something that was already cracked.
"Why don't you come with me?" Peter said gently. "Maria's at home, she can make you some tea, you can get away from here for a bit."
"I'm fine," but your voice shook on the words. "I don't need—"
"I insist," Pete said. "Just for a few hours, let us make sure Sheridan doesn't try to come back, let yourself breathe."
You wanted to argue, stay here and deal with this yourself, prove you didn't need protecting, but you were so tired of fighting, so tired of being strong. And the thought of Pete's warm, comfortable house, of his wife Maria's kind presence, of being somewhere that felt safe for just a little while…
"Okay," you whispered.
Bucky's face did something complicated. "I can stay here, keep watch—"
"No." Pete's voice was firm. "You need to clean up and cool down. Sanchez and I will handle security, you go home."
For a moment you thought Bucky would argue, but then he just nodded. His eyes met yours one more time, and the guilt and longing and helplessness in them made your chest ache. But he didn't say anything, he walked away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the barn, and you felt the distance between you like a physical wound.
Pete's house was warm and lived-in, smelling like the chicken Maria had roasted for dinner and the vanilla candles she loved. She met you at the door with soft hands and softer eyes, asked no questions, just guided you to the kitchen table where a chamomile tea was already waiting for you.
"Pete called ahead," she said settling into the chair across from you. "Said you had a rough evening."
"You could say that," your hands wrapped around the mug, seeking warmth even though you weren't cold. You were shaking again, small tremors you couldn't control.
Maria reached across the table and covered your hand with hers. "You're safe here, mija. Whatever happened, you're safe now."
You nodded, throat tight. Through the window, you could see Pete outside, on the phone—probably coordinating with Sanchez, making sure your property was secure. Making sure Clayton wouldn't come back.
The simple care of it broke something loose in your chest.
"Pete's a good man."
"The best," Maria's smile was soft, full of easy affection. "Drives me crazy sometimes, leaves his boots in the middle of the floor and falls asleep during every movie, but he's good all the way through"
You watched Pete through the window, the way he moved with easy confidence, the way he glanced back at the house, checking on his wife to make sure she was okay. There was something so simple about it, so uncomplicated.
"How do you make it look so easy?" The words came out before you could stop them. "Being together."
Maria tilted her head, studying you. "It's not always easy. We've had our share of hard times—money troubles, my mother getting sick, that year Pete threw his back out and couldn't wait for three months. But we're partners, you know? We figure it out together."
Partners. That word sat heavily on your chest.
"What if one person thinks they're not good enough?" You stared into your tea. "What if two people love each other but one of them is convinced… they don't have enough to offer?"
Maria was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "This is about Bucky, isn't it?" You looked up, startled. She smiled sadly. "Honey, everyone knows you two have been circling each other for months, and everyone can see you're both miserable right now. Whatever he thinks he doesn't have… does it matter to you?"
"No," the answer came immediately. "It doesn't matter at all, I don't care about money or land or any of it. I just want him."
"Have you told him that?"
"Yes, multiple times, but he won't listen. He's convinced that loving me means being able to provide for me the way his father provided for his mother, the way—" Your voice broke. "The way Pete provides for you, and he can't. At least not in the way he thinks he should, so… he'd rather let me go than accept that maybe I don't need what he's supposed to give me."
Maria's eyes were sad. "Men and their pride, especially the good ones. They get these ideas in their heads about what it means to be a man, what they owe the women they love, and sometimes those ideas do more harm than good."
"So what do I do?" You hated how desperate you sounded. "How do I fight someone who's already decided he's not enough?"
"I don't know if you can, mija." She said it kindly, but it still hurt. "Sometimes people have to figure things out for themselves, have to learn that love isn't about what you can provide in dollars and cents.It's about showing up, being present, building a life together even when it's hard… But you can't force someone to believe they're worthy of love, that's something they have to find on their own."
You felt tears prick your eyes. "What if he never does?"
"Then that's his loss. Because from where I'm sitting, he's throwing away something real and good because he's too stubborn to see that you already chose him, that you'd choose him every day if he'd let you."
The tears spilled over then, you tried to wipe them away, embarrassed, but Maria just moved her chair closer and pulled you into a hug. You let yourself cry against her shoulder—for Bucky, for the relationship that was dying before it ever really lived, for the loneliness that had become your constant companion.
"I love him," you whispered into her shoulder. "I've been in love with him since I was sixteen years old and I don't know how to stop."
"Oh, sweetheart." Maria rubbed your back. "Maybe you're not supposed to stop, maybe you just have to love him from a distance while he figures things out. And maybe he'll figure it out on time… but you can't sacrifice yourself while you wait. Can't make yourself smaller or quieter just to make him comfortable with loving you."
You pulled back, wiping your eyes. "I don't know how to do this."
"None of us do," she smiled sadly. "We're all just making it up as we go."
Pete came back inside then, took in your tear-stained face and his wife's protective posture, and his expression softened.
"Everything's secure, Sanchez is doing perimeter checks, but the property's locked down tight." He hesitated. "You're welcome to stay here tonight, the guest room is ready."
You shook your head. "I appreciate the offer, but I should go home. I can't let Clayton chase me out of my own house."
"You sure?" Maria asked.
"Yeah," you stood, steadier now. "I'm sure."
They walked you to your truck, Pete insisting on following you back to make sure you got inside safely. The drive was short, and when you pulled up to your dark house, Pete waited until you unlocked the door and turned on the lights before giving you a wave and heading back to his own home.
You stood in your empty living room and felt the silence press in. You've always loved this house and all the memories that it contained, but lately it felt too big and lonely. Tonight it was just you and the weight of everything that happened.
You should eat something, shower or try to sleep.
Instead, you sank onto the couch and let yourself feel everything you'd been holding back—the fear from Clayton's visit, the heartbreak from Bucky's rejection, the bone-deep exhaustion of loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.
Eventually you dragged yourself upstairs, changed into sleep clothes and crawled into bed. The house settled around you with familiar creaks and sighs, and slowly, finally, you drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The smell woke you first. Acrid, wrong, burning.
You sat up in bed, disoriented. The clock read 2:17 AM. For a moment you thought you were dreaming, but then you heard it— the panicked whinnying of horses, the sharp crack of wood giving way. Fire.
You were out of bed and running before conscious though kicked in, flying down the stairs in your sleep clothes, your slippers hitting the porch steps, and then you saw it: the stables lit up against the night sky, flames already consuming the east side of the building, spreading fast through the old dry wood.
The horses.
Copper.
You didn't think or stop to call for help or consider the danger. You just ran.
The heat hit you when you reached the stable doors, but you ripped your shirt up over your nose and mouth and plunged inside anyway. The smoke was thick, black, choking, but you knew this building like you knew your own heartbeat, knew exactly where each stall was, which horses were where.
"I'm coming!" You shouted, voice muffled through the fabric. "I'm coming, it's okay!"
The first stall was Daisy's, the chestnut mare. You fumbled with the latch, hands shaking,a nod shoved the door open. She reared back, eyes rolling white with terror, but you grabbed her halter and dragged her toward the entrance. "Go, go, go!"
She bolted past you into the night, and you were already moving to the next stall. Juniper, the bay mare heavy with foal. She was screaming, hooves striking the stall door, and you got it open just as part of the roof above groaned ominously.
"Out!" You slapped her hindquarters and she ran, coat slick with sweat and far.
The smoke was getting thicker. You couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you, couldn't breathe without coughing, but you kept moving. Duke and Ranger in the double stall, the two yearling colts next, skittish and terrified but moving when you shouted at them.
Your lungs were burning. Each breath felt like inhaling glass, and your eyes streamed tears from the smoke, but you pushed deeper into the stable. Eight horses out. Copper was the only one missing.
His stall was in the back, farthest from the entrance, and the fire was spreading fast. You could feel the heat on your skin, could hear the ceiling beams cracking and shifting. You should leave, get out while you still could, but Copper was your father's horse. Your first horse. The only living reminder of him, and you wouldn't leave him.
"I'm coming, old man!" You choked on smoke, stumbled, caught yourself against a stall door. "I'm coming!"
You found his stall by memory more than sight. The smoke was too thick now, the world reduced to burning shapes. Your fingers found the latch and you yanked it open. "Copper! Come on, baby, we gotta go—"
He was pressed into the back corner, wild-eyed, making sounds you'd never heard from him before. You grabbed his halter, pulled, but he wouldn't move.
"Please," you begged, coughing so hard you nearly doubled over. "Please, Copper, please—"
He finally moved, and you were leading him toward where you thought the entrance was, one hand on his hater and one hand trailing the wall, it the smoke was everywhere now. You couldn't see or breathe properly anymore.
Your foot caught on something and you went down hard, hand ripping free from Copper's halter. You heard him bolt, heard his hooves on the concrete floor, and you tried to get up and call after him, but your lungs wouldn't work. The smoke was too thick and the world was starting to gray at the edges.
Get up, you told yourself. Get up, you have to get out.
But your arms wouldn't hold you. You collapsed face-down on the concrete floor near what you thought was the entrance, and distantly you realized you were going to die here in the stable. On the land you loved.
You couldn't breathe anymore, couldn't move. The smoke filled your lungs and the world went soft and strange, and the last thought before everything went black was of Bucky's face when he told you he wasn't enough for you and walked away.
Then nothing.
Bucky had been awake when the fire started.
He'd been lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way you'd looked when Clayton had you cornered in that office. The fear in your eyes, the way you seemed so small, so defeated, like all the fight had been burned out of you.
It was all his fault. If he hadn't pushed you away, if he hadn't been so goddamn stubborn about his pride and his plans, maybe you wouldn't have been so vulnerable when that bastard showed up.
He was still stewing in guilt and self-loathing when he smelled the smoke.
For a second, he thought maybe someone was burning trash, but it was 2 AM and the smell was too strong. He got out of bed and looked out his window toward his property.
His heart stopped.
The stables were on fire, visible even from his cabin, and he was running before his brain fully processed what he was seeing. Running toward the fire in just his sleep pants and boots he grabbed by the door, no shirt, no phone, nothing but pure animal panic driving him forward.
The horses were scattered in the yard, wild-eyed and panicked, and his first thought was relief—someone got them out, they were safe—but then he got closer and saw the stables entrance and his world tilted sideways.
You were lying face-down just inside the doorway, smoke billowing around you, and you weren't moving.
"No!" The scream tore out of him, raw and animal. He was at the entrance in seconds, dropping to his knees, hands on your back. "No, no, no, please—"
You weren't breathing. Your skin was gray, lips tinged blue, and there was ash in your hair and you weren't fucking breathing.
"Help!' He screamed it into the night, voice breaking. "Help! Someone call 911! Please help!"
He got his arms under you and lifted, staggering away from the entrance as part of the roof collapsed inward with a shower of sparks. You weren't breathing limp in his arms, a horrible dead weight, and he couldn't—
"Please, don't be dead, please wildfire, please—"
He laid you down on the grass far from the fire, hands shaking so hard he could barely function. Tilted your head back, checking for breathing… nothing. He pressed his fingers to your throat, searching desperately for a pulse.
There. Weak and thready, but there.
"Call 911!" He screamed it again, looking around wildly, but no one was there. Everyone was asleep or too far away to hear. "Somebody please help us!"
He started CPR, hands laced over your sternum, counting compressions like the training he'd taken years ago. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Your lips were so cold under his, and you still weren't breathing on your own, and he was going to lose you before he ever got the chance to tell you, that he'd been an idiot, that his pride meant nothing compared to you.
"Come on, baby, come on," he begged between breaths. "Breathe for me, please breathe. I'm sorry, I love you, please don't leave me, please—"
He continued, thirty compressions, two breaths. Your chest rose and fell when he breathed for you, but then nothing. No response.
"HELP!" His voice was wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Please, someone help!"
Lights flickered on in the distance. There was a truck approaching. Thank god.
Thirty compressions, two breaths.
"You don't get to do this," he told you, voice breaking. "You don't get to die because I was too fucking stupid to tell you I love you. Come on, wildfire, fight, I know you're strong."
Another thirty compressions, two more breaths.
Your body jerked and you coughed, harsh and wet and he rolled you onto your side as you vomited up smoke and ash. You gasped, a horrible wheezing sound, but you were breathing. Your eyes fluttered but didn't open, and your breathing was labored and wrong, but you were alive.
"That's it, that it baby, breathe." He was sobbing openly now, one hand on your back and one stroking your hair. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay, just keep breathing for me."
Pete's truck roared up, and he was out and running before it fully stopped. "Jesus Christ— what happened?"
"She went in," Bucky choked out. "She went into the fucking fire, got the horses out and she— call 911, she's not breathing right, she needs oxygen."
Pete already had his phone out and was shouting into it about the address and fire and person down.
Sanchez appeared from somewhere, still pulling on his shirt. "Holy shit— is she—"
"She's breathing, but barely." Bucky couldn't stop touching you, couldn't stop checking your pulse like it might disappear if he looked away. "She inhaled too much smoke, she was unconscious—"
You coughed again, weaker this time, and made a sound like you were trying to speak.
"Don't talk," Bucky said. "Don't try to talk, just breathe, help is coming, you're gonna be fine—"
But you weren't fine. Your breathing was getting worse, more labored, and your skin was still that terrible gray color. He gathered you against his chest and pressed his forehead to yours.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry, I love you, I was just too stupid and proud and scared to—" His voice broke completely. "You have to be okay, because I can't do this without you, wildfire, I can't."
Sirens in the distance getting closer. The volunteer fire department, the ambulance. Pete was directing them, shouting coordinates.
You made another small sound, and your eyes opened just a crack. "Bucky," you breathed, barely audible.
"I'm here," he was crying so hard he could barely see. "I'm right here, I've got you, you're gonna be fine."
"Copper—"
"He's fine, all the horses are fine. You got them all out, you crazy, brave, stubborn—" He couldn't finish, just held you tight as the ambulance pulled up, as EMT's swarmed with oxygen and equipment.
They tried to take you from him but he couldn't let go, couldn't release you until one of them put a hand on his shoulder.
"We've got her," she said gently. "Let us help her."
He forced himself to release you, watched as they got an oxygen mask on your face, loaded you onto a gurney. Your eyes found his one more time before they put you in the ambulance, and he saw fear there.
"I'm coming with you," he told the EMTs.
They didn't argue. He climbed into the ambulance and took your hand, and as they pulled away, he pressed his lips to your knuckles and made you a promise.
"You're gonna be okay," he said. "And when you are, I'm gonna tell you every single day for the rest of my life that I love you. Gonna prove to you that I can be the man you deserve, that my pride was bullshit, that yore all that matters. Just— don't leave me before I get the chance. Please, wildfire, please don't leave."
Your fingers twitched in his, the barest squeeze and he held on like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
The first thing you became aware of was the beeping. Steady, rhythmic, accompanied by a mechanical hiss that matched the uncomfortable pressure around your face. The second thing was the voice.
"—and I know I don't deserve it, I know I fucked everything up, but if you wake up, I swear to God, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Proving that I can be the man you think I am, even if I don't believe it yet."
That was Bucky's voice, coming from somewhere to your left.
"I'm sorry I pushed you away, I'm sorry I let my pride and my own stubbornness matter more than you, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when the fire started. I'm sorry for all of it."
You tried to open your eyes but they felt crusted shut, heavy. Your throat burned like you'd swallowed razor blades, and breathing hurt in a way that suggested your lungs had been through something awful. And then you remembered it all: the fire, the stables, Copper.
You tried to move or speak, but all that came out was a rough sound that might have been a cough.
There was movement immediately, a warm hand closing around yours. "Wildfire? Hey, hey, don't try to talk. You've got an oxygen mask on, your lungs need time to heal. Just— just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
You squeezed, or at least tried to. Your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
"Thank god," his voice broke on the words. "You scared the hell out of me, I've aged like ten years tonight."
You managed to get your eyes open finally, blinking against the harsh hospital lights. Everything was blurry at first, but slowly it resolved: white ceiling tiles, an IV stand, medical equipment beeping away. And Bucky, sitting in a chair pulled up close to your bed, still shirtless under the blanket someone had draped over his shoulders, covered in soot and ash, eyes red-rimmed.
He looked like he'd been crying. Bucky Barnes, who you'd never seen cry, not even when his father died, had been crying over you.
"Hey," he said softly, and his thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "Welcome back."
You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled everything, and your throat was too raw anyway. You lifted your other hand weakly, gesturing at the mask.
"No way," he caught your hand gently, brought it back down. "Doctor said you need to keep that on for at least another few hours, your oxygen levels were scary low when you came in, you inhaled a lot of smoke."
You made a frustrated sound, and he actually smiled. "I know, I know, wildfire. But just rest, okay? Everything else can wait."
But you didn't want to wait. You'd heard him confessing, apologizing, saying things you'd been desperate to hear for weeks. You needed him to know you'd heard and needed to respond, needed—
The door opened and a nurse came in, checked your vitals with practiced efficiency. "Good to see those eyes open. How's the pain level? Blink once for manageable, twice for severe."
You blinked once. Everything hurt, but it was distant, muted by whatever they had you on.
"Good, the doctor will be in soon to check on you." She adjusted something on your IV. "You're very lucky, young lady. Another minute or two in that smoke and we'd be having a very different conversation." Her eyes cut to Bucky. "And you should probably get checked out too. That cough doesn't sound good."
"I'm fine," Bucky said automatically.
"You performed CPR for several minutes and you've been breathing smoke residue all night, at least let me listen to yous lungs."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but the nurse had already pulled out her stethoscope with a look that said she wasn't asking. While she checked him over—pronounced him "borderline but not critical"— you watched him. Catalogued the soot in his hair, the redness along his eyes, the exhaustion in his body… He'd stayed all night.
After the nurse left, silence fell between you. Bucky was still holding your hand, his thumb still stroking your knuckles, but he was looking down at your joined hands like he was afraid to meet your eyes.
"The horses are all okay," he said finally. "Pete's got them in the training paddock and the north pasture. Copper's fine—spooked but fine. You got every single one out before you…" He swallowed hard. "Before you collapsed."
You squeezed his hand.
"The stable's gone, total loss. But Sanchez thinks the fire was deliberately set, he found evidence of accelerant near the east wall. The sheriff's already investigating, smart money's o Sheridan."
That should have made you angry, should've sparked fear or rage, but you just felt tired. You'd deal with Clayton later. Right now, all you cared about was the man sitting beside your bed, still covered in ash from pulling you out of the fire.
You tugged weakly at the oxygen mask, and this time Bucky didn't stop you, just helped you pull it down to rest under your chin.
"Wildfire—"
"Did you mean it?" Your voice came out as a rasp, barely audible, your throat shredded but you needed to know. "What you said earlier, did you mean it?"
His eyes finally met yours, and they were so raw it hurt to look at. "Every word, I love you. I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember what it felt like not to love you. And I'm sorry I let my pride and y stupid hang-ups about money and worth keep me from saying it. I'm sorry when I pushed you away when all you wanted was—"
"Bucky," you interrupted him, voice still rough. "I'm not gonna die."
He blinked. "What?"
"I'm not gonna die," you repeated. "So you can stop with the dramatic deathbed confessions."
For a second he just stared at you, then incredibly, he laughed. "You almost died and you're making jokes?"
"Someone has to lighten the mood." You tried to smile but your face felt stiff. "You look like shit, by the way."
"Yeah, well." He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing the soot. "Watching the woman you love nearly die in a fire will do that to you."
The woman you love. He'd said it again, and this time the words settled in your chest like something warm and permanent.
"I heard you," you said quietly. "In the ambulance, and when I first woke up, I heard you."
His hand tightened on yours. "Then you heard me say I'm sorry, that I was an idiot, and that I'm going to spend every day proving I can be man you—"
"You already are." You cut him off. "You've always been, that was never the problem."
"Then what was?"
"You not believing it." You coughed, wincing at the pain in your chest. "You letting your father's expectations and your own pride convince you that you weren't enough… but you were always enough, Bucky, you were always more than enough."
He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you with those blue eyes full of things he'd never let himself say out loud.
"I thought I needed to build something first," he said finally. "Thought I needed to have land, money, something concrete to offer you, something that would make me your equal instead of just… the foreman who got lucky."
"I never wanted an equal. I don't want a business partner or a merger, or someone who can match my net worth. I just want you, the guy who checks on Copper because he knows the horse matters to me. The guy who fixes problems before I know they exist, the guy who punched Sheridan for cornering me and then ran into a burning building to save me even though—" Your voice cracked. "Even though I'd already gotten myself out."
"Barely," he said roughly. "You barely got yourself out, and when I found you lying there not breathing, I—" He stopped, jaw working. "I couldn't breathe either, felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. And all I could think was that I'd wasted so much time, weeks we could have had together because I was too proud to accept that maybe love doesn't care about bank balances and property."
You brought your other hand up to cup his face, felt the scrape of stubble and the warmth of his skin. "Life's too short."
"Yeah, it is." He said leaning into your touch.
"I was at Pete and Maria's house yesterday before the fire," you ran your thumb along his cheekbone. "Watched them together, the way they move around each other, the easy affection, how simply it all looked… and I just wanted that with you so badly it hurt. Just simple love, coming home to each other, building a life together without all the weight and the expectations and the fear."
"I want that too," he said quietly. "But I don't know if I know how to do simple. Don't know if I can turn off the voice in my head that says I should be providing more."
"Then we'll figure it out together." You held his gaze. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I'm not asking you to suddenly be okay with everything you're not okay with, but I need you to try. Need you to let me in instead of pushing me away when it gets hard."
His eyes were bright again. "What if I fuck it up?"
"You will," you smiled slightly. "And I'll fuck it up too. We'll fight and disagree and drive each other crazy, but we'll do it together."
He was quiet, and you could see him wrestling with it—the pride and the fear, but also hope, all tangled together in a know he'd spent his whole life tying.
"I don't have much," he said finally. "Don't have some grand plan, damn, I don't even have a shirt on right now, but I love you, wildfire. I love you so much it terrifies me. And if you're willing to take a chance on a stubborn idiot who almost lost you because he couldn't get out of his own way—"
"I'd give it all up," you interrupted. "The ranch, the money, the legacy… all of it. If it meant I could have something like what Pete and Maria have, If it meant I could have you."
His breath caught. "You don't mean that."
"I do," you held his eyes, let him see the truth "I love the ranch, the work, the land… but I would walk away from all of it tomorrow if it meant having a simple life with you. A small place, horses we actually have time to ride, mornings where we drink coffee together. I'd trade the empire for the everyday, Bucky, every single time."
"Don't say things like that, wildfire." He pressed is forehead to yours, careful with the oxygen tubes and the IV lines.
"Why not?"
"Because it makes me want to take you up on it, makes me want to say fuck the ranch and the town and everyone's expectations and let's just run away together."
"Maybe we should," you said.
He pulled back to look at you. "You're delirious from smoke inhalation."
"I'm serious," and you were. "Not today, or tomorrow, but maybe eventually."
"You'd really leave?" He searched your face. "You'd really walk away from everything you've built."
"For us?" You smiled. "In a heartbeat."
He kissed you then, gentle and careful with your injuries, tasting like smoke and salt and promise. When he pulled back, his eyes were wet again.
"I don't deserve you."
"Probably not," you agreed and he huffed a laugh. "But you love me anyway."
"I do," he said it like a vow. "God help me, I do."
"Then that's enough," you laced your fingers through his. "We'll figure out the rest, but right now, can we just… be?"
"Be what?"
"Together." You squeezed his hand. "Just two people who love each other… just us."
He settled back into the chair, brought your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles. "Yeah, wildfire. We can do that."
You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours and his voice soft in the darkness, telling you about how Copper had tried to break back into the paddock, about how Pete was already talking to contractors about rebuilding the stable, about how the sun was going to rise soon, and when it did, everything would look better.
One year later
You woke up to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. For a moment, you just lay there, hand drifting to your still-flat stomach, the secret sitting warm in your chest.
You've known for three weeks, ever since you'd taken the test in the bathroom of the main house while Bucky was out checking the irrigation system. You'd been waiting for the right moment to tell him, something that matched the enormity of it.
You are going to be a father.
The other side of the bed was rumpled and empty, Bucky's watch still on the nightstand beside a book about investment strategies he's been reading. Your husband had surprised you over the past year while you've been scaling back the ranch operations, he'd been building something of his own. Nothing that took him away from you, nothing that required sacrifice or absence, but careful investments in stocks, a small stake in a friend's agricultural tech startup, some rental properties two counties over that he managed remotely.
"Not trying to match you," he said when he first told you about it, almost shy. "Just building something for us, for the future."
And now there was a very specific future growing inside you.
You pulled on one of Bucky's old flannel shirts, over your sleep clothes and padded downstairs barefoot. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in jeans and nothing else, two mugs of coffee already poured.
Well, one mug of coffee… the other was herbal tea.
Your heart stuttered. Had he noticed? You've been so careful, switching to decaf when he wasn't looking, making excuses about wanting to cut back on caffeine.
"Morning, wildfire." He turned and smiled, and you searched his face for signs that he knew. But he just looked like himself—happy, relaxed, the permanent tension he used to carry finally gone from his shoulders.
"Morning, husband." You crossed to him, let him pull you in for a kiss that tasted like coffee and mint toothpaste. "You made me tea?"
"Figured you might want something different." He handed you the mug."You've been drinking less coffee lately, thought maybe you were getting tired of it."
Not suspicious, then. Just Bucky taking care of you the way he always did, paying attention to the small details.
"Thank you," you took a sip. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." His hands settled on your hips. "Kept thinking about that trail ride you promised me."
"Did I promise you a trail ride?"
"You definitely did," he kissed your temple. "Said something about finally having time to actually ride horses instead of just breeding and training them."
He wasn't wrong. In the year since the fire, things had changed. You hired two additional hands, promoted Pete to co-manager, and started actually delegating tasks. The ranch still ran beautifully, but you and Bucky had something you'd never had before: time.
And soon, you'd need that time for something else entirely.
Your hand drifted to your stomach before you could stop it, and you caught yourself, turning the gesture into smoothing down the shirt. But your mind was already spinning—would you still be able to ride in a few months? Would Bucky insist you stop? Would he be overprotective, or excited or scared or—
"Wildfire?" Bucky's voice pulled you back. "You okay? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine," you smiled, probably too brightly. "I'm just hungry, should eat something before we ride."
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he just nodded. "I'll make breakfast, you sit."
You perched on one of the kitchen stools and watched him move around the kitchen with easy familiarity. This was your favorite part of the new life you'd built, mornings like this, just the two of you before the day really started.
Soon there would be three of you, and the thought made your chest tight with joy and terror in equal measure.
"Actually," you said as he cracked eggs into a pan, "what if we skip the trail ride this morning? We could go this afternoon instead, make a whole thing of it… pack a picnic, ride out to the creek, spend a few hours just existing."
He glanced over his shoulder a bit surprised. "Yeah? You want to play hooky from ranch work on a Tuesday?"
"We're the bosses, we're allowed." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "Besides, when was the last time we just took an afternoon for ourselves?"
"Good point," he played the eggs, added toast and brought it over to you. "We can do the morning checks, make sure everything's running smooth, then disappear for a few hours."
"Perfect."
The world came out soft, full of meaning he didn't quite catch yet, but he would. This afternoon, by the creek, you'd tell him about the baby, about your future, about how everything was about to change in the best possible way.
You just had to make it through the morning without giving it away.
By noon, you'd packed a basket with sandwiches, fruit, and the fancy cheese Bucky loved from the market in town. You'd also packed ginger cookies for the nausea that had been creeping in the past week, and a bottle of sparkling cider that you hoped would work for a toast.
Bucky was tacking up Duke and Ranger, and you were trying to calm your racing heart. You've told people difficult things before, you've fired employees, negotiated contracts, stood up to your father when he was being stubborn, but this felt bigger than all of that.
"Ready?" Bucky appeared in the tack room doorway, looking unfairly handsome in his worn jeans and work shirt, hair pushed back from his face.
"Ready," you grabbed the basket and let him help you mount Ranger.
You rode out in comfortable silence, taking the familiar trail north toward the creek. The autumn day was perfect—cool but not cold, the leaves just starting to turn gold and red. When you reached the creek, Bucky dismounted first and came to help you down, hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than necessary.
"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You've seemed… I don't know, different today. Nervous, maybe?"
Damn his observant nature. "I'm fine, just happy."
"Yeah?" He smiled, some of the concern easing. "Me too."
You spread out the blanket you'd fought while Bucky loosened the horses' girths and let them graze nearby. The creek burbled softly, and the sun filtered through the trees in dappled patterns, and everything felt almost too perfect.
"This was a good idea," Bucky said settling beside you on the blanket. "We should do this more often, just disappear for a few hours."
"We should," you busied yourself unpacking the basket, hands shaking slightly. "Especially now that you've got your investments working for you, Pete can handle more of the daily operations."
"Speaking of which," he took the sandwich you handed him. "I wanted to talk about that. Remember the tech startup I invested in? They're doing really well, better than projected. My stake has almost doubled in value, and—" He paused, looking almost shy. "I've been thinking about diversifying more, maybe some agriculture projects or another rental property, something that can generate passive income."
"That's amazing, Bucky." And it was. You'd watched him transform over the past year from someone who measured his worth in sweat equity to someone who understood there were other ways to build security.
"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I used to be weird about money, but this feels different. Feels like I'm building something that's ours without sacrificing time with you. Without having to choose between being present and being a provider."
"You've always been a provider." You set down your untouched sandwich. "But I'm proud of you for finding a way to do it that works for you."
"I had a good teacher," he kissed your temple. "You taught me that there's ore than one way to build a life together."
This was it. This was the moment. Your heart was pounding so hard you wee sure he could hear it.
"Speaking of building a life together," you started, voice shaking slightly. "There's something I need to tell you."
He set down his sandwich, his attention immediately focused on you. "What's wrong? Are you sick? Is it the ranch? Is—"
"Nothing's wrong." You took his hand, pressed it against your still-flat stomach. "Everything's right, actually. Everything is… perfect."
He froze and you watched understanding dawn slowly: the tea instead of coffee, the fact that you'd been tired lately, the way you'd been careful about lifting heavy things. All the small signs he'd noticed but hadn't put together.
"Wildfire," he breathed. "Are you—"
"I'm pregnant." The words came out in a rush, nervous and excited all at once. "About six weeks. I found out three weeks ago and I've been trying to find the right moment to tell you and I thought here, by the creek, it felt—"
He cut you off with a kiss, so deep and full of joy so pure it made your chest ache. When he used back, his eyes were bright with tears.
"You're pregnant," he said, like he was testing the words. "We are having a baby."
"We're having a baby," you were crying now too, laughing through the tears. "I know we didn't plan this, we haven't even talked about kids yet, but I'm so happy, I'm so—"
"Happy," he finished for you, his hands coming up to frame your face. "God, I'm so happy I can't even— I don't have words, I don't know what else to say except I love you and this is everything."
He pulled you into his arms, held you tight against his chest, and you could feel him shaking.
"Holy shit, I'm going to be a dad" he whispered into your hair.
"You're gonna be a great dad," you pulled back to look at him.
"I know, thanks to you. And this baby is gonna have everything they need, not because of money or any of that shit I used to obsess over, but because we'll be their parents."
"Yeah," you covered his hand with yours. "Yeah, they will."
"How are you feeling? Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor? Should you even be riding? Jesus, should I have let you get on a horse—"
"Bucky," you laughed, cutting off his spiral. "I'm fine, I saw the doctor two weeks ago, everything looks good. I can ride for another few months as long as I'm careful. The morning sickness is mild, just some nausea, nothing terrible. I'm healthy, baby's healthy, everything's perfect."
"Everything's perfect," he repeated, and then his eyes went wide again. "Wait, does anyone else know? Pete? Maria? Have you been keeping this secret by yourself."
"Just me," you squeezed his hand. "I wanted you to be the first to know, wanted it to be just us, just this moment."
"Best moment of my life," he kissed you again, soft and sweet. "Well, second best, first was marrying you."
"Third best was punching Sheridan's face."
He laughed, loud and bright, and the sound of it made your heart soar. This was the man you'd fallen in love with, the one who could still laugh, who could let go of his pride and just be happy, just be present in the moment.
"We should celebrate." He reached for the basket, pulled out the sparkling cider you'd packed. "Did you plan this?"
"I hoped," you watched him pour two glasses. "Hoped you'd be happy, and this would be the right way to tell you."
"It's perfect." He handed you a glass, raised his own. "To our future."
You clinked glasses, sipped the sweet fizz, and then he was kissing you again, laying you back on the blanket with careful hands.
You laid there together as the afternoon sun shifted through the trees, talking about names and nursery colors and whether you'd find out the gender or be surprised. About how the ranch would need some adjustments, but nothing you couldn't handle. About how Pete and Maria would be thrilled, how the crew would rally around you, how this baby would grow up surrounded by love.
About the future you were building, not just the two of you anymore, but three.
He placed his hand over your stomach, and you covered it with yours, and for a long moment, you just sat there together, listening to the creek and the horses and the perfect silence of a life finally fully lived.
When you finally rode back, the ranch was settling into evening—crew heading home, lights coming on in the main house, the familiar rhythm of end of the day routines. But everything looked different now, felt different.
Because you weren't just coming home to the ranch you ran together. You were coming home to the place where you'd raise your child, whey you would see their first steps, teach how to ride their first horse, learn what it meant to work hard and love harder. Where they'd grow p knowing their parents chose each other every day and created a life worth living.
Bucky helped you dismount, hands lingering in your waist, his eyes soft with wonder and love and barely contained joy.
"Ready to tell everyone?" You asked.
"Ready," he laced his fingers through yours. "Let's go tell our family."
summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)
(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)
wc 16.5k words
“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”
You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.
“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”
“—right there,” he cuts in.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”
He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”
You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”
Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.
“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.
You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”
You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.
“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”
You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate.
He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”
You try not to smile. You fail, a little.
“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”
“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”
You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.
You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”
He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.
Then—
“And this is just penetration?” he asks.
You freeze.
Your silence is loud.
Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”
You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”
“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”
“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”
That earns you a look.
“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”
You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”
“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.
You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”
You grin. “Oh, here we go.”
“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”
“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”
“Debatable.”
You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.
You hand him a fork.
“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”
He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”
“You could always use more.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.
You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”
He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.
A pause.
Then—
“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.
You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”
“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”
“‘Course I can handle this.”
★★★
“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.
Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”
“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”
Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”
“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”
“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”
Robby pauses.
Then looks up slowly.
“…Spooning.”
“Don’t,” Jack warns.
Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”
Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”
“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”
“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.
“You stayed,” Robby counters.
Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”
“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”
“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”
“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”
Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.
“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.
Jack hesitates.
“…Two days.”
There’s a beat.
Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.
Jack doesn’t answer.
Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’re like this after two days?”
Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”
“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.
“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”
“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”
Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.
Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.
“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”
Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”
“Ambulance crashed!”
The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.
★★★
Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.
He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.
He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.
But this. This thing you were doing…
The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.
From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.
That includes the easy things. The soft things.
And yeah—sex too.
It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.
But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.
And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake.
Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.
You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.
Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.
You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.
Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.
“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.
Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.
“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”
Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”
Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”
Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.
Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.
“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”
You were already moving.
Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.
You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.
“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”
Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”
“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”
Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.
You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.
Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.
“You busy?” you asked, softer now.
You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.
Then you leaned in.
Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.
Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.
Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.
“We’re heading out,” he said.
Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”
Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.
You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.
And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.
You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.
You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.
And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you.
It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.
★★★
Day Six.
He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.
The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.
The second— You.
On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.
And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.
Why does Santos know where you live?
Why is Santos doing yoga?
Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?
“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.
“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.
“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.
The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.
He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—
—and you shift just slightly.
It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.
His kiss lands on your cheek instead.
You don’t even break the pose.
“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.
A beat.
“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”
There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.
“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”
You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.
He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.
She rolls her eyes.
“Next pose,” she says flatly.
You shift without hesitation.
“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”
“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”
“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”
Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”
“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.
You let out a small laugh into the mat.
“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.
“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”
Santos chimes. “And spite.”
Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.
Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.
“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”
He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.
You glance up, watching him go.
There’s a beat of silence.
Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”
You follow, steady.
“He seems… stable,” she says.
“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”
Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”
“We’re touchy people.”
“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.
“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”
“You could just… not text her.”
Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
You smile slightly.
“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”
“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”
“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”
“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.
“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”
There’s a pause.
“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.
Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.
You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”
★★★
Day Nine.
Virgin Mary, my ass.
That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.
The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.
He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.
His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.
You startle just a little, then relax.
“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”
“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.
He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.
“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.
“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.
“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”
He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.
“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”
His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.
You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.
Your hand stills completely on the counter.
“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.
He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.
“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”
You don’t answer.
Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.
His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.
Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.
“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.
“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”
But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.
Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.
“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.
“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.
“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”
His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.
“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”
The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.
He doesn’t move.
“Jack.”
“Just one kiss?” He asks.
You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.
You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.
“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.
You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.
You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—
You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.
It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.
If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.
You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too.
You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie.
Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.
It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”
★★★
Day Twelve.
“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”
Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”
“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.
“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”
“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.
“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”
The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.
Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.
“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”
He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.
Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”
“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.
“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And she keeps wearing—”
“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.
They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.
Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”
“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”
Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”
Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”
“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”
Robby stops walking.
Grabs his shoulder.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”
“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”
Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.
Locks. You.
At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.
You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.
“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”
Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”
“You aren’t going there.”
“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”
“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”
“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”
“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”
“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”
Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.
Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.
You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.
Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.
Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”
“I told you. Psychological warfare.”
McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.
“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.
“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”
“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.
“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”
McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”
You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”
“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”
You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”
“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”
“Santos encouraged it.”
“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.
“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”
Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”
You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”
You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”
Mel nods seriously, concentrating.
McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”
You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”
“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.
You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.
“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”
You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”
Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—
“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”
You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”
“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”
“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.
“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”
You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”
Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”
“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”
Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.
You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.
Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.
Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.
“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”
He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.
“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.
You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”
He stares at you.
“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.
You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”
He stands there for a second. Then another.
Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.
“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.
Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.
★★★
Day Eighteen.
You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.
Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.
“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.
You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.
He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”
You hum like you believe him. You don’t.
He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.
They stay on you.
Track every adjustment.
You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.
“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.
You shoot him a look.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”
“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”
And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.
One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.
Jack actually goes still. That’s new.
“…Right,” he says, quieter now.
You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.
“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”
You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.
Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.
He’s trying to be good. You can see it.
Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.
You keep going anyway.
“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.
“Nope,” you say immediately.
You don’t look at him.
Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.
You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.
“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.
“Who?” His voice is tighter now.
“Isla’s husband.”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”
You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.
Jack looks away this time.
Briefly.
Then back.
Like he can’t help it.
“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”
You glance at him now.
“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.
“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.
“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”
You don’t disagree with that.
You look at him. Really look.
He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.
You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.
He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.
“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”
His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.
“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”
That earns a small smile from you.
“Responsible of you,” you say.
“Have you?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”
You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.
“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.
You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”
“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds.
Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”
Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” you repeat.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s small. Controlled. Safe.
Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.
He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.
Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.
You shouldn’t.
You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.
“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”
A pause.
“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.
You look at him for a second too long.
Then you nod.
His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.
You kiss him again properly.
It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.
Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.
His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up.
A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.
His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.
He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”
You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.
You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.
“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.
You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.
He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.
You glance down.
He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.
You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.
“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”
“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”
You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”
“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.
You don’t look back when you walk out.
★★★
Day Twenty Two.
You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.
Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.
We resist.
You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.
So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.
So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly.
So you added structure.
Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.
You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.
You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.
But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.
You’ve also tightened everything else.
Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.
The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.
“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”
Pitch black room. Eye mask on.
“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.
He’d watched it alone. Hated it.
Even the small stuff has become intentional.
You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.
He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.
And still—you function.
You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait.
The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity.
And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.
The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.
Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.
You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.
Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.
“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.
“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”
“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”
You nod, moving in.
The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.
You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.
“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”
“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”
Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.
You.
He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder.
Three weeks of this… discipline.
And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Traction,” Park says.
You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”
“Now.”
You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.
Whitaker visibly winces.
“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.
Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”
Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”
“Good. Splint.”
You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.
Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.
You hold his gaze for half a second.
“Doctor,” you say, light.
He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”
You blink. “Are you—seriously?”
“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”
You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.
“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”
Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”
Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”
“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”
Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”
“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.
“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”
Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”
“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”
“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”
You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.
“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”
You correct it immediately. “Better?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”
Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”
“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.
A beat.
Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”
Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”
“Robby,” Jack says, warning.
“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”
“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.
He opens his mouth—
“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”
You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”
“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”
Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”
“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.
Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.
“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”
“Oh—right—sorry—”
“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”
“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”
Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.
He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.
“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”
You don’t look at him. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How much you told Robby.”
He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”
“Debatable.”
“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.
“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.
There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—
“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”
You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.
“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”
You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.
Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.
Still looking at you like that.
By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.
“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.
“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”
You huff. “How is he doing?”
Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.
“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”
“And not clinically?” you prompt.
He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”
You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”
“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”
You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.
You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”
Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”
“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.
He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.
There’s a small pause, then—more casually—
“Soup was good, by the way.”
You blink. “The vegetable one?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“He called it punishment.”
“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”
You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”
You laugh under your breath.
He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.
You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”
“You too,” he says, stepping aside.
You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.
“See you at home in a few hours.”
He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.
“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.
You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.
“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”
Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking.
“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”
★★★
Day Twenty Nine.
“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.
McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.
“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”
You glance over. “Why?”
“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”
“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.
McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.
“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”
Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”
You glance at her. “You miss her.”
She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”
“You brought her up first.”
“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”
McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”
You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.
“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”
“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”
McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”
Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”
You blink. “It’s just discipline.”
McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”
You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”
McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..
Santos, however, immediately does.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”
McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.
“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”
“Like… personality-wise?” you try.
Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”
McKay mutters, “Oh God.”
Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”
You nearly choke. “Santos—”
“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”
McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”
Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”
You stare at her.
“That’s not an answer,” she says.
McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”
“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.
Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”
You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”
“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”
You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”
McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”
Then, casually—
“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”
McKay exhales through her nose.
Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”
Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.
“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”
“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.
Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”
Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”
You look at her like salvation. “Help.”
Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”
Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.
Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”
Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”
Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”
★★★
Day Thirty Two.
Your schedules have always been a mess.
Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.
Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.
You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.
Eat something.
You too.
Left food in the fridge.
Miss you.
Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.
He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.
“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”
“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”
Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.
“…You are not my girlfriend.”
Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”
Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.
Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”
Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”
He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.
“I followed her recipe,” he adds.
Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”
“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”
A beat.
“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.
Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”
Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”
Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”
“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”
Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”
Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”
“…Did I what?”
Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”
“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.
“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”
Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”
Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.
“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.
“I salted it.”
“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”
Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.
“You two haven’t seen each other?”
“Not properly.”
Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”
“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.
Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.
The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.
“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.
“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.
You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.
“When’d you get back?” you ask.
“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”
“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”
“Shocking,” Robby mutters.
You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.
You pull back just as fast.
“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”
His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”
“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.
You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.
“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”
Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.
Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”
“Tell her I said hi,” you call.
“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.
He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.
“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.
“Out!” Jack says.
Robby leaves.
The door shuts.
And just like that—
It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.
“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.
“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.
He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.
“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.
“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”
You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.
“C’mere,” he says.
You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.
“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.
You nod.
“Speak,” he adds, low.
“Yes.”
That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.
You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.
His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.
“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.
You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.
He exhales, eyes still locked on you.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.
“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.
“Mhm.”
He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.
“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.
His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.
“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”
You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that.
You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.
Behind you, the stove clicks off.
A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.
“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”
He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”
“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.
“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”
You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.
You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”
His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”
You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.
“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.
“What else?”
“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip.
You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.
“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”
“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.
He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you.
The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch.
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.
His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.
“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.
He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass.
He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.
“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric.
He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement.
“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”
You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.
He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.
“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.
“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.
His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.
You shake your head.
“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.
He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”
He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”
You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.
“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.
He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”
He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.
“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.
You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.
“Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.
You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.
He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say,
His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.
“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man.
His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.
You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”
You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.
“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”
“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head.
You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him.
You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.
“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.
“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.
“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”
“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.
“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.”
He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”
“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”
You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.
“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.
“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.
Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect.
His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good."
You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch.
He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.
He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?"
“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.
He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.
Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”
He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar.
He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him.
He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.
“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.
He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”
You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.
“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”
You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them.
You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch.
“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.
You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp.
You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense.
You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.
He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm.
His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.
His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”
“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.
“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.
“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.
“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.
“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”
His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.
"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely.
You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.
You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.
Like he doesn’t want to.
You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.
“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”
There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.
You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.
“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.
You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”
“Sure you were.”
“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”
He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”
“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it,” he mutters.
“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.
You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.
It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.
You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.
“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.
You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”
“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”
You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”
He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”
“I can help, I’ll—”
“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.
You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.
When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.
“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.
He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.
You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.
There’s a pause.
“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”
He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”
You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.
“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.
He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.
You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.
A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.
Who would you pick?
Who do you think I’d pick?
Are we about to say the same name?
“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.
There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”
You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”
“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”
You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”
You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.
“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.
“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”
His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.
The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.
You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.
Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.
a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!
Summary: You pass out at work. Jack already knew that was going to happen. Still scares the shit out of him.
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: Fainting, light angst, medical inaccuracies perhaps
a/n: Small bedtime fic based on this request because who doesn't love knocking out in public and having Jack come to the rescue yayyy <3 love you enjoy sweet dreams
Masterlist
It started as a headrush as you got out of bed. Nothing serious. Nothing too alarming. You figured it was from poor sleep or standing up too fast. The black spots in your vision dissipated after a few hard blinks, and you went on about your day. You ate breakfast at 4 pm, because that was normal on a night-shift schedule, and got to work just fine.
The hospital florescents were a little more jarring than usual, and maybe the noises in the Pitt were grating on your ears, but you chalked it all up to a really terrible night’s sleep. You were tired, fatigue settling into your bones as your shift began, so it made sense that everything felt off. People were known to have off days, on occasion.
Jack Abbot was very attentive to your off days.
His eyes narrowed the second you stepped into the Pitt—or, rather, stumbled into the Pitt. You were favoring your left side just a hair, your toe catching on the vinyl tile, and he could tell it wasn’t on purpose. Jack scanned you for injuries and found none.
Patient presents with an unsteady gait. Unknown etiology.
Stumbling into the first shift of four was not inherently unusual. Jack filed the information away. He met you in the hall after rounds and pretended he wasn’t double-checking the amount of weight you were putting on your right leg.
“Good weekend?” he greeted, bumping his shoulder into yours. “Saw on Instagram that you went to that fancy coffee shop downtown. Thought we were supposed to go together.”
You huffed out a laugh, knocking your head to the side. “You actually go on Instagram?”
“You told me to follow you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you were keeping it up with it.
“Only yours,” Jack hummed out. “But I am very with the times.”
“Right. And I’m Oprah,” you laughed.
“I can get with Oprah,” Jack nodded, arms crossing over his chest. “Very wise.”
You started to roll your eyes and offer Jack the slap on his arm that he was vying for, but you blinked too hard instead, a quick squeeze to settle yourself. Jack’s expression faltered, his hands reaching towards you. Not too close—not obvious—but enough to do something if he needed to.
You focused back in on him before he could point it out.
“I’ll let you know if I hear Oprah is on the market,” you breathed out, patting Jack on the chest as you continued down the hall.
Patient demonstrates periods of inattention and difficulty focusing, possibly due to fatigue, weakness, presyncope, etc. Differentials to be assessed.
He was trying not to hover. You hated hovering, and Jack could tell he was pushing it. He was letting his gaze linger a bit too long when he caught you across the room and stood too close every time you got up from your chair. He was analyzing the depth of your breaths through subtle counts because he was pretty sure you weren’t taking full ones, but he couldn’t quite confirm it.
Something was up.
But he was pushing it.
“I ordered repeat labs for our guy with jaundice. And the tox screen in South 15 came back clear, so we have to re-evaluate the cocaine hypothesis,” you prattled off, hands on your hips as you gazed up at the board. “Anything else I should—okay, what?”
Jack had forgotten to look away as you turned your head and looked at him. You had caught him having a staredown with your well-being and did not seem amused by the analyzing gaze. The attending righted his posture and blinked.
“What? What’s up?” Jack asked, trying and failing to feign innocence. He raised his hands in mock surrender when you gave him a hard look. “I was listening to you. What, is it illegal to look at you while you talk?”
“You were not just listening to me! You’ve been all… assessing all shift. So quit it.”
“I have not been assessing,” he lied, trailing after you down the hall. Damn, you were moving fast. “You’ve just been a little off, is all. I’ve been keeping an eye on it.”
You waved him off and changed course for the bathroom. “Well, don’t. I’m fine, Jack. Don’t be weird.”
Jack pressed his hands against his chest. “I’m not being weird. You’re being weird. That’s why I was concerned.”
You spun to face him, arms crossed and expression fixed into an oncoming lecture. When you and Jack began exploring your obvious feelings for each other, you made it clear that you didn’t want anyone to know. Not until things were sure and you were more established in your role as a doctor. You didn’t want people to think you were messing around with an attending just for the relationship to crumble and your career to be lost in the aftermath.
Jack was fine with waiting. He had absolutely no plans of letting your relationship crumble, but he was fine with the cautious approach. Things were still new, and if you wanted to wait until you felt more secure with him, he was going to do a damn good job providing that.
But your breathing was off; he finally caught it as you eyed him down in the hall, and that was concerning. He was officially entering concerned doctor territory, and you were officially entering leave me the hell alone territory. The combination was not ideal.
“Just—keep your distance, okay? People have been eyeing us all shift. I want to continue pretending there isn’t gossip flying around the day shift nurses, but that can’t happen if you give them something to gossip about.”
“But if you just—”
“Jack.”
He raised his hands again. “Alright, my bad.”
You pushed into the bathroom, door swinging shut behind you, and Jack let his head hang, sighing into the abyss.
Patient with ongoing dyspnea that cannot be assessed in a medical setting. Patient resistant to treatment and going AMA.
It came to a head three hours in. Jack saw the way you kept blinking and pressing your hands against your head, shaky fingers threading by your scalp and creating pressure. A headache—you had a headache, you kept stumbling, and Jack knew you were having trouble breathing. He tapped his palms against the counter in a nervous tic and listed out every differential in his head.
It didn’t help that you kept glaring at him. And avoiding him. Jack couldn’t keep an eye on you if you were hyperaware of his presence, but he couldn’t exactly slink around the ED unnoticed, so he did what he could. He tracked the movement of your shoulder as you stood with your back to him, and he kept a ready stance when he saw you stumble in the hall. He was one more hand flex and grimace away from telling Lena to keep another eye on you, but then you caught yourself against a wall, expression pained, and he figured his action was warranted.
He jogged across the Pitt, hands immediately finding your shoulders and head lowered to search for your eyes. They were unfocused when he got there, blinking again—he was trying to catch you amidst the blinking.
“Hey, you alright?” he stressed, tracking the way your hands shook as he steadied you.
“Yeah,” you affirmed, trying and failing to push away. A small group of nurses had gathered, concerned faces looking on. “Yeah. I’m just—maybe I need to eat something or—”
You went limp, effectively stopping Jack’s heart in the process. He hauled you against him with a long “whoa” that sent the entire ED on alert and cradled your neck as he tried to get your eyes back open. Your head only rolled in his hand, and his breathing felt punctured.
He said your name and did not get an answer. “Okay. Okay—someone get me a bed and a room cleared,” he calmly ordered, gaze never leaving your face, arms secure around you. He turned his head to mirror each time you lopped over. “I need you to try and open your eyes, y/n. Can you do that?”
A bed was wheeled into the hall, and Jack lifted your legs from the ground to lay you in it, quickly walking alongside the small team that had formed. He swiped his flashlight from his chest pocket, assessed your pupils, then moved down to your lymph nodes as you were settled into a room.
“Okay, vitals and get an IV for stat labs—y/n? Come on, let me know you can hear me, sweetheart,” Jack called out, checking your pupils again, flashing the light too many times than was necessary.
It was the third pass that got you to respond. You groaned, bringing your shaking hands up to push his flashlight away. Jack felt all of the air leave his lungs, a weight dropping to his feet and keeping him rooted to the ground. His head hung again, and he glanced up after a steadying sigh. You were wincing at the overhead light in the room, face an unnatural shade, but more alert and conscious.
“Fuck. Okay, you scared the shit out of me,” Jack accused. He cupped your face and raised his brows. “You’re fine? Really?”
You let out a muffled sound. “Sorry. That was weird.”
“Yeah, you think? Weird—told you you were the one being weird.” Jack glanced at your vitals on the screen. “You’re tachy and your blood pressure’s pretty low. Any ideas?”
“My mouth hurts,” you mumbled out, gaze blearily trying to focus on the screen. “Maybe… ow, Jack.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Okay, yeah, not counting on your medical opinion right now. Let’s get some ibuprofen on board and push fluids until we get the labs back. I want a head CT to rule out—” Jack paused as he looked around the room. Half of the nurses were honing in on Jack’s hands on your face, the other half were smirking at the man himself. Jack looked back down at you, at how hard you were trying to focus on him, and he figured he would deal with the rest later. “Hey, we’ll get this all sorted, alright?”
About twenty minutes later, you were sitting upright and much more cognizant. Jack had the lights dim in the room and a bag of pretzels glued to your hand even though your blood sugar came back normal, and he found you just as he left you as he pushed back inside. He hadn’t really been able to focus since you went down, so stalking the lab for your results was easy.
“Labs came back,” Jack revealed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You’d given up on making him leave you alone after his second visit to your room. “Wanna take a wild guess?”
You groaned, shoving another pretzel in your mouth. “No. Just tell me.”
“Iron-deficiency anemia. You honestly might need an iron infusion with the levels you’re at. How long have you felt like this?”
“Seriously?” you sighed. “I fainted because I don’t eat enough legumes?”
“Hey, this is serious,” Jack chastised. He leaned in closer and took your hand in his. “It’s not just a little deficiency. You were down for the count for a while there. We gotta get this figured out.”
“We?”
Jack took in the color returning to your face and intertwined your fingers with his. “Yeah, sweetheart, we. Unfortunately, I think I kinda gave us away when you passed out. Forgot I was supposed to be playing it cool because you looked almost dead.”
“That’s a little dramatic.” You puffed out your cheeks with a loaded breath. “So… everyone knows?”
“There’s about a 95% chance it’s made its rounds. And been sent out to many day shift nurses who have probably sent it to—”
“Okay, okay. Everyone knows.”
You slumped back against the bed, pretzel bag crinkling as it fell beside you. Jack hadn’t let go of your hand, and with the clammy pallor it still resembled, he didn’t have it in him to let go. He had been right to worry this morning, and his slow action was eating at him.
“I’m serious, though,” Jack began. You cracked an eye open. “Your ferritin levels are alarmingly low. We’ll have to think about infusions and then go to supplements after we get you more regulated.”
“I can just call my PCP and—”
“I’d like to help. I can help.”
You paused, lingering humor and frustration wiped from your expression. Jack watched emotions flit across your face and saw each settle as your hand twitched in his. Just slightly. Enough to almost be a squeeze.
“You don’t have to do that,” you softly said. “I know it freaked you out that I fainted, but you don’t have to take on some huge responsibility when it comes to me. We only just started seeing each other.”
Jack smiled, brows coming together. He patted your hand as it rested in his. “Yeah, well, I’d like to continue seeing you for a long time. So let me have some responsibility.”
a universe featuring robby x charge nurse!reader, frank x resident!reader and jack x emt!reader - each one-shot follows a shift of one of the couples, but the other two may pop up in the background of each! the one-shots will also be standalone (ie. you can only read frank's if you want, but i would recommend reading all for the added universe lore :))
robby and charge nurse!reader (nickname: pulse) - you and robby have worked together for years. the 'parents' of the emergency department, there's rarely a problem that you both can't solve. except for that of your relationship. sure, you slept together that one time, all those years ago, but it didn't mean anything, right? it's totally normal to accidentally moan your favourite nurse's name in bed with another woman.
frank and resident!reader (nickname: page) - when you started your r2 year at ptmc, the last thing you expected was to be ridiculously infatuated with your senior resident. it's against all your principles, but you can't quite let it go. besides, there's no way he feels the same. a harmless crush never hurt anybody, and you're sure the butterflies will go away with time. until they don't. and frank's gazes start to linger.
jack and emt!reader (nickname: skipper) - jack abbot is too old for you. completely and utterly. it's something you've been trying to tell yourself since you first met him at twenty-five. now, at twenty-nine, there's still nobody that does it like him. he's the only person that understands your drive, your complete marriage to your work. maybe he flirts back a little, but you're sure it's just platonic. until your life is in danger, and everything's suddenly on the line
year one.
NYE. Frank and Page.
year two.
Valentine's Day. Robby and Pulse.
Fourth of July. Jack and Skipper. // part two
Halloween. Robby and Pulse.
year three
Groundhog Day. Jack and Skipper.
Thanksgiving. Frank and Page.
Black Friday. Robby and Pulse.
Christmas Eve. Jack and Skipper.
year four
Easter. Robby and Pulse.
Mother's Day. Frank and Page.
year five
New Year's Day. Jack and Skipper.
Christmas. Frank and Page.
if you'd like to be tagged in any or all, pop me a message/ask/comment here! 18+ only, no ageless blogs
Summary: You're lost, adrift in your own mind. dreams that leave you haunted by the echoes of screams and visions of a family with faces too blurry to recognize. every night, in the midst of it all you see a man. dangerous, silent, and masked as he ushers you into the cold. twenty years spent in the dark, no memories, no identity, just your name and a whisper that someone's waiting for you in paris. a rumor of missing bones, a dna test, and a superhero's promise brings you closer to home than ever before. amnesia is a funny thing though, if bucky insists you've never met then why do his eyes feel so familiar?
Word Count: 8k
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): I was supposed to post this in December! Anyway, this is my contribution to the BWA Fairytale Collab! What a joy this collab has been, thank you bearing with me in the time it took to get here!!!
Warnings: Warnings: amnesia, mentions of death, canon-typical violence, blood, guns, references to a fire, reader is royalty but no specific country or physical attributes are given to her, flashbacks, cursing, gratuitous use of italics, only one bed, unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering,
DT: So many of my lovely friends pitched in to help me get this across the finish line and I couldn’t be more grateful. @superbassbuck @tw1sters for beta-reading!!! I owe you the world and more, seriously. Paul you were like the biggest cheerleader ever for this fic and I couldn't be more grateful. @artficlly for helping me with the action scenes, this fic wouldn’t be half of what it is without your help and wise words… also for coming up with the rest of plot we would have been trapped in the train if it weren’t for you
The first thing you remember is snow.
Crunching under your steps, too thick to see through.
You're running and you have no idea why.
You can hear gunfire in the distance, chaotic and never ending. A fire rages above the trees, reaching high enough to kiss the stars and bathe the night in it's glow.
You run until you can't feel your toes, until your calves ache and even then you keep pushing. You don't stop until your foot catches on a tree root, launching you head first into a pile of snow where a jagged rock waits to kiss your forehead.
You wake with a start, gasping as you blink the dream from your eyes, chest pulled tight with panic.
The train rumbles below, vibrating softly through the cushion of your makeshift bed.
Even though you just woke up, you feel it, hovering in the room and making it impossible to breathe.
The tension between the two you of is suffocating.
Sandwiched into a single compartment, you've each claimed a bench, Bucky the right wall and you the left. With barely a three foot gap of floor between you, it somehow feels more intimate than sharing a bed.
You're lying with your back flat against the seat, legs curled up to make yourself fit. It's cramped and uncomfortable, every bump a fight not to spill over.
Bucky fills out the other bench, clearly just as uncomfortable. His long body is overflowing off the sides of his cushions. One leg hangs down, resting flat footed on the floor while the other is bent against the wall, anchoring itself there as if to offset the sway of the train. His shoulder hangs over too, metal fingers teasing the floor as they dangle over the edge.
The space between you feels like a canyon. Narrow yet deep and intimidating. It's covered with carpeting that's probably older than you are, dense and stained from years of travelers and luggage.
"Nightmare?" Bucky's voice breaks the silence, pulling you the rest of the way out of sleep.
He keeps his gaze on the ceiling, the only reason you know his eyes are even open are his lashes. the shadow they cast across his cheek as he blinks.
"Yes." You admit, voice hardly above a whisper.
"Every night?" He asks. You hear his arm whir across the space, shifting as he lifts it to rest under his head.
"For as long as I can remember." You tell him. It's the truth, every time your eyes close it's like you're there. Running through the woods or a never ending hallway. Or on the really bad nights, staring down the barrel of a gun.
"I get them too." Bucky confides. He doesn't sound embarrassed, although you guess you're far past that.
You can't help but turn, your body moving on its own accord to face him.
"Are they always about the same thing?" You ask.
He shakes his head, turning his neck to meet your gaze. "Yours?"
"Kinda. Same night- different parts." You explain, "At least I think it's all the same night."
"The attack?" Bucky guesses.
You nod, "Maybe." You wish you were sure, that you could be certain that what little is left of your mind doesn't lie.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" He asks. He turns his body this time making you face to face, eye to eye.
His almost glow in the dark, you noticed it last night too. When you'd hardly slept in a shitty hostel, generous with it's communal shower and two twin beds in single room.
The journey has more or less, sucked.
Since the results, you've been on the receiving end more threats than you can count. Too many detailed, threats to travel alone, never mind travel by plane.
All of it has made for a slow crawl to Paris. In an effort to keep a low profile, your journey has been limited to traveling by car, passenger train, and your least favorite, foot.
You don't mind, grungy rooms and winding roads aside, the company hasn't been half bad.
Sent over by the 'New Avengers' in a half-assed attempt at PR, Bucky Barnes has been an okay companion.
He's quiet, but so are you.
"Do you know they found me in the woods?" You answer, side stepping his question. "In the middle of a blizzard."
Bucky lets you escape, merciful and understanding. Something you've grown to learn about him.
"I fell off a train in one." He offers.
"Okay you win." You joke.
It's a little game you started. Somewhere between Vienna and Munich your conversations shifted. From small talk and one word answers to stories.
One of you offering a piece of your past in exchange for one of the other's memories.
"Do you know I was drafted into World War Two?"
"I was raised by nuns."
"Okay yeah, you got me."
Whoever was worse off wins.
Morbid, twisted, the kind of jokes only amnesiacs get.
Bucky hasn't told you much about the fracturing of his mind. You know enough between news stands and sensationalized headlines. If those didn't give it away then the stares he gets would.
But you do know about his cat, white, fat and absolutely spoiled.
You know about how he refurbished his motorcycle himself.
How his prosthetic, is fitted with a safeguard in-case he needs to be disarmed- literally.
You know he absolutely hates the Val lady who signed him up for this job- 'No offense.' He'd added after the admission. 'I just try to avoid Europe.'
You know you're both haunted by cold, an aching chill set deep in your bones. His comes late at night, usually with the dreams and the creaks in his scar tissue. Yours burns brightest in crowds, pulls tight in your chest whenever you dare to let someone close.
You blink at each other across the divide, sharing the comfortable silence.
His eyes are still glowing, as if lit by moonlight.
They go right through you, chilling your body to the bone and pulling tight on your lungs.
So familiar.
They're haunting you more than any dream, constantly nagging at the back of your mind.
How the hell do I know him?
Bucky doesn't know, you've tried to pry it out of him.
"My mind is just as scrambled as yours." He promised, "But I don't think I'd forget your face."
Still, you can't shake it.
Tonight thought, under the shield of darkness you admit something else that's been bothering you about his eyes.
"It's otherworldly." You tell him. "Just how blue they are."
Bucky's brows pull together, "What?" He asks.
"Your eyes."
Bucky stills. He doesn't answer, doesn't move.
So you keep going.
"They're so expressive." You explain, "Like you're feeling a thousand things at once and all of it is in your eyes." You sit up, accepting that sleep is a lost. You turn to face him, stretching your legs into the space between your bodies.
Bucky follows your movements his legs laying out beside yours. Close enough for your knees to bump as the train sways, far enough to hide your nervous fingers in the shadows.
"I got them from my Ma." He says, simple and cutting. It's the only answer you guess.
You wonder what you got from your mother.
Is she the faceless shape holding your hand as you run? Is she the one ushering you through a cellar door and telling you not to look back? Do you have her eyes, or just her blood on your hands?
"I've never seen anything like them." You admit, soft and unflinching.
You think Bucky's going to leave it at that, turn onto his side and pretend to sleep. Let you stew in vulnerability until another nightmare claims you. Except Bucky never does what you think he will, at least that's what you're learning.
"I've never seen anything like you." He counters.
You laugh, a broken huff of air punched out of your lungs. "You don't have to say that Bucky-" You try to reason, three different excuses of why he doesn't need to be kind on the tip of your tongue.
"It's true." He says, cutting you off. His gaze doesn't falter again, one slow blink but it doesn't cut the weight of his focus.
You break, turning over onto your back. You find a spot on the ceiling, a stain from water damage. It's not particularly fascinating but it doesn't stare like it can see right through you.
You don't answer, fingers twisting together as you bring them to lay on your stomach. The silence hangs between you like a pendulum, swinging back and forth with the rhythm of the train car.
Then a crash down the hall, the shriek of breaking glass followed by a scream.
Before you can even turn your head toward it the train is skidding to an abrupt stop, brakes groaning with tension as the entire thing screeches to a halt.
The force of it throws you forward, headfirst off your bench and into Bucky’s chest.
His instincts kick in before yours can. With no hesitation, his arms lock around your waist, holding you upright and helping steady your balance.
Another scream echos down the hall and Bucky's grip tightens.
His breath tickles your temple as he mutters a firm command, and his tone leaving no room for argument. “We have to go.”
Despite his urgency Bucky waits for you to respond. His hands burn around your waist, between his touch and your nerves all you can muster is a speechless, panicked nod.
Then he's snapping into action, pulling your bags from where they had been neatly stashed below the benches. You watch as as he swings each one over his broad shoulders with a determined huff, head snapping back and forth as he checks the corridor.
You want to help but it's as if your feet are glued to the center of the compartment, fear materializing like concrete blocks around your ankles. That familiar sinking dread, it's frigid tides rushing higher and higher until it begins to lap at your throat—
It’s Bucky’s grip on your wrist that snaps you from the spiral. There’s a gun in his hand that you didn’t even notice him pull out. You’re not sure if the sight of it makes you feel better or worse.
All you know is that the sight of his finger rested over the trigger is enough to make your blood run cold.
“Go,” he insists, pushing you in the direction away from the crash. “I’m right behind you.”
You can't tell if the screams you hear are actually from the train or your own fractured memories seeping through. The panic, the forced calm, the tightness in your chest. It's all the same.
"Walk." Bucky instructs from behind you, "Too loud to run."
You settle for a speed-walk, frantically whipping your head around to check over your shoulder. All the while panic claws up your throat until your breathing is reduced to ragged pants, the coppery taste of anxiety on your tongue.
The only thing keeping you tethered to reality is Bucky trailing a few feet behind. His back is turned to you, gun raised in the direction of the chaos.
You feel like your ears are bleeding, body getting hotter with every passing step. Panic creeps up your neck like a rash, itchy and claustrophobic. Fear bites at your heels, making you pick up the pace.
You’re getting close now, only twenty or so more feet away from the end—
Everything explodes.
Boots, at least three heavy pairs fill the car from the other end. You can tell from sound alone that they’re running, mad steps and long strides that make the ground shake.
Gunfire booms.
As shots crackle through the tight space, you can’t even tell if it’s coming from Bucky or your pursuers.
A window next to you shatters, glass exploding over your head as a bullet passes through the lights above you—
Your ears are ringing, too loud to think, to breathe. As bullets rain down, sparks flying, you can’t make sense of anything.
All you can do is run.
An uncoordinated sprint to the door, shoulders slamming into compartment doors as you fight your way to the end.
Your whole body is trembling by the time you reach the door, tears prickling your eyes. You slam into the surface, elbows buckling as you sway on unsteady feet, delirious from terror pumping through your veins, numb from adrenaline.
You twist the knob, frantic only to find it's locked.
You try again anyway, twisting hard until the metal bites into your palm- “Bucky!” You scream, before you can think better of it.
As you turn to search for him, you find by some miracle that he has already caught up to you. His shoulders are squared, legs spread wide, as if attempting to block your line of sight down the corridor.
You find the carnage anyway, fear blown pupils looking past him and locking onto the pile of men lying in the direction you just came from. Their eyes are vacant, expressions gaunt and twisted, blood already staining the floors beneath. It’s only then you realize the shots you’re still hearing are further away, echoing through the other cars.
It’s Bucky’s fingers that finally pull your gaze away, his thumb and pointer finger redirecting your chin so your eyes focus on him instead. A silent order, don’t look.
“Cover your ears.” he instructs gruffly.
You obey both commands.
Bucky gives the door a quick once-over before raising his gun to shoot the lock. It pops off like plastic, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
As if sensing the panic still bubbling beneath the surface, he gives you a reassuring nod. All you can do is watch in horror as he levels his shoulders and then uses his right side to slam into the door.
The door gives way easily, flying off its hinges into the dark.
You peep out through the gap it left with a nervous swallow, bitter air biting your cheeks as you lean out to try and see.
It’s pitch black, too dark to see more than a few feet in front of you, even if you could, you're deep enough in the forest that the only thing for miles in either direction are trees.
Bucky jumps down first, easily three feet onto the track.
Bucky turns around, holding his arms out to and you know there's only one thing you can do.
Jump.
A chill washes over you, threatening to knock you over where you stand in the door way. The frost nips at your skin, cold, cruel, and gut-wrenchingly familiar. As if to twist the knife-
It's snowing.
Undeterred, Bucky takes a step closer.
Whatever fate awaits you out there, you say a silent prayer that its kinder than the barrel of a gun.
You step into Bucky's hands, letting him take the brunt of the impact as you bend your knees and abandon the shelter of the train.
Bucky holds your hips for a moment longer than necessary, giving them a gentle squeeze before letting go.
"Walk in my foot steps." He tells you, voice just loud enough for you to hear over the wind. He's already digging for something in one of the bags, arm bent back to shove his hand through its the zipper.
You're too busy trying to remember how to breathe to make sense of what it is. A small black rectangle. A burner? A radio? You can barely make out his silhouette through the snow, can barely feel your own nose.
You're practically dizzy with deja-vu. The adrenaline, the cold, the panic.
The blood.
A twisted encore.
You shake it away, forcing yourself to focus on matching Bucky's stride instead.
Right. Left.
Right. Left
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
The further you get from the train the higher your panic climbs. Even as the glow of its lights fade out of view, swallowed by distance and snow, your chest pulls tighter and tighter.
Your body moves on auto-pilot following Bucky's steps and staying just close enough to keep him in your line of sight, vision blurring as you fight to stay where you are. You pants turn into heaves, lungs waging war against the pull of your fear.
The memory stitches itself together, beginning to play every time you dare to blink.
The fire, its heat catching your skin as you sprint through the maze of hallways.
You try to shake it away just to hear more gunshots, the ones from the train. How the tight space amplifies every pop and bang.
You shut your eyes and instead of disappearing the two scenes marry themselves together.
The same rapid fire, the screams of men as they watch bullets enter their bodies. The guards. You can see them. behind every tree you pass, in Bucky's hulking silhouette. They way they crumbled, landing on top of each other as they fell.
The clack of a silencer as it eats the gunfire of your assailants.
That's new.
You can see a shadow every time you turn around, casting itself on the walls as it threatens to turn the corner and find you. Every time you try to shove it away and focus on Bucky's figure ahead it just gets stronger, pulling black spots to the edge of your vision.
You can feel the snow on your knees when your legs give out, melting through the material of your pants and sending it's chill directly to your bones.
You can hear a shout of your name, the shifting of fresh powder as feet rush back to you.
Then it all goes black.
Your dress is heavy.
Something formal. fine fabrics tailored to exact measurements. Layers of velvet and tulle tangling around your calves as you try run. It slows you down, like wading through water.
You mother's palm is sweaty, her grip iron clad as she pulls you through door after door and down corridor after corridor.
You can almost remember her voice, a sing-song tone as she teasingly asks your father- "What on earth are we supposed to do with this much space? You could get lost here."
You think that's exactly what she was trying to do.
Screams have a way of echoing in castles like this.
A cacophony of terror that bounces off of every wall and every time you try to look back towards it she tugs on you harder. Every guard you pass pushes you ahead, stepping together and forming a wall between you and your pursuers.
You hardly get fifty feet away from them when their gunfire starts, only for it to quiet just as quickly.
Down a flight of stairs, moving fast enough to lose both your shoes as they catch on the steps. Then a second flight, dropping at the in the corridor of the staffs' quarters.
You mother doesn't slow. She doesn't falter. She keeps going, taking you with her and around one last corner when a door slams.
With only a hundred feet to the door, she stops.
She turns to you, taking your other hand and in hers and crouching down to your height.
Her face is covered in warmth, a soft, sad smile playing on her lips as she presses her forehead to yours.
"You need to be brave for me, okay?" She tells you, tears starting to gather at her waterline. You nod, confusion swelling as you watch the first drop spill down her cheek.
"You're going to go out that door." She instructs, "And no matter what you hear you can't stop running."
Her eyes are clear, set with a love only mothers can feel and a fear only known by dying women.
You must answer, say something that makes her shake her head.
"No honey," she cradles your head, smoothing your hair as she speaks. "You have to do this alone."
She stands back to her full height, her tears are steady now, falling one after another.
"I love you so much, please remember that."
She bends, just enough to press press her lips to your forehead. You can feel them move as she whispers: "Now go."
Just as she starts to stand, another shot -the closest one yet- goes off.
You jolt awake just as her body hits the ground.
A sharp inhale punches your lungs as you open your eyes..
Slowly, between loud heartbeats and careful exhales, the world comes back into focus. A blanket over you, thread worn and tired but cozy in the way all well-loved objects are. A bed beneath you, thin enough that you're not even sure it can be considered a mattress,
Bucky's lips against your forehead, exactly where your mother's phantom kiss still lingers.
His hand is on the blanket, fingers wrapped around its fraying edge as he pulls it over you.
It's like you're interrupting something, a quiet ritual you didn't even know existed. Bucky's careful movements as he steps away.
With sleep still clogging your eyes he must not notice that they were open, turning his back to you and walking towards another part of the small cabin.
The rest of it reveals itself, a small fireplace where a steady flame warms the room. A dust covered bookshelf and the barest necessities of a kitchen. Your bags are set by the door, ready for a quick exit. On the floor sits a flat pillow and a blanket even more tired than yours.
You don't hesitate.
"You're not sleeping on the floor."
Your voice is still groggy, rough from sleep and screams.
Bucky doesn't startle, doesn't turn to face you.
So he did know you were awake.
"I'm fine." He promises, voice not unkind, just tired.
"You haven't slept in two days." You say, as if he needs the reminder.
"You need the sleep more." He argues, finally relenting and turning back to you. He takes the few short steps back towards the bed, standing at the side of it once more. Close enough that the light from the fire casts his shadow over you. "No arguments."
You sigh, sitting up and scooting yourself over to the far side of the bed. With a lazy hand you pat the newly created space next to you. "See? Plenty of room."
It's really not, only a few feet, hardly enough space for Bucky to lay down with his shoulders pressing into yours.
So you turn onto your side, laying with your back to him. As if you're completely unbothered by the concept of being so close. As if the feeling of the bed bowing with his weight doesn't make your heart stutter.
Your nervous system has already been through so much today, so what the hell, sure.
The lamp on the end table is flicked off, plunging you into near darkness once more.
Its minutes before speaks, voice low as he whispers, "You okay?"
You want to laugh. Are you? You don't know what okay feels like anymore.
Instead you turn, a slow shift onto to your other side until you're facing him.
Bucky is flat on his back, blue eyes trained at the ceiling, shoulders rigid as steel.
The tension you felt on the train creeps back in, rising up your legs like goosebumps and settling in the cavern of your chest. You're almost in the same positions too, only this time there is none of the distance that kept you safe earlier.
Bucky turns his cheek to the pillow, finally meeting your gaze as he waits for your response.
"Yes." You whisper. "Thanks to you."
You'd stopped trying to thank Bucky for saving life half-way through your first day together. When he'd explained his mission, his purpose, and told you that at the end of the day this was just him doing his job.
What happened on the train felt different though. Protection is one thing. The look in his eyes when he put his body between yours a bullet is another.
Bucky shakes his head,and instead of his usual nonchalance, he slices through your soul with something else entirely.
"I'd do it again." He says, turning onto his side to match you.
The movement leaves hardly a foot of space between you.
His words hang in the air, heavy and charged. The last part is unsaid, but implied when for just moment a his eyes dare to glace at you lips.
I'd do it again, for you.
It makes your nerves sing, skin turning warm. For the first time in years you don't feel that ever present chill.
You dare too, blinking down to his lips, close enough to see their chapped curve and his tempting cupid's bow.
When you find his eyes again he's still staring. Glinting at you as if you hold his future in your palm, dangling it just out reach. They're heartbroken in the next blink, as if you've already taken it all away.
You wonder how you look to him.
Unmoored? Leveling out like a ship that's finally docked. Desperate? Clinging to any sense of safety you can get your hands on. Broken? Can be see the fractures that splinter your soul beyond memory?
Of course he can.
And that should scare the shit out of you.
What scares you more is that it doesn't.
You're not sure who reaches across the divide, what body caves first but you finally meet in the middle. Lips pressed to lips, heads resting on one shared pillow. Hands fighting through layers of blanket to finally reach out and touch.
Yours his neck and shoulders, one hand under his jaw the other where metal meets flesh. Bucky's find your hips, large palms encasing them and then using his new found grip to pull you against him, not stopping until a hearts meet.
Bucky's arms curl around your back, holding you to him as if you could disappear if he doesn't hold you tight enough.
It feels safe and secure, serenity settling over you like a blanket.
The kiss is… different than you would have ever pictured.
Bucky kisses like it's repentance.
Plush lips that press against yours with the hunger of a man begging for forgiveness. You don't doubt that if you asked, he would get on his knees. Reeking of earnestness in the way he tilts his head, nudging his nose against yours to press even deeper.
It's clumsy in a way, teeth clicking together when you try to deepen it. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging in when Bucky laves his tongue inside your mouth, entire body tingling with delight when he hums at your taste.
Your legs tangle themselves with his, one meaty thigh slotting itself between your own and then pressing up.
The gasp you let out is a quiet thing, breathed against his mouth in half-shock and half-pleasure.
He does it again, firmer this time. Knee pressing against your cunt with purpose, a clear goal as he rocks it against you. You can't help the whimper, hips wiggling against him in an attempt to get even more friction. It makes Bucky's chest vibrate, his lips press against yours just a little harder.
The room spins until your back presses into the mattress, Bucky rolling onto of you and resting his weight on his forearms beside your head. He pulls back with a ragged breath and blown pupils, plush lips blushing red where your teeth snagged them.
He looks wrecked, like your kiss blew a hole through his chest.
He looks like he wants you to do it again.
The conversation is silent. A soft nod, guided hands, the sound of buttons coming undone and sleeves pushed down arms. Your shirt is lifted over your head with Bucky's help, pants slid down your legs and tossed onto the floor.
Your bra and panties join in shortly after.
You pull Bucky's shirt up, deliberately dragging your nails over the sensitive skin of his chest as you do so. Watching with pleasure as the carved muscles in his torso dance.
He deals with his own pants, belt unbuckled with one hand and tugged through the loops in one swift movement. Until finally all that's left is bare skin.
It's almost comical you think, how quickly You've gone from end of the spectrum to the other. From jumping at the slightest touch to willingly laying yourself bare to him.
Bucky's gaze lingers when he's done, dragging slowly up your body.
He follows the lines of your hips, the gentle swell of your ribcage and the way it charts a path to the underside of your breasts.
It makes you squirm.
"Been a-" you clear your throat, mouth suddenly dry. "-awhile." You gesture down your body as you say it, as if warning him.
Bucky scoffs, obviously offended by your implication, as if he could find something wrong with the flesh you've offered him.
He flattens himself over you, lowering his body until his chest presses tight to yours and you can feel his length against the inside of your thigh. Hot, aching, and already weeping just from a few kisses.
"Me too." He promises, sealing it with another press of his lips to yours.
It makes you preen up into him, a delighted hum echoing through your throat as you arch into his touch.
Your shelter under the covers heats up quickly, the air trapped beneath it turning muggy. It threatens to cackle with electricity, a charge passed back and forth with every kiss.
Your hands appreciate his bare chest, roaming over his pecs and across the expanse of his ribs. You drift further down to the lower curve of his abdomen, thumb rolling down to play with the trickle of hair beneath his belly button.
It send a shiver up his spine, a stuttered breath exhaled against your lips as his hips jerk.
"Sensitive." You whisper, carding your hand through his hair instead, a small act of mercy.
Bucky huffs a laugh.
His own hands start their own exploration, one sliding underneath you back while the other reaches between your thighs. Fingertips meet slick heat, coating themselves with wetness as he takes an experimental pass through your folds.
You cant your hips toward his hand. Body instinctively reaching for more of his touch.
Bucky obliges, deft fingers drawing through again.
"Eager." He counters, a boyish smirk painting his face a red shade of smug.
A whimper escapes, small, pathetic and entirely too honest. You can't find it in your self to care, too busy chasing the electric pleasure that comes with every nonchalant pass through your folds.
Bucky either reads your mind, or takes pity on your worked up cunt, because finally he finds your clit.
Or more accurately, finally aims for it.
With deadly precision, he pushes the hood up and then flattens the pad of his thumb against it with deadly precision.
An embarrassing amount of slick floods your cunt. Your body reacting two fold to his ministrations. It drips down to your inner thighs, shining between them like a secret. Then it goes even further, pooling beneath you in the sheets and leaving an ugly wet spot.
Bucky's breath catches at the sight, his thumb still working your clit with slow circles as he takes in your ruin.
"God," he sighs, kneeling back onto his haunches. The movement places him squarely between your legs. Before you can even think to be embarrassed, his free hand grabs one of your legs and pushes it aside, giving himself a better view.
"When was the last time someone took care of you?" He asks, breathless.
You turn your head into the pillow, too embarrassed to speak. The words hit harder than just sex. They reveal more than just desire. Because in truth, you can't remember the last time someone took care of you. Period. When someone made you feel safe, never-mind made you feel wanted. The emotion catches in your throat, welling into a lump and leaving you with no recourse.
"Been a while." You echo, voice thin enough to break.
The dull ends of Bucky's fingertips press at your entrance. Two, his index and ring finger.
He pulls his hand away from your thigh, leaning back over you and grabbing your chin with his hand forcing you to look at him.
"Gonna let me?" He asks. His movement on your clit never wavers, letting the sensation cool from sharp and inspected unexpected to a gentle thrumming beneath your skin.
You wonder if he means just your body.
You hope he means more.
You nod, fervent and desperate to find out .
Bucky's fingers push inside you without much resistance, your body immediately clamping down as if to keep them.
He sucks in a sharp breath, blinking in disbelief as he watches your cunt swallow his fingers.
"So tight." He whispers, nearly awed. "Fuckin' perfect."
Your body preens from the praise, cunt squeezing down on him in delight.
Bucky smirk widens, bordering on a full smile. He crooks his fingers, as if testing your reaction to that too.
It sends a shock up your back, his index dragging over a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. Its earth shattering.
"Bucky!" You gasp, hand flying to his hair as you desperately reach for anything that can ground you. "Need you," You pant, pushing your hips onto his hand, trying to take him even deeper. "Please."
A moan falls from his pretty lips, wrecked and deep. It makes your gut twist.
"You sure?" Bucky asks again anyway, despite the fact that he's currently wrist deep in your slick.
You could cry, body wrought with want so bad it nearly hurts.
"Please." You whine, tilting your chin up just enough to place a mean kiss on his lips. More teeth and tongue than anything else. You nip at his bottom lip, hard enough to have him groaning into your mouth.
Bucky pulls his fingers out, not bothering to wipe them off when he uses the same hand to grab your chin. His grip isn't mean, but tight enough to keep you in place. Forcing you to hold eye contact as he uses his free hand to notch the head of his cock at your entrance.
Then, just as he starts to ease himself in, he kisses you. The roughest he's dared, lips claiming over yours as he uses his own mouth to pry your open. It lets him swallow every noise that escapes as he works himself inside you. Inch by inch he inhales every moan, whimper, and gasp like its oxygen.
In return he feeds you his, exhaling back choked grunts and pleasured sighs. Even as he bottoms out you stay connected, mouths parted against each other as you share the same lungfuls of air.
You're so full, cunt spasming around his cock as you stretch to take him. Its the deepest anyone's ever dared to reach, the hottest your body has ever managed to feel. From the inside out Bucky burns away your ice.
Slowly, your bodies start to make their own rhythm, your hips pulling up, nearly trying to escape just for Bucky's to chase them, angling until he's hitting even deeper than before.
Methodical rolls of your bodies hardly dramatic enough to be considered thrusts and yet here you are, whimpering every time Bucky pulls close enough to press his pelvis to yours.
Eventually lips part, the torture too much to bear. They become a press of foreheads instead, Bucky's forearms coming over to rest beside your head as he finally gives into his baser instincts.
A slow pull, dragging his cock out to the tip. Tortuous enough to let you feel every vein and curve that decorates it. He holds there, gasping as you clench around nothing but his head.
The push back in however, lacks the same self-control. A quick push until he's bottomed out one more, punching the air out of you with a well aimed thrust just over your g-spot.
You writhe, pushing your chest up into Bucky's as your hands reach around to his back, nails digging in just to drag down when he starts to pull out again. Despite your better judgment you know they're hard enough that he'll be decorated with scratches in the morning.
It only spurs him on, another thrust just like it, followed by another, until all you can hear is your own heartbeat and the slapping of skin on skin.
You're so close, driven closer to the edge but also to delirium. It's as if you're floating, leaving your body behind on the sheets as Bucky takes you apart piece by piece.
If you were any more coherent you would see he isn't much better off.
Frantic whispers against your skin, incomprehensible to your pleasure-drunk mind.
"God so good." He pants, one hand finally reaching back for your clit, two fingers fumbling until he finally manages to find it again. "So perfect." muttered when you drag your nails down his back again.
"Can't-" He gasps, hips stuttering as you start to break around him. "Don't deserve this." Right before one last messy kiss.
"I'm sorry," nearly sobbed as you finally cum.
"I'm so fucking sorry." When he does.
You come back to earth unaware of it all, blissed out and smiling as you wait for your heart to steady. Bucky is still inside you, softening with every passing second and yet you have no desire for him to go anywhere. Chest to chest- heart to heart, for the first time in years you feel truly utterly calm.
Across the room the fire cackles, a loud pop disturbing your peace.
You can't help your jolt, a brief flash of panic at the sound and sudden wave of heat. It startles both you and Bucky, makes you clench around him and his dick startle in return.
You seize for a moment, before relaxing back into the mattress, a giggle bouncing off your lips.
Bucky presses one last kiss to your forehead, and finally pulls out, hissing at the air when he does. Gently, he falls back to his side of the bed, fixing the blanket so it lays properly over both of your bodies.
"Sorry." You groan, turning into his chest with embarrassment. "I get a little jumpy around fire."
"Can't say I blame you." Bucky chuckles, his arm curling protectively around your back. "You were right where it started. I'd be pretty jumpy too if I was that close."
You're already drifting, eyes falling shut as Bucky says something else. Some thing about being lucky that you didn't have any burns, and even more so frostbite, with how cold it was that night.
Bucky must realize you're dozing, a soft press of his lips to your forehead as he whispers against your skin.
"Goodnight Princess."
You're too tired to realize it's the first time he's called you that. Too tired to wonder why it sends a chill up your spine. Too tired to remember that you never told him about the fire.
Your mother crumples to the ground at your feet, spraying you in her blood and revealing her last act of heroism to have been pointless anyway.
He's already found you.
At the end of the hall, the man who's been trailing you since you started running.
Black tactical gear, a carbon mask and mysterious long hair. The rest of his face is distorted by shadows, hiding the rest of him from view. His gun, a short thing with a silencer over the barrel, is already pointed at you.
Frozen in place, you're unable to move, scream, or even cry. It's all too much, your mind abandoning your body completely and leaving you trapped in a never-ending staring match.
You're not sure how long you stand there. Nothing between you and death but ten feet and a puddle of blood.
At some point you reach up to brush your face, palm pulling across your cheek in hopes to pluck a plan free too.
Instead all you manage is to sneak blood from your chin to your ear.
You're sure it's not yours.
Suddenly, a window bursts behind him. Sound explodes into the hallway, a tortured scream married with the sound of a raging fire. It heats the hallway, casting its light onto the man and illuminating the last piece of his identity.
His eyes, ice blue and empty.
Eyes you know too well.
Detached, as if looking at you through the scope of a rifle. Finger hovering over the trigger. As if killing you wasn't apart of his plan, as if he had no instructions for you.
His eyes flicker, between you and the door, and then to your mother's corpse at your feet.
The flames lick closer, temperature rising with every passing second. With one last packed glance, your assailant lifts a hand to remove his mask. It drops to the floor, revealing the bottom half of his face without ceremony.
"Go." He instructs, tone emotionless and firm. "Now." He nods to the door.
With no choice but to listen, you body finally responds.
You run, hard enough to leave an echo as your feet stomp towards escape.
He stalks you to the door, stopping in its arch after you barrel through and onto the snow covered ground outside.
You look back one more time, eyes turning glassy as you try your best to commit his face to memory.
"Goodnight princess." He says, and with the force of an earthquake, he pulls the door shut, letting the loud thump echo through the night.
You hear the locks turn from the other side, effectively trapping himself in.
Frozen in the in the snow, you watch in horror as the flames spread higher and higher, until they're bursting out of every window.
A scream echoes, possibly your own.
Finally, you start to run.
Morning comes with a vengeance.
There's no startle when you wake, no gasp for air or blinking of sleep from your eyes. Only sick dread.
The bed has long gone cold on Bucky's side, empty sheets and his abandoned pillow. The only proof of last night is the marks on your skin, all the places where those loving touches had lingered.
The cold has crept back in, fire long burned out both in the hearth and your soul.
Bucky's only a few feet away, standing at the stove with a pot of water boiling. "Thought I'd make tea." He says, his tone is jovial, his posture the straightest you've seen it.
Your clothes are folded at the end of the bed, and with no sureness in your movements, you slowly put them back on. Your body is stiff, aching but not with that sweet, morning after ache. No these are sharp, stabs that come from betraying yourself.
Your mind races.
Maybe I made it up.
It can't have been him.
Yet every time you blink you see it. Bucky holding the gun. Bucky closing the door. Bucky killing your mother, Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky.
Bucky was there.
With stiff joints you stand, even as your mind swims, you walk towards him.
A mug waits for you on the small table, steaming and ready to ease your chill. You could drink it. You could forget. If you tried hard enough you could blame this all on poor memory and blue eyes.
Then you look at him.
Smiling at you like you've hung the moon, joy oozing out of every pore. The same arms that made you feel so safe last night crossed neatly over his chest. His eyes waiting impatiently for you to meet them.
When you do, you realize there is no other option. The room blurs, replacing the cabin with stone walls and the lips that you kissed with a mask.
A cold breeze rolls through you with a whisper.
"Goodnight Princess."
You sit at the table, and take a small sip, unable to break the eye contact even as it threatens to break you completely.
Bucky sits across from you, setting his own mug next to yours as he speaks. "Thought maybe we could spend a few days here." He says, light and excited. "We're only a couple hours from Paris, thought you might want to enjoy privacy while you still have it."
Last night you would have jumped at the chance, jumped him.
Instead, the chill rises, pressing up to your chin.
"You know," You change the subject, choking on every word you can muster. "I'd never traveled before this."
"I only travel." He offers, "Can't remember the last time I felt safe enough to stay in one place."
You hum through another sip of tea. Letting it burn down your throat before you answer.
"You win."
The air hangs tight between you, slow blinks as you both hold the other's gaze.
"Do you know-" You push again, voice turning hard "-that before this test, I had no idea what my actual name was."
It's true, there was nothing on you that gave away who you were other than a fancy dress and jewelry. Even that was hardly enough to go on to start throwing around words like princess. So they chose something all the nuns liked, gave it to you like second hand clothes.
Bucky swallows, looking down at his tea for a moment before back to you.
"I didn't know that." He says. He opens his mouth again, ready to drop the pretense of the games but you interrupt.
"Do you know they told me they were sending someone else before you? A woman, someone Russian. Things changed last minute because you asked to come."
You didn't think anything of it at the time, too busy trying to come to terms with your lineage to wrap your head around security and who wanted to be where. It's only falling into place now.
Bucky's gaze turns, his shoulders curling in on themselves as he avoids your gaze. You can see him swallow. throat ticking in anticipation of whatever you'll say next.
"Do you know-" You bite one more time, standing up from your chair. "-I slept with the man who murdered my family."
Bucky freezes, entire body pulling taut with tension. His face falls, but not into shock, no something worse.
Resignation.
"Do I win?" You ask, spitting the words at him.
Across the table, Bucky nods.
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This fix had haunted me since November, I love it and I am so glad it’s posted because now I never have to look at it again. 🩷 anyway I love you all!!! say it back!!!
also don't worry guys, you go to Paris alone, safely and meet a very handsome rich man who didn't kill you mom. Bucky goes to therapy <3
Summary: After seeing you take it, Bob is desperate to take Ava's strap. You try to warn him that it's quite the stretch, but he's determined that tonight will be the night. And with your and Ava's help, maybe he's right. And maybe he won't be the only one cumming on Ava's cock.
Tags/Warnings: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, smut, a little bit of hurt/comfort, AFAB reader, whiny/needy Bob, threesome, strap on, sex toys, anal sex (m receiving), vaginal sex, some pain/discomfort at first, safe words, condom use, breast play, light choking, mentions of chronic pain, mentions of blowjobs, f receiving anal sex, and cunnilingus
A/N: This is named after the Allie X song of the same name. Honestly, this throuple is so damn hot, and we desperately need more fics with Ava. And with a whimpery Bob.
This one is really for @theboardwalkbody and @avastarred. The former gave me the idea of an Ava/Bob/Reader threesome, and the latter motivated me to write it.
Bob was already a mess.
Holding his head in your hands, you got to see it up close and personal. Even though he was biting his lip, Bob was barely holding back the little whimpers he wanted to let out. It was hard to tell whether they were from pain, pleasure, or a mixture of both. Sweat beaded on his forehead already. You wiped it away and gently kissed his closed eyelids, lips coming away wet with unshed tears.
It's not like it was Bob's first time. You'd played with him before, you and Ava both. First a finger, then a few. He worked his way up to a plug that he wore around the Watchtower all day, fighting the erection that kept springing to life at the lightest breeze. He'd even taken a cock before, but those toys were much smaller than the one currently inside of him. You'd warned him that this one took some adjusting to, that no matter how prepared he thought he was, Bob wasn't ready.
But your boyfriend was nothing if not determined; he wanted Ava's cock.
He only caught mere glimpses of it as Ava fucked you open with her strap, utterly mesmerized as it disappeared inside of you over and over again with each snap of her hips. He'd watched with awe when you'd knelt between them, taking turns to suck both of them off, really only able to see the head as you stroked whichever cock wasn't currently in your mouth. He'd even felt it up against his when they fucked you at the same time, Bob deep inside your ass as Ava buried herself in your pretty pussy. And if his girlfriend was going to fuck him, he wanted the real thing. Or the silicone equivalent at least.
Both you and Ava had taken your time with him, slowly warming him up and stretching his tight little ass over multiple sessions to get this far. There'd been some failed attempts previously when you'd thrown in the towel and gotten yourselves off the old fashioned way. But today was the day, and your girlfriend's hips were pressed firmly against Bob's, that huge cock buried up to the hilt inside of him.
Even from your angle underneath him, you could see Ava's hands as she rubbed them up and down his back.
"How are you doing, my love?" Ava murmured, her voice impossibly tender in a way that made your heart ache.
"Need to say your safe word?" you asked. Bob just shook his head wordlessly, soft brown curls bouncing a little more vigorously than he probably intended.
Both you and Ava stayed still, giving him the time he needed to adjust. It was so difficult watching him struggle and not being able to touch and soothe him. But you knew from experience that Bob was in sensory overload, both from the overwhelming feeling of the massive toy inside of him and from his quickly-softening cock buried deep inside of you.
When Bob's breathing began evening out, Ava was the one who broached the subject again.
"Color?" she prompted gently. When Bob didn't respond, you could hear the frown on her face when she followed up. "Bob?"
"I…I don't know," he admitted, burying his face into your chest.
"That means 'yellow,' then," Ava said. You felt her start to move away, to pull out, but his hands shot out, moving almost inhumanly fast to grasp at her thighs to keep her there.
Bob didn't seem to hear the small, sharp inhale of breath from the woman on top of you both, but you did. Tilting your head to the side, you peered up at your girlfriend questioningly, concern written all over your face.
Today was a bad pain day for Ava, one of the ones where she didn't dare take off her suit. She'd once said that it felt like it was like her body was trying to fly apart, like her very molecules were billiard balls that scattered even when they weren't struck. And her Ghost suit was what she'd used most of her life to hold it all in. Even though Bob didn't grip hard, just the firmness of his touch was enough to make Ava flinch.
Ava bore it with a thin smile that told you everything you needed to know. Yes, it hurt, but it was bearable. She could breathe through the pain the same way Bob was doing.
"Please don't," Bob begged, his voice dangerously close to a whine. "Don't pull out. Not yet."
"All right, my love," Ava cooed, leaning down to plant a series of lingering kisses on his shoulders. "Take all the time you need. We're right here."
"We don't have to keep going," you offered, lightly running your fingers through his hair. "You've already gone so far, been so good for us."
"No."
When Bob lifted his head, you could swear you saw a flash of gold there. But it was gone before you could even blink. In its place was the same glint of determination you'd seen many times before, both in the battlefield and in your relationship with Bob. He'd made up his mind. Today would be the day.
At your look of concern, Bob's expression softened. "I'm okay. It's not too much for me."
You gazed into his eyes, your other hand coming up to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch, nuzzling into your palm, not breaking eye contact for even a second. You could stop this. If you called out your safe word, the session would be over instantly, and you could try again later. Maybe you could even convince Bob to try a slightly smaller toy to warm him up better first. But, as much as you craved it, you knew better than to baby your boyfriend. He was tougher than the world gave him credit for. Hell, he was tougher than he gave himself credit for.
"You promise?" you asked, eyes darting back and forth between his stormy blue ones, as if you could divine the truth there for yourself.
"I promise," he answered almost solemnly, and you saw what you needed to see. He was telling the truth.
You pressed your lips to his in a much more tender kiss than the situation at hand called for, but it was perfect.
Ava seemed to wait for your little moment to end before she spoke again, her voice soft. "Take your time, Bob. Just tell me when you're ready for more."
He nodded his assent, and all three of you waited.
Slowly but surely, Bob's muscles relaxed. Starting with his shoulders, his body loosened, coaxed by your kisses and Ava's murmured encouragement until he gradually went limp on top of you.
Taking a few more deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, Bob nodded, giving Ava the go ahead. "Green. You can move. Just…slowly, please."
Ava pulled back incrementally until there were a few inches between Bob's ass and her hips, but she paused before sliding back inside. As if sensing her hesitation, Bob did the best he could to wiggle his hips. It was more like slowly adjusting himself, but Ava seemed to get the hint.
"You ready?" she asked.
Bob nodded his head. "Please," he urged. "I'm still green. Keep going."
Ava took her time, slowly working her cock back into Bob. He closed his eyes, and you could tell by the breathing pattern that he was doing his meditation breathing, the one his therapist taught him.
It was slow going. Ava took her time, gradually deepening her strokes, pulling out more and more and sliding back into him faster. And, aside from Ava having to take a small break to stretch after her hip started twinging, it was fairly smooth sailing.
That is until Ava twitched.
She didn't mean to do it. Even at her most teasing, Ava never fucked you at such an agonizingly slow pace. So when her muscles spasmed and she thrust into Bob much more roughly than before, you braced yourself, wincing in anticipation of his inevitable twinge of pain.
But that twinge never came. Instead, Bob gasped. And his cock inside of you throbbed.
"Fuck!" Ava swore, freezing in place. "Oh, Bob. I'm so sorry! That was a complete accident."
Bob looked like he wanted to respond but just couldn't, resting his head on your chest and taking in deep, shaky breaths.
"I think he's okay," you murmured, brushing some of his hair out of his face to get a better look at him.
"Sweetheart, are you all right?" Ava prompted, rubbing her hand up and down his back in soothing motions.
Not lifting his head, Bob nodded against your chest. He mumbled something, but it was too muffled to make out.
"What was that, sugar?" you asked him.
He lifted his head just enough to be understood.
"Again," Bob said, his voice dipping low and rumbling in a way that made your pulse flutter.
"Are you sure -" Ava started, but Bob took matters into his own hands. Shifting his body more firmly onto his knees, Bob rocked back hard enough to slightly throw Ava off balance when his ass met her hips. She quickly steadied herself by grasping at him - one hand on his waist, the other on his shoulder.
Your first instinct was to check on Bob, to make sure he hadn't pushed himself too far. But the shuddery moan he let out combined with the way his eyes rolled back in his head told you all you needed to know.
"Right there, baby?" you purred, cupping his face to better watch his every expression. His eyes already started to unfocus and his lips parted, that dazed look he always got when you and Ava played with his prostate already starting to show on his face.
"Yeah," he breathed. With what seemed like great effort, Bob lifted his gaze to yours. "'M good. Color's green."
"Ready for me to move?" Ava asked.
When Bob responded with "fuck yes," Ava's throaty chuckle sent shivers down your spine. It was like that simple sound reminded you where you were - under Bob and under her. From the dangerous glint in her eyes, Ava was more than ready to fuck you both into oblivion.
The first thrust made Bob inhale sharply, his whole body tensing again. The second thrust only made him tense a little. Not in pain, just a little stiff and unused to the feeling. The third thrust made his own hips twitch forward into you, his hardening cock hammering into that spot inside of you, forcing a moan past your lips.
"Yeah?" Ava asked. This time, she didn't really need an answer. The smug tone told you everything you needed to know. She knew what she was doing to the both of you.
"Fuck, Ava…" Bob groaned, pushing back into her strap, trying to take even more of her.
"No, I think I rather enjoy fucking you," Ava purred.
You wanted to say something. You tried to say something. Something witty or even just telling her to get the hell on with it, but your girlfriend seemed to anticipate your needs just like she always did.
Before the words left your mouth, Ava slammed her hips into Bob's, jolting him impossibly further inside of you. All you could do was hold on for the ride.
The three of you became one unit. It was like Bob was her proxy; each time she pistoned her cock into him, you could feel it pounding into your leaking core. Each grind of her hips caused Bob to rut into you, making your eyes roll back in your head. And each time her ungloved hand came down against the meat of Bob's ass, you felt it reverberate through his body into yours, making your clit throb in time with his cock.
If Bob was a mess before, he was a disaster now. He'd given up trying to kiss your lips or mouth at your breasts. His face was buried in your neck, which did little to muffle all the delicious noises Ava forced out of him, his breath hot and wet against your skin.
And you weren't much better. All you could do was lay there and take whatever Ava deigned to give you, whether it was pounding into you like it was her mission to fuck you into oblivion or to tease with light, shallow strokes that only made you and Bob both beg for more. There was no way of telling what you looked like. Despite Ava's threats, she hadn't installed a mirror on the ceiling of her bedroom, so you couldn't see how wrecked you were. But judging by the heat in Ava's gaze, focused on you with laser precision, you were also visibly falling apart.
When Bob's breath hitched and his cock pulsed inside of you, Ava caught your eye. Neither of you had to say it out loud. You both knew - Bob was close.
With a quick nod, Ava doubled down, grasping his hips and ramming into Bob. From the sharp, keening wail Bob let out, she was nailing his prostate. In turn, the head of Bob's cock pounded into your g-spot relentlessly. Pressure grew rapidly inside of you, tension rising further with each stroke of Ava's hips.
But it wasn't fast enough. Before you could reach your peak, Bob shuddered on top of you, letting out a cry as he came, filling you with rope after rope of his cum. Each one made him shake like it was forced out of him, hips spasming with each fresh wave that coursed over him.
When he was finished, Bob practically melted against you, his whole body turning into dead weight. With some effort, you and Ava managed to maneuver him off you, rolling him onto his side. Ava even helped lift his head so you could slip a pillow under it to support his neck.
As Ava busied herself disposing of the condom on her strap and grabbing some wet wipes, Bob's breathing slowly began to even out.
Turning to your side to face him, you reached out, brushing the damp curls off his brow.
"How are you doing, handsome?" you asked him. The radiant but sleepy smile he flashed you told you everything you needed to know, along with the almost dopey expression on his face, the result of that hit of endorphin overload from his orgasm.
"Tired. Words're hard," Bob murmured, letting his eyes slip shut as you gave him a kiss right on the tip of his nose. Draping your arm around him, you let Bob snuggle closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.
"Mmm, no wonder you're tired. Long day?" you teased, smiling when you felt the soft rumble of Bob's chest against your skin as he chuckled in response.
"Long somethin'," he muttered, peaking one eye open to look at you and grinning when you let out a little burst of laughter.
"But good?" you asked.
"Fuckin' amazing," he affirmed with a little nod, letting his eyes shut again. "Worth it."
You both lay there for who knows how long, the only movement the gentle rise and fall of your breathing and the circular motion of Bob's hand idly tracing some nebulous pattern into the skin of your stomach. His touch was so light, it was just shy of tickling but enough to make goosebumps rise on your cool flesh, your nipples hardening to peaks at the continued sensation. Despite the way your core throbbed from Bob's touch and from the echoes of him inside of you, he didn't appear to be trying to get a rise out of you. It was completely innocent, so you ignored the wetness you could feel building between your legs.
Until you felt another hand join his. At first, you thought Bob had somehow managed to shift himself enough to touch you with both hands, but the angle was wrong.
Blearily, you lifted your head, briefly watching the movements of both - a larger hand with long, thick fingers that traced over your flesh like it was an act of worship and another, smaller hand with slender, more dexterous fingers that touched you with a sense of familiarity and even ownership as it trailed up your body, tracing just under the curve of your breasts. There was no ignoring the heat that raced through your body or the way your nipples tightened almost painfully, raising high as if pleading for some merciful touch.
"You didn't cum."
It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact.
As you turned your head to face Ava's heated gaze, you couldn't bring yourself to lie, to placate her, to say that Bob finishing was enough for you.
"No," you murmured, barely moving your lips. Her eyes slipped down to watch you form the word anyway. When she looked back up into your eyes, Ava didn't hide the pleased smirk on her face.
"You hear that, baby?" Ava said to Bob. When you glanced at your boyfriend, gone was the look of sleepy contentment. Bob was fully awake, his focus razor sharp, like a shark who had scented blood in the water and was ready to attack.
"That just won't do," Ava continued. Bob nodded his agreement, eyes only breaking away from yours to watch the rise and fall of your chest. "Can't leave our girl wanting, now can we?"
Before you could move, or think, or even breathe, Ava gripped your thighs and tugged sharply, pulling you further down the bed. Your head slipped off your pillow and thumped noiselessly against the mattress. You gasped. At first, it was from the sudden movement. But it turned shaky at the end when you felt something hard and slick against your slit.
"Ava," you practically whimpered, which only made her smirk spread into a smug grin.
"Don't worry," she teased, rubbing the head of the silicone cock through your slick folds. "Cleaned her all up for you."
"Can I…?" Bob cleared his throat, looking almost bashful when you both turned to him. "Can I help?"
"'Course, baby," Ava cooed. Reaching out, she brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear before pulling him into an all-too brief open-mouthed kiss. "We gotta take care of our sweet girl."
Before long, Bob's mouth was latched onto your breast, tongue swirling around the peak. The other wasn't lonely; Bob was rolling your nipple between his forefinger and thumb, lightly tugging at your skin enough to make you let out a shaky groan. You fisted your hand in his hair, not tugging or trying to direct him, just holding onto him.
Bob's eyes weren't closed or even monitoring you. They were focused on Ava, greedily watching as she lined up her cock, letting it nudge against your entrance.
Words weren't needed. Just a raised eyebrow in question and a nod of the head in answer, and Ava's cock slowly filled you.
You couldn't hold back your gasp at the feeling of being stretched, your walls gripping the silicone tightly as though trying to feel every ridge, every synthetic vein carved into it. Between Ava's girthy strap and Bob's thick, curved cock, it no longer hurt when either of them fucked you. Especially when you were as wet as you were now, slick soaking the already-lubricated phallus inside of you as it inched forward.
Soon enough, Ava's hips rested against yours. She paused there, letting you acclimate to her length. Deep, calming breaths were the key, but it was hard to fully expand your lungs with Bob's lips and hand putting pressure on your chest. With one exhale, you could swear you saw the bulge in your stomach where the dildo firmly rested inside of you.
"Fuck, you take me so well, baby," Ava practically purred, stroking her hand soothingly along your side. "Greedy little pussy could barely wait her turn, hmm?"
You nodded again, but that wasn't good enough for Ava this time. Rearing back, she let her hand come down on your flank, the clap of her flesh meeting yours ringing in your ears as you writhed in both pain and pleasure. You could swear it jostled her dick inside of you, jarring that sweet spot and making you see little pinpricks of light behind your eyes.
"Yes, ma'am," you gasped out, fisting the sheets under you as you fought to not buck against her even as your body longed for more friction.
"Good girl," Ava crooned, pulling partway out and looking down to admire the way your juices glistened on her cock before plunging it back inside of you.
She didn't hold back for long. When you started moaning instead of gasping at her thrusts, Ava picked up speed, pounding you into the bed.
The only time she stopped was to adjust her angle, leaning back onto the balls of her feet and pulling your hips up to meet hers. It took a few tries, but when you felt the tip hit that spongy spot inside of you, you couldn't bite back the cry that came out of you. Her face practically glowed with satisfaction at the sound, before she doubled down, furiously pistoning her cock in and out of you.
It didn't take long before that delicious pressure started building in you again, picking up right where you'd left off with Bob inside of you. His lips and hands on your breasts, the head of her strap pummeling your g-spot, and the sheer thrill of being taken apart underneath both of your partners ramped your pleasure up and up and up. It felt like a coil that was threatening to break loose inside of you, but it needed something more. One extra little thing to push you over the edge.
"So close," you pleaded, practically sobbing the words. "Please!"
Ava understood immediately. Even though you couldn't voice the words, she could.
"Touch her, Bob," she commanded through panting breaths. It wasn't often that Ava seemed anything less than cool and collected, but the beads of perspiration on her forehead and shortness of breath betrayed her effort.
And he obeyed, slipping two fingers slick with the spit he'd lathed over your aching breasts between your legs. They found your clit like they were magnetized to it, quickly falling into the circular rhythm he knew from experience you needed when you were this close.
Without meaning to, your eyes slipped shut. Normally, Ava would demand you look into her eyes as you cum. This time she said nothing, letting the sensations wash over you as she pounded your cunt for all it was worth, grunting as your hips met her clothed ones over and over again.
The coil tightened inside of you. You could practically feel the edge, like it was a mountain you stood on the precipice of, dangling your toes over the side. But even that wasn't enough, and your orgasm stayed just out of your desperate reach.
But then you felt it - Ava's hand. She stretched, reaching over Bob and squishing his hand between your bodies, and wrapped her fingers around the column of your throat. Your eyes fluttered open to meet her intense stare. She pinned you with her heated gaze, and the world seemed to narrow down to just that moment: her cock inside of you, Bob's fingers dancing on your clit, and Ava's delicate fingers folded around your even-more-delicate neck.
It took one word. When Ava ordered you to cum and tightened her hold on your throat, you flew over the edge, as if her words flung you over that proverbial mountain and you were free falling. Your orgasm hit you like a physical weight, punching the air out of your lungs as you wailed wordlessly, thrashing your body in ecstasy. Neither Bob nor Ava slowed down, eking every last ounce of pleasure out of you as you writhed.
You didn't feel when Ava stopped moving her hips or Bob removed his hand. You didn't even feel it when the strap pulled out of you, leaving a trail of your slick behind that Ava idly wiped on the sheets. You were somewhere else entirely, weightless and floating in the sea of your own afterglow.
When you finally opened your eyes, both Bob and Ava were there, smiling down at you, twin looks of deep satisfaction mirrored on their faces.
"Ahh, there she is," Ava murmured, stroking your hair out of your face. "She's back with us. Hello, my love."
You barely had the energy to smile, but you let yourself lean into her touch.
"You okay?" Bob asked with a touch of concern. That adorable furrow was threatening to appear between his eyebrows as he watched your face closely for any reaction.
"Green," you croaked, clearing your throat and trying again. "I'm still green."
Bob breathed a sigh of relief that was both audible and visible as his shoulders relaxed.
"Good. Thought we might've fucked the soul out of you for a minute there," he teased, making Ava chuckle. He glanced at her, and they shared an amused, tender smile before looking back down at you.
"Might've had an out of body experience," you admitted cheekily. "Pretty sure I saw God."
When you tried to shift up onto your elbows, both your boyfriend and girlfriend put their hands on you, forcing you to lie back down. Normally, you wouldn't stand for that. But this time you allowed it, relaxing back down on the bed. Your limbs felt surprisingly weak, even your arms, like your joints were made of Jell-O.
"Oh yeah?" Ava teased, booping your nose with her index finger and laughing under her breath at how you wrinkled it in mock disdain. "What did she look like?"
"Like my hot, surprisingly well-endowed girlfriend." Bob snickered at your words, and you both acted like you didn't see the way Ava ducked her head, hiding her face with her hair. For someone who had just dicked your brains out, she was awfully bashful.
"You doing good, baby?" you asked, looking up at Bob.
He grinned down at you, that kind of free, goofy smile he only shared with you and Ava in your most intimate moments making your heart skip a beat.
"Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?" Bob teased.
"Mmm," you hummed in agreement. "Maybe. But I'm used to taking Ava's strap. At least for the most part. This was your first time, though. How are you feeling?"
"Good." When you fixed him with an indignant look, it was Bob's turn to duck his head. "Also pretty exhausted," he finally confessed, snuggling up even closer to you, laying his head on your shoulder.
You half-expected Ava to be getting up and around. Normally, she liked to clean everything up before going to sleep. But the abandoned harness you glimpsed on the floor halfway across the room like it had been flung carelessly to the side told another story. So did the way she pulled the sheets up, covering your rapidly cooling body, gooseflesh already starting to form from the chilly room temperature.
"But not hurting?" Ava queried. The sharpness of her gaze as she watched Bob's face belied her relaxed body language. Only when Bob confirmed he only felt a little soreness but not pain did Ava look entirely at ease.
"Good," she said with a decisive nod.
"And you?" you asked, turning to face Ava fully. "How are you feeling, my love?"
"Better," she admitted. And you could see the truth in her words.
Earlier in the day, Ava was moving stiffly. Every step looked like it cost her something. It didn't surprise you when she'd disappeared and come back out with her old suit on.
Even though most of her pain was psychosomatic these days, something about that bodysuit always brought comfort. She didn't say it out loud, but you were fairly certain it was because Bill, her friend and foster father figure, made it for her. Ava had no reason to keep the outfit. The one Valentina commissioned for her was more comfortable after all. But it was just like that old, half-deflated teddy bear with the missing eye that Ava kept on her night table, the one that she meticulously dusted and always got into joking arguments about the color of its fur ("it was white!" she'd swear when you and Bob referred to it as "that grey bear.") Ava never said it, but you knew that the memories associated with it were what made it so special to her.
Bob gave her a small but real smile, reaching across to squeeze Ava's hand, letting his touch say all the words he couldn't.
"Good," was all he said, and it was enough for now.
It took some adjusting, but you all eventually found a sleeping position that suited you all. It was one of your favorites: you and Ava on your sides, her spooning you from behind, and Bob on his back, your arm draped across his chest.
"Think you'd like to do it again?" you asked Bob. He held your hand in both of his, bringing it up to kiss each of your knuckles individually. You knew he was vamping for time, but neither you nor Ava pushed him. He was giving your question real consideration.
"Yeah," Bob said suddenly. It almost startled you after he was quiet for so long. Fortunately, you didn't jump; Ava would've teased you mercilessly. "I think I'd really like that. If you wouldn't mind."
Ava's chuckle made her chest rumble, and the vibration carried pleasantly through your back. It was such a soothing sound, Ava's laugh. Something that was so rare when you were all first getting to know each other, but never wore out its welcome no matter how many times you heard it.
"We'll see how you feel about that in the morning, my darling."
Divider Credit -> @/strangergraphics
Images in headers are not mine.
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This right here. This is exactly what Jack needed on his day off.
A way for him to peacefully be in the present, your hand in his to ground him. Walking side by side in the kind of silence only the arts tend to find themselves in. A shared silence that is often broken by whispers of awe and admiration for a particular piece of artwork, but overall lingers between paintings and sculptures that capture your attention at a glance.
But Jack would be lying if he said his full attention was on the artwork around him, because it wasn't.
It was on you.
While your eyes danced around the museum walls, gentle and reverent as you took in your surroundings, his stayed on you. There was always something about your presence that lulled him into a state of existing that felt more like living. Like he was able to breathe easier, smile more, just by being by your side.
So, Jack gravitates ever so slightly toward you, bringing you in closer until your bodies touch. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in that perfume you love so much, the one that always tends to linger on his clothes after you borrow them. You smile at him, warmth spreading through you at the affectionate gesture. Looking at him in a way that makes him feel worthy enough to be yours.
Yeah. This is exactly where he wants to be.
Always.
My sweet, it seems Jack is the one who wanted the honor to take you out on a museum date 🤍🤍 I hope you liked it! 🤍 Thank you for for sending this in for my sleepover @buck-star!! ♡♡♡
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