Shen whistles at Jack as he comes in for his shift. "Looking great, old man!" It makes everyone put their attention on Jack, who just smirks.
He's wearing black button-up t-shirt and black pants. It's an unsual sight, so different from the black scrubs he wears.
But the real whistles and cheers happen when you come sauntering after him. You wear skin-tight black dress that flows down to your feet, covering the high heels.
Your cheeks are flushed as your colleagues cheer at the sight of you. But it's not the only thing making you blush.
It's the fact, that it's obvious to everybody that you and Jack just came from a date.
Everyone has been speculating about you two for quiet a while, there's even a betting pool going around, but this....This confirms it.
You didn't have time to go home and change and get here in separate cars, not when there's been a massive pile up on the highway and everyone got called to work.
It was supposed to be yours and Jack's night off, you had a dinner reservation in the nicest restaurant in the city and it was so, so lovely.
That was until your phones started going off and you scrambled out of there in hurry and with groans. Don't get me wrong, you both love doing your job as doctors. But dates nights are sacred to you two since they don't happen as often as you would like.
"Yes! I fucking knew it." Santos says very loudly, already halfway through on the way for her winnings.
"Alright, alright, alright. The show is over, everybody get back to work." Finally, Dana yells loudly, making everyone avert their hungry gazes away from you.
"And you lovebirds, hurry up and get changed. ETA is 10 mins for the first patients."
You nod and hurry after Jack. It's not as easy to walk quickly in these high heels. Jack notices, of course he does, and waits up for you, hand extended your way.
You take it sheepishly and let him stabilise you so it's easier to walk. "You okay, angel? That was a lot, huh?"
"Yeah, but I'm okay. At least, now they know." You give him a little smile, squeezing his hand for the reassurance.
"Yes. At least, now I can kiss you whenever I want." He grins at you and you just look mortified. There's no way you'll survive heavy pda in front of your colleagues and you both know it.
"As long as it's moderate." You mumble out as you let Jack lead you towards the lockers.
"Don't worry, angel. I'll be on my best behaviour I promise." He seals that promise with a quick peck to your lips. But you are out of anyone's view so you relax into it. And you almost whine when he pulls away, almost. Gosh, you were so excited to have him all to yourself for the night.
"Okay, let's go, sweetheart. You heard Dana, no time to waste." He says when you try to steal another kiss from him.
"You kissed me first!" You laugh because he's clearly being ridiculous.
"I'd never." He fakes innocence, but the smirk on his face is far from that.
"Pff, we'll see where this gets you when we get home." You giggle but his eyes only darken.
"Doll, we both know I won't be the one begging then." He whispers the words into your ear and your stomach practically does somersaults at that.
"You're not playing fair." You pout at him as his hands help you unzip the dress.
"I'm only-" he stops in the middle of the sentences as you turn around and let the dress pool at your feet. The purple lingerie you have on clearly broke his brain. His eyes devour the sight in front of him.
You chuckle as you quickly change into your scrubs, and by the time Jack realises you are no longer half-naked, you are running away, leaving him there all stunned.
Yeah, this shift fucking better be over quickly. Or he'll lose his mind thinking about you.
working on harry’s tour means seeing him every day—and ignoring his nonstop flirting every day. ur determined to stay professional, but harry, unfortunately, loves pushing your buttons almost as much as he loves watching you fight your feelings for him. after months of unresolved tension, jealousy tips everything over the edge backstage after a show.
based on -> this request
cw: unprofessional work dynamics, angst, tour harry, tour crew reader, oral (f), semi-public sex, light dirty talk, p in v (unprotected), recording, size kink, inspection kink, idk filth
wc: 10.1k
“Hold still,” you murmur, stepping between his knees where he sits in front of the mirror.
Harry tilts his head back easily while you adjust the wire of his in-ear monitor. The dressing room is loud around you, stylists moving around, someone steaming clothes in the corner, muffled bass from the stage vibrating through the walls. But Harry’s attention settles on you with uncomfortable intensity.
Not uncomfortable because you dislike it. Uncomfortable because you do. And will never admit that.
“You always smell nice,” he says casually.
You keep your eyes on the wire in your hands. “Battery pack’s loose.”
“That wasn’t related to what I said.”
You took a deep breath as your eyes shut instinctively for just a moment.
“I know.”
“Hm.” You can hear the smile in his voice, and if you lowered your gaze you knew you’d be staring right at a deep dimple and a cheeky twitch of his chin.
You clip the pack onto the back of his pants, fingers brushing the warm fabric of his shirt and leaving just as quick as they got there.
“All set,” you call, slapping your palms to your sides lightly as you back further away from his body.
And then he’s looking at you. In that way he always does before he goes on stage. A rudely passionate look of teasing that will leave you dizzy for the next 2 hours. He knows it, too. It’s why he does it.
“What?”
He doesn’t answer you for a minute. Just stares at you a bit longer. Over your jaw. The curve of your neck, exposed by your loose pony. All with a grin of his own deepening and his eyes squinting just a tinge.
And then he snaps back into casualness like nothing was on his mind at all.
“Nothing,” he shrugs, standing from his chair, “see you after the show.”
You nod.
“See you.”
He turns toward the door, shoulders brushing past one of the stylists waiting near the hallway, and for a second you think that’s it. Because it usually is.
You fix what you need to fix. You set him up. You say goodbye. And then he’s on stage and you have a brief intermission of peace before he’s back in front of you at the end of the night.
But then he glances back.
Just briefly, but enough for your stomach to tighten in that stupid familiar way that you worry will someday get you fired.
The hallway outside the green room still buzzes with movement and things you half understand. Stage managers calling cues, security talking into headsets, other crew members rushing past with last minute equipment. Harry looks entirely unbothered by any of it. Calm, even, like he has all the time in the world.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up.
“Good luck.”
The words slip out softer than you intended. More personal, too. Less like a colleague hoping for the best and more like someone who cares too much about the other. Immediately, you regret them.
Because Harry stops dead in the doorway. And then slowly turns back toward you like if he's worried that it was someone else who said it. The grin spreading across his face is instant.
God.
That unbearably smug expression that only gets worse the second he realizes he’s gotten something genuine out of you. Then his smile widens even further, dimples pressing deep into his cheeks and eyes crinkling kindly.
“Thanks, y/n.”
Far too satisfied with himself.
A laugh slips quietly out of him as he starts backing into the hallway again, still looking directly at you with that same sly expression stretched across his face. Like he’s just won something.
Someone calls his name farther down the corridor.
So he finally tears his eyes off you, spinning around smoothly and continuing toward stage with an annoyingly confident bounce in his step.
Entirely too pleased with himself over two stupid words.
And even worse? You’re smiling a little before you can stop yourself.
It is endearing—his crush. It’s also incredibly obvious. The last few months of your life have been filled with flirts and teases and smirks that have your heart on the brink of exploding right there in your chest.
Champagne problems, right?
But it really was starting to become a problem. You were a professional. Apart of this industry for longer than you can count. And you were not about to start things up with your boss and destroy the reputation you’ve built for yourself for years. No matter how sexy his gaze got or how desperate his words became.
So you spend the entirety of his show in his open dressing room backstage, lounging upon a green velvet chair and scrolling mindlessly through your screen. You were grateful you had the night off tonight apart from backstage aid.
Baking recipes. Funny clips of animals. A new way to wear your hair. Skin care brands random people are trying to sell you.
Anything to get your mind off of him.
But it’s hard when his voice is echoing around the arena simultaneously. Whining through the microphone and screaming melodies that flow through him as if there’s no effort needed at all.
It was a sick routine you’ve been stuck in. Every show. Set him up, do your duties, listen to him against your will backstage or in the audio booth if that was your assignment, and then dissemble him before he goes home. You’ve been stuck with him every minute of all your days for the entire tour. Which would usually be great news; if he wasn’t nagging at you for a drop of attention too.
But you would stay professional. Calm. You knew you would.
So when the show ended and you both ended up back in his green room, you took a deep breath and prepared yourself to exercise your best rejection tactics.
The show leaves him glowing every time. Not literally, obviously, but close enough. So extra preparation was more than necessary. Especially considering there were about 6 other colleagues back here awaiting for his arrival as well.
By the time Harry pushes through the green room door, the adrenaline is still clinging to him—cheeks pink from exertion, curls damp at the edges, chest rising heavier beneath the half unbuttoned shirt clung lightly to his skin. The roar of the crowd still echoes faintly through the arena halls outside while people trail in after him offering congratulations, water bottles, notes about tomorrow’s schedule.
And somehow, within five seconds of entering the room, his eyes find you.
Of course they do. And you’re not totally sure if you want to die right there or enjoy it with a smile.
You’re crouched near the coffee table reorganizing equipment cases from the stage reset, pretending not to notice.
“You stayed,” he says immediately.
You don’t look up from the tangled wire in your hands. “I work here.”
“Mhm.” You can hear the grin in his voice already. “Still very professional as always.”
You ignore that completely.
Harry drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, legs spread comfortably while someone hands him a towel. He thanks them absently, attention never really leaving you.
“You work in the sound booth tonight?”
“Had the night off. Was just back here tonight.”
“Mm. Maybe that’s why it smells so nice back here.”
You finally glance up briefly. “Need something?”
His mouth twitches. There’s always this look he gets when you refuse to react properly to him. Half amused, half fascinated. Like he genuinely cannot understand how you keep resisting him after months of this.
“Need?” he repeats lazily. “No. Like hearing your voice, though.”
You bite down your smile as hard as you can. Fighting to stay within the boundaries of a work place and not further alarm your other colleagues around you.
You go back to untangling the cable immediately. “Sounds serious.”
“It is serious.”
“Thought you were exhausted.” You dead pan, looking over at him sprawled on the couch from your position on the floor.
“I was. Then you spoke to me.”
A nearby stylist snorts quietly before pretending not to listen. Your jaw tightens slightly.
Because that’s another thing Harry loves. Saying things in front of other people just to watch you try to stay composed. It was fucked up. And it was constant. Like, all the time.
You stand, carrying the equipment case toward the table near him. The second you step close enough, Harry tilts his head back against the couch cushion to look up at you.
Way too pretty after a two hour show.
Honestly rude.
It was all post-show warmth and lazy satisfaction. Sweat still clung faintly to his skin beneath the dim lights of the green room, curls damp and pushed messily away from his forehead where he’d run his hands through them a dozen times already. His cheeks were flushed pink from the stage heat, lips slightly parted while he caught his breath, and those marbled green eyes stayed fixed on you with a softness that felt entirely too intimate for a room still full of people.
And then he smiled. Slow at first. Sleepy almost. Until the corner of his mouth pulled higher and that deep dimple pressed into his cheek.
“You’re staring.”
And shit, you were.
You snap your gaze away quickly and trot across the room to gather the box for his in-ears with a shake of your head. “Wasn’t.”
“Was.”
You look back at him sharply, “Wasn’t.”
“Was too,” and his smile tells you all you need to know. This is fun for him. A game of sorts.
You just huff, opening the box in front of him and silently gesturing for him to put his monitors inside so you can, you know, get the fuck out of here.
He complies. Placing his in-ears in the box gently and staring up at you with a cocked grin while he does it. You kept your gaze down. Focused on the box and the work in front of you.
Once the box is closed and back on the audio cart, you grab your purse and take out your pony tail.
And also try to ignore the burning gaze that’s been following your every move while you do so.
“Alright, I’m heading out for the n—”
“I like your hair down like that. Looks nice.”
You stare at him like he cannot be serious right now.
“Thank you,” you say, clearing your throat and gripping tighter against the strap of your purse. “I’m heading out for the night.”
He grins. “Ok. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight,” you nod, pattering out of the room as quick as you can.
“Goodnight.”
-
“Good morning!”
Someone was in a fantastic mood this morning.
You, were not.
“Morning,” you mumble, wobbling past him as you rub your eyes carelessly.
The venue halls were painfully bright at eight in the morning. Fluorescent lights reflected harshly off concrete floors, cases rolled loudly through corridors, and somewhere nearby someone was already doing mic checks loud enough to make your headache worse.
You were exhausted.
Not normal tired. Not fixable with coffee tired. Bone deep, eyes burning, don’t talk to me tired.
The kind that sat heavily behind your ribs after months on tour and too little sleep and too many late nights spent tearing down equipment after shows.
You threw your headset crooked over your hair while you leaned against one of the equipment tables at monitor world, staring blankly into the cup of coffee in your hands like it was useless. It kind of was.
And he was already trotting back behind you to continue to bother you.
Harry leaned against the edge of the table across from you, completely uninvited and entirely too comfortable there. His eyes moved slowly over your face, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and your obvious irritation with visible amusement.
“You look tired.”
You look back up at him plainly.
“Insightful.”
“You sleep at all?”
“A little.”
“Mhm.” His grin deepened knowingly. “You’re doing that thing where you answer questions like you hate me.”
“I do hate you right now.”
He could’ve laughed at your face right there.
“No, you don’t.”
You took another sip of coffee just to avoid responding. Harry stared at you over the rim of his own cup. Completely entertained, like this was his morning news and he needed to tune in.
“Y/n, the sound booth needs you in 5.”
You wince, shutting your eyes briefly before calling out an okay and shrugging off your purse.
“Bye y/n,” Harry smiles, tilting his head playfully like your exhaustion is only here for his entertainment.
“Bye Harry.”
You barely saw him for the rest of the day after that.
Every time you turned around, someone needed something. A frequency issue during rehearsals, a missing pack during load in, comms crackling endlessly in your ear while production schedules shifted by the minute.
By the afternoon, you were too busy to think about him much at all, which was probably a good thing considering the smile he’d walked away wearing that morning.
The show passed in a blur from the booth. You stood behind the glowing soundboards with your headset pressed tighter against one ear while the arena shook around you, lights flashing across thousands of screaming fans.
From back there, Harry looked different. Bigger somehow. Untouchable. All confidence and movement and effortless charm under the stage lights. Still, more than once, your stomach tightened when you caught his gaze flick briefly toward the booth like he was checking for you without meaning to.
Now the show was over, and you stood backstage in the green room with tired shoulders and aching feet while crew members rushed around tearing equipment down around you. The adrenaline of the concert had faded, leaving only exhaustion behind.
You leaned against the wall quietly, absentmindedly twisting your headset cord around your fingers while waiting for the post show chaos to settle.
Voices echoed down the hallway before the door even opened. You recognized Harry’s immediately, warm and animated in that post show way he always got, still riding the adrenaline high from stage.
But there was another voice with him this time.
A woman’s laugh floated down the corridor a second later, light and airy. Your stomach tightened instinctively before you could stop it. You didn’t want it to. But it happened.
Then the green room door swung open.
Harry walked in first, still glowing from the show, hair damp around his forehead and sleeves shoved messily to his elbows. Beside him was a brunette woman you vaguely recognized from the VIP tent earlier, pretty in an effortless kind of way, light eyes bright as she looked up at him while he talked.
And she was laughing. Like, a lot. At everything.
Harry said something you didn’t even catch properly while shrugging off his jacket, and she laughed immediately, hand brushing his arm like he’d said the funniest thing she’d ever heard in her life.
You looked back down at the audio sheet in your hands before your expression could betray you.
Absolutely ridiculous.
People laughed at Harry constantly. He was charming. Funny. Famous. None of this was unusual. You’d fallen victim to it more times than you’d like to mention too. It really wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, especially working so close to him.
Still, every time her laugh floated across the room again, your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.
And every single time, Harry caught you doing it.
Of course he did.
You could feel it almost instantly, the subtle shift in his attention whenever your gaze landed on them together. Like he became hyperaware of you the second you started pretending not to look.
Annoying.
You crouched beside the audio cart near the wall, reorganizing cables that were already organized just to keep your hands busy. It was sad, but you were this close to breaking something and you’d rather it be equipment instead of someone’s face.
Across the room, the brunette laughed again at something mildly amusing at best.
No offense to Harry.
Your eyes rolled automatically before you could stop them. And when you glanced up, Harry was already looking at you. His mouth twitched instantly, like he’d officially decided everything you were feeling now. His assumptions have been proven correct.
“Y/n,” Harry called casually from the couch area, too close to the mystery women for comfort.
Your response came flat without looking up. “What?”
“Did you switch comm packs after the encore?”
A stupid question.
“Mhm.”
“That one’s mine or Glen’s?”
“Yours.”
It came out colder than you meant it to, but it was honestly a stupid question and you were growing more and more irritated with every passing second.
You heard the tiny pause afterward, like Harry was reveling in this moment and couldn’t believe it was real.
“Thanks,” he said slowly, amusement already slipping into his voice.
You only hummed in response.
The brunette looked between the two of you curiously before turning back toward Harry when he said something quietly to her.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, she laughed again.
Good God.
Your jaw tightened slightly without meaning too, stuck between the frustration of these fucking wires layered between the echoing laughs of a spunky brunette.
“You alright over there?” Harry asked after a minute.
You clipped another cable into place. “Fine.”
“You seem grumpy.” He called, the second time he’s said the word today.
“I’m tired.”
“Mhm.” That sound alone irritated you.
You glanced up briefly to find him leaning back against the couch cushions now, one arm stretched along the back while he watched you with obvious interest. Like he was enjoying this. Actually enjoying it.
“Could you grab us two waters?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked at him once, like you couldn’t beleive this was a real question. Then looked toward the fully stocked fridge less than six feet from where he sat.
“There are plenty of other people here,” you said evenly. “I’m busy.”
Silence.
The brunette shifted awkwardly beside him while Harry stared at you for half a second. And then, a grin spread slowly across his face. Deep dimples. Bright eyes. Entirely too entertained.
Your stomach dropped immediately.
Because he knew.
“Oh my God,” he murmured softly, almost to himself.
You narrowed your eyes instantly, standing straight up against the cart now with your hands leveling you, “What?”
But Harry was already standing and looking much too pleased with himself.
“I’ll get them myself,” he said lightly to the brunette before starting across the room.
Toward you.
You immediately looked back down at the cables in your hands like they suddenly required your full concentration. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t stop until he was directly beside the audio cart. Close enough that you could smell the lingering mix of cologne and stage sweat still clinging to him after the show.
“You’re jealous,” he said quietly.
You scoffed immediately, “I’m not.”
“Y/n.” His voice was warm with amusement. “You practically rolled your eyes to the back of your skull every time she laughed.”
You dropped what you were working on and pulled closer to his face, “She laughed at things that weren’t funny.”
Harry bit back a grin.
“There she is.”
“Harry, what?” You weren’t in the mood for this. Not now. Not ever, really. And you had shit to take care of.
“You got mean.”
“I’m usually mean to you?”
“No,” His eyes dragged slowly over your face, “Usually you’re pretending not to like me. Tonight you looked like you wanted to kill somebody.”
Heat crawled violently up your neck before you could stop it, his words genuinely shocking you past your normal point of surprise. He was always bold with you. But this was honest. Too honest.
“I do not care who you bring backstage.”
You barely even believed yourself when those words fell out of you.
“Mhm.”
“I don’t.”
“You told me to get my own water,” he continues to whisper, trying to hide the conversation from the women on the couch. Who, by the way, has clearly been growing more antsy for his return with every passing second.
“There was a fridge right there,” you say like it’s an obvious reason for your denial.
“You’ve gotten me water before.”
You opened your mouth immediately, then stopped. Harry’s grin widened in triumph.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he laughed softly.
You don’t know why you started to feel genuinely angry, but you did. Maybe it was the way he was speaking, almost patronizing, like he had you all figured out before you had the chance to yourself.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he was starting to pull the truth out of you which you’ve been so desperately avoiding.
“You are so full of yourself,” you said, and it came out more honest than you intended. Harsh, even.
“And you,” he said, stepping just slightly closer, “are jealous. And too fucking scared to ever admit it.”
Like your comment before didn’t phase him at all.
You just stare at him with heavy breaths, your face and neck heating up before you could stop them. You were furious over his attitude. His confidence. The way he spoke like he was the smartest person in the room and the way he was looking at you like he knew you’d fold soon.
“Enjoy your night. I hope your dick enjoys her as much as your head enjoys this bullshit.”
Way too mean. Absolutely past the point of professional boundaries.
You knew it the second you said it, and so did he. His face was genuinely shocked, like you’ve officially surprised him for the first time in his life. He didn’t seem angry, necessarily. Just…you don’t even know. Just shocked.
And silent.
You shoved through the backstage hallway doors before he could say another word to you.
The sound room was blissfully empty when you stormed inside, the muffled crowds from the arena now distant through thick walls while rows of glowing consoles blinked quietly in the dark.
Good. Because if another person looked at you right now, you might actually lose your mind.
You dropped a headset onto the table harder than necessary and immediately started yanking cords loose from the side rack with sharp, irritated movements. Stupid. This whole thing was so unbelievably stupid.
Your chest still burned from the look on his face back there, smug and amused while that girl sat beside him laughing at every breath he took. Like he enjoyed watching you unravel. Like this had all just been a game to him for months.
A cable slipped from your hands and smacked loudly against the table, echoing throughout the empty area.
“Careful,” Harry’s voice came from the doorway. “Those are expensive.”
You froze for a moment, breath hitched at his sudden presence, and then continued packing without turning around.
“Go away.”
The door shut behind him, closing the two of you inside of the empty room much too late in the night.
“No.”
Your jaw tightened, already frustrated at his quick denial as if your words were a suggestion. They weren’t. You heard his footsteps approach slowly across the room while you wrapped another cord aggressively around your hand.
“Seriously,” you snapped, “I’m working.”
“You’re furious.”
“I’m not furious.”
Harry laughed once under his breath. Wrong move. You spun around immediately.
“Do you seriously think this is funny?”
His expression shifted slightly at the volume in your voice, but he still looked more frustrated than apologetic now. Green eyes sharp beneath messy curls, chest still rising faintly from the remains of the show adrenaline.
There was no smiles anymore. From either of you. It was clear how frustrated you both were as you stood a small distance apart, breaths heavy and eyes low like you two were trying to figure out how to speak without screaming in each other's faces.
“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re finally reacting honestly for once.”
You stared at him in disbelief, as if he knew you at all.
“Honestly?” you repeated. “You bring some random girl backstage and spend the whole night looking at me like it’s the most entertain—”
“She wasn’t random.”
“I don’t care who she was.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I care that you’re sick in the head.”
Harry blinked at the one. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Your voice echoed sharply off the walls now. “You spend months messing with me and flirting with me and pushing me constantly, and then you parade another woman around in front of me like you’re trying to prove how easy this is for you.”
His eyebrows pulled together instantly, taking a step forward until there were only a couple of inches between you both.
The crease between his brows was loud. The flush on his cheeks was freshening, and the sharp glare of his eyes was the most telling of it all.
“Easy?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“That’s what you think this is?”
“I think you like attention.”
Harry scoffed sharply, taking another step closer. “You think I’ve spent months chasing after someone who acts like she hates me because it’s easy?”
“You flirt with everyone.”
“No,” he snapped back immediately, “I flirt with you.”
Silence cracked heavily between you. Your pulse pounded hard enough to hurt.
Harry dragged a hand through his curls roughly, frustration officially overtaking the amusement he’d been carrying all night.
“You know what your problem is?” he started, “You never admit anything. Ever.”
You laughed harshly, closing up another box and tossing it to the side, “Because there’s nothing to admit.”
“Bullshit.”
“Harry—”
“You feel something and immediately bury it under this professional act because God forbid anyone knows you actually care about something.”
Your stomach twisted angrily.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me because you sing songs and smile at people for a living.”
That wasn’t fair. You didn’t even really mean it.
But his jaw tightened anyway, swallowing the words and pushing back up with whatever felt right in his chest.
“And you don’t get to act like I’m manipulating you just because you’re too stubborn to admit this thing between us has been happening for months.”
You folded your arms tighter across your chest like that could somehow hold you together.
“There is no thing.”
Harry actually stared at you for a second like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. Then he laughed once. Not amused. It was more in disbelief. Because there was really no way you could genuinely beleive that.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re just fucking cruel.”
That landed worse than the line before. You saw it immediately in the way his expression shifted, dragging across your face with so much anger that you had to swallow to keep yourself grounded.
“Cruel?” he repeated quieter.
“Yes.” Your throat felt tight now, anger bleeding messily into something worse. “You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”
Harry stepped impossibly closer again. “That girl was someone my mum wanted me to meet after the show.”
You paused, tilting your head as you catch your breath from frustration.
“What?”
“She’s a family friend’s daughter,” he said sharply, “And it had absolutely nothing to do with showing off for you.”
You looked away immediately, embarrassment and anger tangling together violently in your chest in a more obvious way than you would’ve liked.
Harry noticed.
“See?” he said, “You jumped straight to assuming I was trying to hurt you.”
“You were enjoying it,” you say, rolling you eyes as his point had no relevance to you.
“Because you were jealous.”
“I was not jealous.”
“You were glaring at her like she was, like, offending you.”
“She was laughing too hard.”
A completely incredulous laugh escaped him, “Oh my God.”
“Don’t ‘oh my God’ me.”
“How do you seriously not see that you were jealous? Just admit something for once in your fucking life!”
“I wasn’t jealous!”
“You were!”
“I am not jealous of every girl you drag backstage! Just leave me alone!”
The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. Harry stared at you. Your own breathing sounded too loud suddenly. Because that last part had been a mistake.
His eyes flicked slowly over your face, something shifting there.
“You mean that?”
You take a breath, settling into yourself for a moment as your hands come to rub against your temples. It was late. You were both over tired. This whole thing was just a big fucking mess that you were deep into now to get out of.
Oh, and you both were half sure the entire crew was listening outside of the door.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
“No,” you start, “I don’t mean that. But you don’t get to stand there and act like this is all my fault.”
“I’m not saying it is.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m exhausted!”
His voice cracked louder through the room than your yelling somehow.
“I flirt with you every day. I look for you every day. I walk into rooms looking for you first every day and you act like I’m insane for noticing you feel it too.”
Your chest tightened painfully, knowing in the back of your mind that he was right.
“And then tonight,” he continued, eyes locked on yours, “you looked at me like I’d betrayed you. You can’t do that. Not after pushing me to the floor like dog shit for months.”
You swallowed hard.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
Which only made you angrier.
“You don’t get to make me feel crazy for this,” you shot back.
“I’m not making you feel anything.”
“You know exactly what you’re doing to me!” The words ripped out louder than intended.
Harry went still at the burst, breaths racing quicker while he sat on what was next. What he should say. What he should do. If this was ruined for good and you’d be on the next flight home.
The silence afterward felt massive.
“It’s not fair, Harry,” you continue, “You don’t get to do this to me.”
Your voice was shaking now, words spilling faster the longer he stayed silent.
“You don’t get to stand there and act like I’m the one making this complicated when you’ve been doing this to me for months.”
Harry didn’t say anything, and it made your chest tighten harder.
“Every day it’s something,” you went on, pacing now, unable to stay still under the weight of it. “You flirt with me, you push me, you look at me like I’m the only person in the room and then you just expect me to function like it doesn’t affect me?”
Still nothing. Your frustration snapped sharper.
“You think I don’t notice it? You think I don’t feel it?” You shot another time, voice rising again. “Because I do. I feel it every single time you look at me like that and I hate that I do. And I have a life I’m trying to protect. I built something for myself here. I worked too hard to be taken seriously to just—throw it away because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He swallowed thick at the last line, listening to your words helplessly and sinking in thoughts he can’t say. “And the worst part is I don’t even get a break from it. I have to choose. Every day. Between being good at my job and feeling whatever this is when I’m around you.”
Your eyes flicked up to his again, glossy with frustration now.
“Between my career and my happiness,” you said quieter, but more honest than anything you’d said all night. “And you just stand there like it’s nothing when it’s not nothing for me! It’s impossible and it’s—”
Harry crossed the space between you in a single step and crashed his mouth into yours, hands coming up to either side of your face, holding you there so quickly you didn’t even have time to react.
For a second, you didn’t move. Didn’t kiss back. Just froze completely against him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat while everything in your brain tried to catch up.
But neither of you pulled away.
And then, slowly, when it finally registered, your hands slid up to the back of his head and your lips found their way against his. You pulled him in even closer than he already was, squeezing your hands against him like you jus couldn’t get close enough.
The breath you both released at the same time broke whatever line was left between arguing and something deeper.
The kiss shifted, still urgent, still overwhelming, but no longer just interruption. It turned into something heavier, driven by months of tension finally collapsing into contact neither of you had managed to stop.
“Harry—”
“Sh,” he shut you up through smashing lips before you could even finish the thought, “just let me kiss you for a bit.”
So you did.
It didn’t take much convincing, considering his tongue was minty and warm and his nose was nudging up into your face exactly how you dreamed it might. He was strong and confident and, in the least weird way, skilled. It was like he’d already learned exactly how you want it and rolled it out of him with no effort at all.
“Just tell me to stop,” he mutters through kiss, “just tell me.”
You just nod, quick and aggressive as he pulls you in even closer and inhales you like he needs you to breathe. Your heart was slamming and your mind was dizzy, fogged in the forbidden mesh of the two of you and the stupidity behind it all.
Because really, one crack of the door and you’d be fired on the spot. It was the most insane thing for you to ever do, especially after screaming in his face for all to hear from the hallway.
But you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop. You wanted him. You needed him. You wanted him to handle you and treat you like he’d been dreaming of—whatever that may be.
And as his tongue slid across the insides of your mouth for the thousandth time, you let your mind drift into what he might do. What he’s been begging to do. You knew he had to have something shoved up deep in sleeves, something he’d been putting off until this moment and thought of more times than he should.
His hands came tugging up at your top before you could slip too deep into that thought. The pass of the fabric through your faces broke the suction to each other for only a moment before he was crashing back down onto you, a kiss laced in so much hunger that you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
And once your chest was covered in nothing but the flimsy cotton of your black bra, his hands couldn’t land. He was everywhere. Up your ribs, across your tummy, pressed into the open curve of your lower back.
The pass over your clothed breasts was long. Like he was mapping out exactly how they sat without actually breaking the kiss to look at them.
And you were only thinking one thing—just take off the bra and fucking touch me.
As if reading your mind, his hands slipped underneath the top of the cup and grasped at your smooth skin tenderly, cupping around your full breasts until his thumb found the perk of your nipples and his palm found its place underneath the curve.
“Fuck,” he groaned, “so soft.”
It was mostly to himself, like he was marking the exact moment out loud to remember forever.
Now you really were jealous.
Your hands worked desperately at his damp button up, undoing every last one like a ravenous animal until it wore him more as a jacket of sorts instead of a shirt.
You let your eyes fall.
Of course you’ve seen him shirtless before. But this was different. This was vulnerable—the flap of his butterfly on his chest, mixed in nerves and anticipation and the feeling of something new yet forbidden. The subtle sheen of his sweat bouncing off of his pecs, still not fully recovered from his show.
Then there was the hair. Littered across his chest and more importantly, trailing thick down to a screaming bulge below.
You groaned before you could stop yourself, and his smirk was deep in response before pulling you tight to his lips again.
“Harry,” you start breathlessly, still in between sloppy kisses, “I have to go soon. I have to catch the last train.”
He shakes his head immediately, “I’ll drive you back.”
You consider telling him the truth. The humiliating truth. The truth that will probably turn that growing hard on down into a sad softie that’ll never come back up.
“No really,” you murmur again, kissing him harder, “I really do have to go soon.”
He backed up this time, hands placed somewhere between your waist and your shoulders lazily.
“Why? We can stop.”
You shake your head immediately, “No, I…I don’t want to stop. I just want us to…um…hurry?”
“Y/n…” he nagged with a smile, teasing you already, “don’t break your honesty streak now.”
You shake your head, “it’s embarassing.”
“Just say it.”
You roll your eyes, sucking in a deep breath and thinking of the vaguest way to say it.
“Fine,” you huff, “my mom calls me every night at exactly 12AM. Okay?”
His eyebrow cocks upward, “that’s not embarassing.”
“Right, so, let’s just keep going?” You clear your throat, nodding a placing your hands back behind his neck as if to prepare for another kiss.
He’s still staring at you with a small smirk that you hate.
“Not so fast,” he teases, “Something in me says you’re keeping out a very important detai—”
You unclasp your bra in the middle of his sentence, letting your tits fall loose in a desperate attempt to cut off his train of thought right there.
And it works, for a second.
His eyes fall, his words come to an abrupt halt, and his mouth goes dry in a state of total holy fucking shit this can’t be real life.
“That’s not fair, y/n,” he says, but he’s still looking down at your chest, “not at all.”
You just grin, looking down at him as he gawks at the sight in front of him and lets his hands drift upwards to cup them once again. This time it was different. This time he was looking at what he had in his palms. And they were even better than how he’d dreamed of them, perky and pink and so full.
And then he’s grabbing you by your ribs, hands wide and rough, lifting you until you’re sat on top of the counter behind you, covered with equipment that was far too expensive for this behavior. But neither of you really seemed to notice, let alone care.
His lips locked around nipples before you had the time to process the shift, sucking and nagging and groping the untouched one with his other hand.
But then he was back on subject.
God damn it.
“Tell me,” he cooed, still latched to your breasts, “tell me what you’re hiding.”
You sighed at the feeling of his lips on your bare skin, naked and exposed and more vulnerable than you’ve been in awhile. More time than you’d like to admit.
“Can’t.”
He stopped his kissing and looked back up at you.
“Y/n.”
You huff, rolling your eyes and sinking into the cabinet behind you. “My dog. My mom FaceTimes me every night at 12AM so I can talk to my dog before bed. Okay?”
He pushed his lips tight together through his smile, fighting to keep it in as to not embarrass you even further. But his crinkled eyes were telling and the raise of his brows said even more.
“Oh, well that’s adorable.”
You drop your head into your hands, searching for an escape from this moment forever.
“Harryyy.”
“Ok, listen,” he lets out a loose laugh now, bringing his hands up to your cheeks until your face reveals itself again. “It’s not embarrassing. You’re cute. I’ll get you home by 12.”
You peaked your eye open a bit and let your face sink into his palms. “Yeah?”
He nods, face pulling closer to yours again already, “promise.”
And then he was back on you, splitting your lips open softly and letting his tongue fall onto yours as if it was the most natural thing to ever happen.
Suddenly you understand why this has felt impossible to ignore for so long, because kissing him feels terrifyingly right. Soft in a way you never expected from someone who spends all day teasing you, but underneath it there’s still that same intensity he always looks at you with—as he’s been holding himself back for months and finally doesn’t have to anymore.
You can feel it in the way he pulls you closer. In the way his thumbs brush once beneath your ears. In the way he kisses you like this means something. Like it’s exactly what he needed.
Exactly what both of you needed.
He’s drifting his mouth back down to your chest as slips his fingers in your waist band, and suddenly everything feels very real. Harry Styles. Famous. Like, ridiculously famous. In the middle of his tour. In an empty sound room backstage. And, more importantly, your boss.
His hands feel your nerves before your mouth could vocalize them.
“Relax,” he coos, lips resting against your bare chest, “it’s just me.”
You take a breath, shutting your eyes and desperately searching for a place of peace.
It’s Harry. Harry who’s been yearning for you for months. This isn’t a one night stand. This isn’t an unintimate fuck after the adrenaline of a show. It’s raw, it’s real. It’s just Harry.
So this time, when his fingers tug harder on your pants and your full body starts to reveal itself, you don’t feel so suffocated.
He had your pants and thong pooled down to your ankles quicker than you expected, leaving you in nothing but your skin as you stayed perched atop the cool counter.
“Fuck,” he whispered to no one, dropping slowly to his knees as his palms rested atop your knees.
You were bare in front of him, legs half spread and core dripping onto the surface beneath you. You figured it had to leave a mark. His eyes turned inward as they locked onto where he needed most, what he’s been clawing at desperately for months, right in from of him and oh so beautiful.
His hands pushed your knees further apart slowly, revealing more of yourself to him until it was all on display. And right when you started to relax, his hands left your legs and fell to in between your thighs instead.
“Shit,” he breathed, fingers coming to toy with your folds, “so pretty. Fucking perfect.”
His finger tips pressed against either side of your wet hole, and slowly spread apart from each other until you were wide and gaping in front of him. Your breath hitched somewhere deep in your chest and your mind stilled, watching his eyes as he inspected what was before him closely.
“So tight,” he hummed, spreading you open even further, “beautiful, you know that?”
You just gulped, letting a hand fall on top of his head to play with his curls mindlessly. Anything to give you something to do.
His fingers drifted higher up to your clit now, pinching at either side of the swelling bud before spreading that apart too. The ball of your sensitivity came pushing outward at the movement, throbbing in front of him while you dripped helplessly just below.
And then, with eyes glossed up towards your gaze, he stuck his tongue out, skinny and pointed, before pressing the tip onto your overly exposed clit.
Your eyes shut before you could stop them, chest panting and brows turning inward. It was the most sensitive you’ve felt in awhile, so worked up from the arguing and the teasing and the kiss that was forever too short.
“Mm,” he hummed, circling once around your clit and watching for your reaction, “tastes so good. So sweet.”
You groaned, tugging at the hair on his scalp and letting your head roll back until stopped by the wood behind you.
His lips came to suck harsh against your swollen clit, suckling at your arousal and rolling the bead in his mouth as his palms came to grasp around your hips. He was nestled into you like he needed you to breathe, groaning against the taste and pulling closer to you.
His tongue flattened as it pressed against your dripping hole, lapping up your arousal and whispering at the sweet taste on his tongue. You were wet and so fucking pink in front of him, drenched in desperation and the need for something more than just his warm tongue against you.
“Harry,” you whine, “feel so good, but—”
“I know,” he cuts through you, already knowing just what you need instead, “me too. Just give me a couple more minutes, wanna remember this.”
And who were you to deny that?
So you let him feast at you for another five or so minutes, lapping you up and swallowing you with every new drip. It was his heaven. It was what he’d been fucking his fist to for the last couple of months, the thought of you on his tongue and mixed with the melodic sounds of your moans.
“Please, Harry,” you groan, fingers tightening against every strand of his hair and thighs clamping absentmindedly around his skull.
“Hm? What do you need?”
You roll your eyes again, “Harry.”
He detached from your swollen pussy, face wet in your juice as he rose back up to level with your face. His hands land on your bare open thighs, head tilted as he catches his breath in front of you.
“Y/n,” he repeats, challenging you, “tell me what you need.”
You tug your bottom lip into your mouth, eyes glassing up at him as your chest juts outward.
“You,” you breathe, “want you to fuck me, Harry.”
His eyes fall shut as if instinct.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head dropping for a moment, “wish I could’ve fucking recorded that. Listen to it forever.”
And then his lips are back on yours, harsh this time, splitting you open as his hands gripped tight against the meat of your outer thighs.
It happened quicker than you expected—his hands working his zipper, his lips turning sloppy as he breathed heavier inside of your open mouth. And at the sound of his button popping open and his zip hitting the base, your skin chilled at the noise, adrenaline rolling through you as a fuzz rolled down your spine.
His pants shoved down to his mid thigh, boxers following suit, and before you knew it, there it was. Your boss's cock. Thick and dripping in between your open thighs.
He was…big. Bigger than you’d ever been with before, for sure. He was swollen and girthy and just crying with a slow salty drip of precum. For a second you thought, maybe a big dick comes with being a world famous sex symbol.
And in a moment of total honesty, eyes locked on his erection, “I’m kind of nervous.”
He just grins, like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard, before shaking his head and kissing you another time. “Don’t be. Just me.”
It settles something in you. Your smile comes beaming right as your chest softens, nodding softly at him as you try your hardest to regulate your breathing and calm the warmth on your face.
You know, to act like you weren’t about to get fucked in the sound closet while a staff of a hundred was waiting for you both.
By your boss.
And global phenomenon.
Oh, and there was a cute brunette waiting for his return in the next room.
But you’d rather focus on the less life ending matters right now.
His hand comes to hold the base of his dick, taking a step closer to your open legs as he held you propped atop the counter still. Your head was racing, eyes flicking back and forth between the nearing head of his cock and his face like you were trying to actually decide if the two were here at the same time.
And just before pressing in, breathlessly, “you’re sure?”
You nod immediately. “I’m sure. Please.”
He pushed into so slow that it ached, stretching your tight hole gently as he filled you up inch by inch. He was…a lot. Pulling you apart without even trying to and sinking in deeper than what’s ever been reached before.
Once he bottomed out and his tip was kissing some place deep in your tummy, you both let out a simultaneous “Fuck.”
His forehead dropped against yours in a sweaty mess, pulling out of you until his tip reached your folds before pushing back in with a force stronger than the one before. More certain. Like he couldn’t be more sure now. And you couldn’t either.
To say it was heavenly wasn’t even doing it justice. He was filling you up just as you liked, big and profound and pumping in and out of you with careful precision. Knocking into that spongy spot inside of you that had your vision blurry and tear ducts jamming.
“Harry,” you moan out, desperately trying to keep your voice down, “it feel so good, you feel so good.”
His thrusts deepen, “yeah? Like that?”
“Mmm,” you weren’t totally aware of any noise you were making, your mind just sort of rolled out whatever it was feeling and expressed itself in sudden waves.
He felt it. The organic nature of it all. The way you clamped around him desperately and grabbed at the skin on his back like it’d somehow be able to keep you grounded through this.
But then it got rougher. Quicker. Sharp in your belly as he slammed into you over and over and over again.
“Ah!” Your head tossed back, “fuck, shit, it’s so good, Harry, so big.”
It only spurred him on faster.
“Like my cock?” He was pumping into you so fast that your back was smacking loud agaisnt the unstable cabinets, “how big is it. Tell me how good this dick is.”
Your walls tightened again around him at his filthy ask, finger nails scratching into his skin until inflamed and bleeding at the touch.
“So big, mmm,” your whine draws through the closed space, “so good inside of me, so deep, fuck!”
He fucked you like this for awhile, stealing quick kisses from you from time to time and pulling you as close to him as you could get.
And then he scooped you up and off of the counter effortlessly, cock still buried deep inside of you, before placing your back down flat on a lower standing table in the center of the room. Covered in expensive electronics and hazardous wires that neither of you knew the importance of. Or cared.
When he started fucking into you again, it was different. You were flat against the surface, legs locked around his waist and hair sprawled around you like a halo you just grew within the last half hour. Which, you honestly felt like you did.
But his tip was deeper this time, with the new position, and crawled up into your tummy until the skin of your lower stomach was tenting in the pressure of his cock. Thrusting up into it until it pulled upwards and created a pretty indent of his shape.
You’ve never experienced a thing like it.
He grabbed a hand and placed it over the space, brows sewing together and a whimper slipping out at the feeling of his cock showing through you. It was a fantasy come true.
Your tits flowed with his rhythm, bouncing up and down, flattened like pancakes, with every thrust. Your moans followed it too, a high pitched huff falling loose every time he slammed into with that same persistence.
“God, Harry,” your hands grab onto nothing, “don’t stop, please, gonna cum soon—”
And then his phone rang. Loud, in the back pocket of his half-off pants that hung right around his knees.
Just when you thought he would stop, pull out and answer the phone, or even silence it and continue to fuck you, he didn’t. He kept his thrusts steady, reached into his pocket, and fucking answered.
“Yeah?” He called through the line, half breathless as he slammed his hips into you beneath him.
You’d never held your voice so hard in your fucking life.
There was random mumbling through the other end, a deep voice, rambling about something you couldn’t quite decipher. His head tilted backwards as he listened, the grip on his phone a little lose as he shut his eyes in pure bliss.
“That’s fine,” he starts again, “I’ll take care of it.”
All while sliding his tip out of you and pressing himself back in fully until your arousal wettened his pubic hairs. And it continued like this until your stomach was bubbling and your face was hot and scrunched into itself.
“Mm, gonna cum,” you whisper, still trying to keep yourself hidden from wherever the hell was on the phone with him for this long.
Harry just smirked, phone still pressed up against his ear, as he quickened his strokes into you again. His free thumb came to rest atop your clit, rubbing slow circles onto the sensitive bud until you throat was strained in a sad attempt to keep every noise in.
“No, not home yet,” he spoke again, “taking care of a couple things.”
He fucked you harder. Faster. As if he was challenging you to see who could keep their composure best.
But you’d already lost. You knew you had. Your legs were vibrating violently around his waist, pulsing with every new swipe at your clit and every new slam of his hips.
And the second you finally reached your orgasm, a long, drawn out moan escaped up your chest before you got the chance to silence it.
His hand smacked hard over your mouth with so much force that you shut up immediately.
But he wasn’t upset. He didn’t even look phased. He was still grinning at you, in awe of your fucked state as he pounded himself in and out of you and shut you the hell up with his wide palm.
You came hard. Stuck in the trance he’s set you in and fading into the light as he rides you through it. Your limbs were numbing, your skin stuck between a mix of hot and cold and not quite landing on just one.
He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment as the other man spoke to nothing. “Fuck, you’re so hot. Feel good?”
You hum lazily, eyes shut as a small smile crawls up to your face absentmindedly. It’d been awhile since you felt this fucked. Just laying there limp and useless and half awake.
Regardless, he wasn’t stopping.
“Mhm,” he said, back on the phone, a little too suspicious of a noise for an average discussion. “Ok. Mhm. Bye.”
“Who was tha—”
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good y/n,” he cut you off, letting his phone hang loose in his grip now as his eyes meld shut in reflex.
It was the furthest thing from calm anymore. He was slamming into you relentlessly until your tits smacked into themselves and your throat strained in purple veins and reddened skin.
“Oh my god,” you groan, cupping your own breast with a squeeze, “shit!”
“Yeah, let everyone hear you,” he spits, “just fucking scream, tell them how good your getting it.”
And you did.
There was no taming whatever was begging to come out of you. You were loud and rambling and just crying whatever filth came to mind without giving yourself a minute to process a thought.
“Shit, can’t fucking believe you,” his head dropped into itself, “gonna remember this, best pussy I’ve ever had y/n.”
You hum, loud, as you let your neck push out and your head rolls back harder onto some sort of sound board that definitely has a couple switches knocked off. His eyes were locked to the movement on your chest—the way your tits shook and belly shook and tented up with his tip.
You’re not really sure what made you think of it. Maybe the way he was staring, maybe the way he told you he wanted to remember, or maybe the way his phone was still hanging lose in his thick fingers from the call.
But you nudged your head towards his phone before you got a chance to think twice about it.
He looked down at where you gestured.
Then back at you.
Back to the phone.
And another time back at you.
Then, shakily, “…yeah?”
You nod through a bitten grin, pinching your nipples between your fingers as if to ask for that to be the focus.
Like any man who’s alive and breathing, the idea only sat with him for about a half a second before his phone was back out and the camera was faced down at you.
And then he was fucking you again, harder this time, so riled up from the devious act in the first place, as he slammed into you until his balls smacked against the bottom of your ass.
Your tits slapped into each other through the camera, clapping against themselves in the most erotic way he’d ever seen. You could see it on his face. The way his lips fell apart through broken groans and his eyes were so zoned into one place that you figured he’d forgotten about everything else surrounding.
“Harry,” you breathe out, “so good. Gonna make yourself cum to this later? Watch yourself fuck me where you shouldn’t?”
He brought his free hand to the small of your waist, gripping tight before using the grip to tug you down onto him harder. His cock was pressing so hard up into your belly that you thought it’d be bruised, so worked out from his thick cock in a way you’ve never gotten it before.
“Fuck, yes, fucking yes,” he groaned, gripping you tighter without trying, “M’so close.”
“Yeah? Gonna cum all over my tits, Harry?” You call, dramatized for his video and paired with an extra shake of your rolling breaths on top of you.
With that, he pulled out of you quick as his fist came to wrap around his length, pumping in sloppy motions with a twisted face and held breaths. His salty cum painted itself onto your tits beautifully, dripping down your smooth skin and coating itself over the peak of your nipples like it belonged there.
His head fell lazy as his breaths lengthened, grounding himself slowly through small touches and deep inhales. The video had stopped, now fallen to the edge of the table you laid on still.
“Fuck,” and then he was looking back up at you with a crooked smile, “did we just fuck?”
And, like usual, your eyes rolled as a grin curved up your mouth, “yeah. Now don’t torment me.”
He pulled out of you slowly, taking his time to not further stress your body before tugging his pants loosely back up to his waist.
“Y/n,” he starts again, grabbing a rag from the counter, “do you know you and I just had sex? You? And I? Y/n and Harry?”
“What part of don’t torment me do you not understand, hm?” You tease, sitting up on your elbows as he begins to wipe up your chest and whatever spilled to your stomach.
“But you’re cute when I torment you,” he shrugs, smirking down at you as he tosses the now dirty rag to the side.
“I don’t think I like you very much.”
His teeth show through his dimpled grin now, arms locked on the table by either side of your hips as he brings himself closer to your face.
And with a sweet kiss and a press to your forehead—
Summary: You were only unloading Jack’s dishwasher. That was all. You were in his kitchen, barefoot and comfortable in one of his old shirts, waiting for him to come home from tactical training. Domestic. Normal. Safe. And then Jack walked in wearing tactical gear. The vest. The boots. The radio. The duty belt. The quiet, knowing look on his face when he realized you could not stop staring. You tried to be normal about it. Jack noticed. Of course he did.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tactical gear/uniform kink, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, light restraint, orgasm denial, oral sex, rough sex, kitchen counter sex, consent-heavy dominance, aftercare, Jack being smug and quietly devastating.
Author's Note: You’re welcome, readers. Tactical gear Jack has been in my head for far too long, and today I am making that everyone’s problem. This is for everyone who looked at that vest and immediately understood the vision. the boots, the radio, the command voice, the smugness, the “leave it on” of it all.
We did this together, and honestly? I think we should all be ashamed.
But we won’t be.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.
You found the clean dishes by accident.
You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.
The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.
He had told you to let yourself in.
He always did now.
That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.
You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.
Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.
“Of course,” you muttered.
The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.
You started unloading it anyway.
Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.
You were simply a helpful person.
A generous person.
A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.
You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.
You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.
You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”
Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.
It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.
You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.
Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.
And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.
But this—
This was different.
Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.
And the vest.
God help you, the vest.
It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.
It should not have done anything to you.
It did several things.
Several immediate, humiliating things.
Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.
His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.
Heat rushed up your neck.
You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.
Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”
Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”
“You put a mug in it.”
“It’s visiting.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.
You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.
Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.
You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”
Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”
“Good.” You croaked.
“Long.”
“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”
Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed.
You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised.
Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.
You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I didn’t.” Jack replied.
You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.”
“No.”
Somehow, that was worse.
You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.
“You’re flustered.”
You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”
“Badly,” Jack murmured.
You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”
His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.
When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.
But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘oh.’”
“I did.”
You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”
He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.
Mistake.
Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.
You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”
You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yep.” Too fast.
He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.
You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.
His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?” He asked.
“Yes.” You answered quickly.
Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”
You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.
You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.
Jack caught that too. “Good job.”
Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.
That was the problem.
He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.
You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”
His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”
You glared, “You know.”
“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder.
“You absolutely do.”
A beat passed.
His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.
When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”
Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You shook your head, “I do not.”
He raised a brow, “No?”
“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.
Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.
You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”
A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”
You opened your eyes.
He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.
You swallowed.
Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.
Which was, frankly, rude.
“You’re enjoying this,” you said.
“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.
Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“No.” The single word landed low.
Your hand slipped on the counter.
Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.
More focused. “Oh, baby.”
Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”
His head tilted. “Why?”
“Because I’m already—” You stopped.
Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.
You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”
He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”
You hated him.
You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.
Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.
Not yet.
His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.
Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.
Barely. Not enough. Too much.
His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”
Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?”
His mouth curved. “The vest.”
Oh. Right. The vest.
You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.
Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.
When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.
His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”
You nodded.
He waited. Right. Words.
“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.
“Hands on the counter.”
Your breath left you. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.
Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.
“You good?”
You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.
“I’m good.”
Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.
“Then, hands on the counter.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.
The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.
You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it.
Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.
Behind you, Jack did not move.
The silence was deliberate.
You felt it travel down the line of your spine.
Your skin prickled. “Jack.”
His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.
Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.
He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.
The vest touched you first.
A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.
Your fingers curled against the counter.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”
You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.
You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.
His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”
One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.
Still, your breath went uneven.
Jack heard it.
His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”
Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”
It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.
The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.
Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.
His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.
There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.
His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.
Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.
His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint.
You started to turn your head toward him.
His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”
Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.
You faced forward again.
Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”
You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”
His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”
Your face burned. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.
Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”
Your stomach flipped. “What?”
“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder.
The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.
You went silent.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.
His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.
Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.
You caught it.
Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”
Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving.
You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.
His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”
Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”
His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.
Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.
“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”
You swallowed hard. “That was one?”
His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”
The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.
Your fingers flexed.
Jack saw. “Hands.”
You flattened them.
He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.
Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.
You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.
Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.
Not gone. Changed.
You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.
But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.
Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.
Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt.
You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.
Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
He trusted it.
His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”
The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.
You lifted your hands slowly.
The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.
Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.
The silence made your pulse beat harder.
Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.
You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.
The shirt stopped. You froze.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”
Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”
His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.
A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin.
“No?”
Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.
“Please.”
Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.
His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”
The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.
“Take it off.”
A pause.
Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way.
The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.
The air touched your bare skin.
Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two.
The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”
Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”
His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”
“You weren’t home.”
His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”
The words landed low and heavy between you.
You started to lower your arms.
Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”
You froze.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”
Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.
Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.
Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”
His fingers paused.
You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”
Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”
His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”
A shiver moved through you.
Jack felt it.
His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”
Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.
He had not told you to.
Jack noticed.
You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.
He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”
Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”
For a second, he was silent.
Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”
The praise hit harder than you expected.
Your breath shook.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.
Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”
You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders.
Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.
“Behind your back.”
Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.
Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.
Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.
His mouth curved. “There she is.”
The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.
Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.
Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.
“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.
Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”
His grip settled.
His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.
Your lips parted.
The air left the room.
Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.
You felt it everywhere.
He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.
You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.
Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.
He liked that.
You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.
Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.
You should have found that funny.
You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.
“Jack.” His name came out thin.
He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.
You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.
You were not trapped.
You were held.
There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.
His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.”
Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.
You closed your eyes.
The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.
“Touch me,” you whispered.
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.
He did not ask again.
He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.
And because he trusted you, you gave him more.
A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.
Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Your body listened before your pride could object.
A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.
You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.
“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.
Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.
Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.
He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.
Your breath broke. “Please.”
The word slipped out raw.
Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.
Not yet.
“Please what?”
You made a sound that was not quite an answer.
He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.
Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”
His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”
Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.
“Please don’t stop.”
His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him.
The knowledge made your knees weaker.
Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.
You were close enough now that the room started to slip.
The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.
All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”
You shook against him.
He felt it.
He gave you more.
Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—
Jack stopped. Completely.
For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
You were too far gone for that.
Your body tried to follow his hand.
Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”
You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you.” He murmured.
“You stopped.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”
You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”
His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”
Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating.
“And I want to hear you do it again.”
For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.
You whispered his name.
Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”
Your pulse jumped.
His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.
Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.
“Slow.”
One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.
He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.
Almost.
His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.
“There,” he said softly.
Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”
The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.
Then he bent slightly.
“Jack—”
His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.
Then he lifted you.
The counter was cold beneath you.
You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.
The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.
Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.
Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.
He caught your wrists. Fast.
Your breath stopped.
Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”
You made a soft, frustrated sound.
His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”
You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”
“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”
Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.
His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”
Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.
Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”
The word went through you with humiliating ease.
Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”
You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”
“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.
Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.
Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”
The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.
Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”
Oh.
Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.
Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”
Your face burned. “That was mean.”
“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”
The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.
Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.
His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”
Your throat worked. “I’m good.”
His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”
Your fingers curled harder around the counter.
Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.
You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.
Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked.
The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”
His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”
The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.
Soft. Patient. A beginning.
Your head tipped back against the cabinet.
Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”
“I know.” The smile was in his voice.
You hated that. You loved that.
His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.
Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”
Your grip tightened immediately.
The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.
You let out a shaking breath.
Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”
The words emptied your lungs.
Jack lowered his mouth.
The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control.
“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.
Jack paused. Barely.
You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”
You inhaled sharply.
Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.
You tried to move.
Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.
Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.
His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.
Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.
Your eyes flew open.
He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”
Your voice had vanished. You nodded.
Jack’s hands stilled.
The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved. “Tell me.”
Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”
He rewarded you immediately.
Your breath broke.
Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone.
One hand slipped. Only an inch.
Jack lifted his head. “No.”
The word was quiet. Your hand froze.
He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”
Your face burned. “On the counter.”
His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”
He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.
Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.
Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.
“Jack.”
His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now.
You used it. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”
You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”
“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”
Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.
He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.
Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.
Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.
Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”
You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.
He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.
Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing.
“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.
You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”
His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”
Your cheeks burned.
You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”
Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.
Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”
He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”
You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”
“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.
And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.
You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.
Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.
Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.
The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.
Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”
His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.
So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.
His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.
Jack noticed. His smile deepened.
You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”
“No, you don’t.”
Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.
Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.
For one second.
Only one.
Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”
The words landed low.
Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.
You stared at him.
Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.
A reminder.
The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.
Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”
Your fingers flexed in his hold.
He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”
It was not a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened.
For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.
It had not.
The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.
Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.
Your breath caught.
He noticed. “Soon,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”
His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”
Your pulse kicked. “What?”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”
The kitchen seemed to go quieter.
You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.
Your fingers curled once against his.
Then you lifted your hands.
Slowly.
Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.
The wood was cool behind your knuckles.
Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.
He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.
His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”
You nodded once. “I’m good.”
His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”
Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”
Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.
Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.
Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.
“You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.
You looked at him. Really looked.
At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.
Your chest tightened. “Yes.”
His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”
“Yes.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.
Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”
You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.
You heard the shift of his belt.
The low rasp of a zipper.
Your whole body went tight.
Jack felt it immediately.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.
Jack’s hand came back to your hip.
He looked at you. Waited.
Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.
His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.
Jack stopped. Completely.
Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.
Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”
Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.
His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”
A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.
Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”
He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.
You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”
Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”
He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him.
Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.
You were shaking again.
Already.
Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”
You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.
He held you there.
“You did that on purpose,” you managed.
“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.
That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.
Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”
You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.
Jack groaned. A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.”
Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.
The gear scraped against your skin.
His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.
“Jack.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.
“You keep saying that.”
His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”
Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.
His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”
Your eyes closed.
“Good girl.”
Your fingers tightened.
“Just like that.”
Your body answered every word.
Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.
“Stay with me.”
Your eyes opened.
He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”
“I’m—” You tried.
“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”
The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.
“Oh, fuck.”
Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”
His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.
“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”
The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.
His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.
“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”
You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.
“Jack,” you whispered again.
That was what did it.
His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”
His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.
His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.
For a long moment, there was only breathing.
Yours. His.
The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.
Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.
Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.
His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”
Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”
His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”
You nodded against him. “I’m good.”
His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.
Gentle now. Careful.
The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.
He lifted his head and looked at you.
His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.
You reached up and touched it with two fingers.
Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”
You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”
Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”
You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”
His smile softened. “Come here.”
“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh.
“Come here anyway.”
This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.
Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.
He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
“You did so good,” he said quietly.
Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.
You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
You laughed, boneless and breathless.
He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.
Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.
Your eyes opened.
“The spoon,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.
You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.
You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”
“I know.”
“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.
His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”
His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”
You ended up in Jack’s bed after.
Not right away.
There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.
Then one of his shirts.
Then water.
Then bed.
The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.
He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.
This one was warm. Settled.
His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.
Just Jack.
“Hey,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”
He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.
He didn’t.
His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”
Your brow softened. “For what?”
Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”
The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.
Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.
You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”
His jaw moved once. “I know.”
His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”
Oh.
That landed deeper than you expected.
You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.
“You don’t.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you.
Not much.
Enough.
You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”
You closed your eyes.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.
But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.
And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary : No matter how obvious you make it for him, Bradley just cannot seem to get the hint.
Pairing : Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader
Disclaimer : English is not my first language so sorry for any grammatical errors that might have escaped my proofreading💞
Word count : 3.9k
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“Yo, Mickey give me the schedule, I want to see who’s playing on the main stage.” Reuben called out to his friend.
“I don’t have it, dude, you do.”
“No I gave it to you after lunch, remember ?”
Mickey pulled out the inside of his pocket to prove his point, “I have nothing.”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Reuben turned to the rest of the guys who seemed deeply uninterested and not at all concerned.
“Anyone has it ?”
Jake who was showing something on his phone to Javy didn’t even look up, “do we have what ?”
Reuben pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation, God were these guys incompetent when they weren’t flying at supersonic speed in a war machine.
“What are you sulking for, Payback ?” Natasha asked.
As soon as Bradley heard her voice, he looked up from his phone, on which he was pretending to be busy. Sure enough, you were right next to Natasha, back from your little trip to the bathroom.
Bradley had willed himself to not look too excited when Natasha had asked if you, her best friend, could accompany the squad on their outing to the music festival that had settled on the edge of town for a weekend. They all knew you pretty well by now, Natasha had already dragged you along to multiple hangouts with them. But it had only taken a few minutes after your first meeting for Bradley’s heart to do somersaults in his chest at the mere mention of your name. Still, he had yet to make a move. Why ? He didn’t really know. Each time he worked himself up to ask you out, or not even that, simply ask for your number, he would backtrack.
Bradley didn’t consider himself to be a shy guy, hell no. But there was something about you that made him a bit tongue tied whenever you were too close to him, and he would lie if he said that it didn’t embarrassed him a bit, at his age to still feel a schoolboy blush creeping up his cheeks when you sent a smile his way.
“Do you want me to hold your bag ?” Bradley asked, cringing a bit at how earnest he sounded.
You shook your head with a warm smile, “I’m okay, but thank you for proposing, that’s really nice.”
You affectionately squeezed his shoulder and Bradley’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The sole, brief contact of your hand on his covered shoulder was enough to send butterflies flying in his stomach with the force of ten Super Hornets.
“Yo Rooster, did you get sunburnt on your cheeks ?” Jake questioned with a smug grin, finger pointing to his own cheeks to accentuate his point, “you’re super red.”
Bradley only glared at him, and before he could retort anything, Natasha hit Jake on the back of the head.
“Leave him alone, Bagman.” She warned while Jake looked at her, deeply offended and rubbing the back of his head like the overly dramatic man he was, “now come on troops, let’s go to the main stage. In the toilet, Y/N and I heard people talking about a huge band that’s gonna play there.”
Everyone agreed and quickly started walking towards the main stage. Bradley was walking beside you, instinctively matching your pace to stay close to you. The squad was already quite far ahead when Bradley noticed that you had — purposely ? — slowed down a bit, leaving the two of you separated from the group. And being, if only a little, isolated with you like that made him equally as nervous as it made him giddy.
“Jake’s right you know, your cheeks are kinda red, you should put on some sunscreen.” You said softly, eyes fixed on the crimson hue painting his face.
Hearing the words ‘Jake is right’ coming from your pretty lips perhaps shouldn’t have left such a big sour taste in his mouth. Bradley tried to swallow the feeling off and focused on trying to not blush any harder under your soft and worried gaze.
He cleared his throat, “yeah, I probably should.”
“I have some in my bag,” you said helpfully, looking in your tote bag for the orange tub.
Your concern and desire to help him felt like a soothing balm on his bruised ego and he couldn’t contain the small, sheepish smile that pulled at his lips.
“Thank you, Y/N.”
But when he made a move to grab the sunscreen tube you seemed to be holding out for him, you immediately retracted your hand out of his reach.
“Let me ?” You asked, a glint in your eyes that made his heart skip a beat.
Bradley let out a small, surprised, but nonetheless absolutely delighted laugh. He stopped in his tracks, slightly lowering himself so it’d be easier for you to reach his face, which had definitely darkened in shade by now.
“Go ahead.” He said, voice dripping with fondness.
The word ‘sweetheart’ almost slipped away from him but he managed to reined it in at the last second. You giggled softly and squirted a small amount of sunscreen on both of his cheeks.
“Let’s not forget the forehead and chin as well…” you mumbled under your breath, which made Bradley smile even more.
Very gently and carefully, maybe more than anyone had ever been with him, you began to rub the cream onto his cheeks, making sure that it was fully covering and protecting his face. The feeling of your delicate fingers almost affectionately rubbing his face was sending his heart into a frenzy, accompanied by a warmth that spread in his entire body. It felt so good and for a moment Bradley was conflicted between closing his eyes to enjoy the experience to its full extent, or stay like this, his gentle brown eyes gazing down at you with surely nothing short of adoration as you focused entirely on getting every little nook of his face.
When you finished, you cupped his face with infinite tenderness.
“There, you’re all good to go now.”
And as quick as you had put them on him, your hands were gone. And the intensity of the longing Bradley felt for your touch probably should have been concerning.
“Thank—“ his voice came out strangely hoarse and he was quick to clear his throat, “thank you, Y/N.”
You offered him a sweet smile, your hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder… for the second time in under ten minutes he noted.
“Well, looks like we lost them,” you said, when you turned your head to look at where the squad was suppose to be, just a bit ahead of you. In their place was now a whirlwind of people passing through, and none of them looked like cocky and overconfident naval aviators.
“It’s okay, we know where they’re going.” He said, voice dropping into a sweet and low register, the way it usually did around you.
Instinctively, and before he could do anything to rein it in, his hand reached out to yours, ready to protectively guide you into the swarming sea of people. And as soon as his hand made contact with yours, it finally registered in his mind. His hand retracted as if he’d been electrocuted by your touch.
“Sorry !” He said quickly, “I just thought— I mean I didn’t want you to get lost in the crowd, you know ?”
God, he was embarrassing himself.
Fearing to see repulsion on your features, his gaze fixated on the worn out and yellowing grass under his feet. A few seconds passed and the lack of any reaction coming from you made his heart sink at the bottom of his stomach. He had fucked it up, fucked it up before he could even make his interest clear, and after all perhaps it was for the best, at least he was fixed now, a girl like you couldn’t possibly be interested in a guy like him anyway—
Bradley’s whirlwind of self deprecating thoughts stopped dead in its tracks, rendered silent by your arms wrapping around his. His eyes snapped back up to meet yours.
“There, that way it’s more secure,” you explained, the warm smile never leaving your lips, “you won’t lose me.”
It was like time had froze for an instant, Bradley looked down at your bright smile that was meant for him, only for him at that moment and he physically felt his heart stutter. The feeling of your body pressed against his arm was almost too much for him, and the outline of your breasts against his arm downright felt like a test from God.
While willing his racing heart to calm down and his cheeks to not overheat, Bradley guided you in the crowd, making sure that nobody was jostling you too much. And his eyes immediately darted to you when he felt one of your hands slip away from his bicep. Just as quickly, he averted his gaze when he saw your hand going to the low neckline of your top, seemingly readjusting it, Bradley just prayed that you hadn’t follow his line of sight.
He was gonna move on, but when you repeated the movement three times just under the span of five minutes, Bradley felt like he could perhaps address the matter.
“Is everything alright ?”
“Yeah, it’s just—“ you did it again, hand coming up to slightly move your top, “this top is gorgeous but it’s itchy as hell.”
You were right. The top was gorgeous, more precisely it was gorgeous on you. All day, Bradley had willed himself to keep his eyes away from the pretty dip of the top which was showing off the swell of your breasts, the top made them sit so prettily, in a manner that had his mind spinning if he thought about it too long. But now that you mentioned it, the fabric indeed did not look very comfortable.
“I think it’s slowly starting to give my boobs a rash.”
Oh.
The mere mention of your chest had his cheeks flaming up again. Damn it, just when he had managed to get his blush under control.
Hearing you complain suddenly, and very strangely he had to admit, gave birth to an urge to fix your problem, provide a solution. And his brain was quick to find it.
“I can give you my shirt, if you want.” Bradley supplied before he had anymore time to think about it, and what was there to think about really ? He’d give you all his clothes in an instant if you’d asked.
You eyed his open Hawaiian shirt, “are you sure ?”
“Yeah, don’t worry. I still have my tank top.”
You seemed to think about it for a second but made your mind pretty quickly.
“Well if it’s really not a bother then yeah, I’ll take it. Thank you, Bradley, that’s really nice of you.”
And then your hand came up to squeeze his bicep and Bradley wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to handle all your casual touches, which were very much not casual to him.
“Alright, let’s go to the toilets so you can change, yeah ?”
Turning back around and thus abandoning all the progress you had made in the crowd, you made your way towards the toilet.
“Oh god.” Was the only thing you were able to say as Bradley and you gazed at the endless waiting lines in front of each of the five portable toilets installed by the festival crew. “There literally were only five people ten minutes ago. I’m not waiting half an hour just to change clothes.”
Bradley’s mind was racing, trying to find another solution for you to change with the privacy you deserved. There was no way he would let you change outside here for everyone to see—
“I’ll just change outside.”
His head whipped towards you so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.
“Outside ?!” He repeated, deeply offended and distressed you would even suggest something like that.
But his alarmed tone didn’t faze you, a small smile pulled at your lips, a mix of mischief and warmth that was doing dangerous things to him, “yeah, we’ll find a quiet corner, plus, you’ll shield me, right ?”
Like his life depended on it.
Thus, similar as a man on a mission, Bradley looked for a quiet place in the midst of the festival’s craziness. Anywhere near the toilets was out of questions, as well as any of the stages. Too much people.
Finally, Bradley managed to get you to a more tranquil space, just near some hotdog food truck, he found it bizarre to see a food stand without anyone agglutinating in front of it, but one look at the hotdogs quickly supplied him with all the answers. The trailer was empty, so he ushered you behind it, in the corner. He hastily took off his shirt, opened it wide open to cover you so nobody could even think of taking a glimpse.
“Alright, try to make it quick.” Bradley turned his head to give you privacy and also to look out for any creeps.
He heard you chuckle, along with the sound of moving fabric. “Who knew you could be so assertive ?” You teased.
But Bradley cringed at the tone he had dared to use with you, “sorry I didn’t—“
“No, it’s fine.” The smile in your voice was evident, “I like it.”
Gazing out in the empty part of the festival field, he tried not to say anything stupid now and ruin all the progress he’d made. He felt his shirt slip from his fingers as you delicately took it from him, promptly, he turned around, his back facing you and continued to stretch out his arms to shield you.
After a few seconds he heard you put something in your bag and then your fingers went to gently tap his shoulders.
Terrified of misinterpreting your cue, he asked, “can I turn around ?”
“Yes you can,” you agreed in an endeared laugh.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight blessing his eyes. Standing with a sheepish smile, you were showing off your new outfit to him. Outfit composed mainly of his Hawaiian shirt, falling onto your smaller frame perfectly. The few top buttons were opened, allowing the fabric to reveal just the beginning of the valley between your breasts before draping delicately over them.
Bradley felt like his brain short circuited. You looked nothing short of ethereal in his clothing. And the thought that right now, something of his was touching your arms, your stomach, your breasts… you, was entirely too much.
“Well ? How do I look ?” You prompted, facing his silence.
Bradley cleared his throat, “you— you look good. Great actually, it suits you better than me,” he tried to joke lightly, except it was nowhere near a joke, it was the pure, blatant truth and the casual laugh he had opted for sounded awfully hoarse.
Your smile widened and only then did Bradley catch the way your eyes seemed to be raking appreciatively over his now uncovered shoulders and arms. He preened on the inside and subconsciously puffed up his chest a little, desperately trying to appeal to you in anyway.
“Should we go find the others ?”
“Yeah.” Instinctively, you went back to his side, your arms snaking around his.
While trying to make your way back to the main stage, you passed by a relatively small one surrounded by quite a lot of people, quite the contrast compared to the size of the stage. Lively music was booming from the speakers, and the crowd was happily moving along to the beat. Bradley’s fast pace was suddenly cut short when you gently held him back, tugging lightly on his arm.
“Is everything okay ?”
“Let’s dance, Bradley.”
His heart skipped a beat.
“D— dance ? What about the others ? Don’t you want to get back to them ?”
“Not yet. Right now, I want to dance with you.”
Akin to an angel who came down on earth to bless him with your smile and presence, you gently pulled him towards the middle of the makeshift dance floor, giving him time to backtrack if he wanted to, but there wasn’t any world out there in which Bradley could ever pull away from you. The music suddenly changed. The rhythmic tunes subdued by the gentle sway of a slow dance.
“Ohh, look at that, perfect timing.” You smiled up at him.
Bradley was usually a good dancer, a pretty smooth one if he said so himself, comfortable in his body and the way it moved. But right now all his muscles were stiff, rendered useless and rigid under your expectant gaze.
“Don’t look so nervous,” you chuckled, taking his hands and placing them on your waist.
“I’m not.” He lied, not very convincingly.
Bradley prayed to God that you couldn’t feel the way his hands were slowly becoming clammier as they hesitantly rested on you. Your arms went around his neck, getting a bit closer to him. You swayed naturally to the slow beat of the song, taking him with you, and soon, guided by your elegant steps and soft words of encouragement, Bradley relaxed. Your fingers were lightly playing with the hair on his nape, and the occasional small drag of your nails there was rendering him putty in your hands, a tiny, delighted shiver going down his spine everytime. And for a moment, it seemed as if the crowd had disappeared, leaving you and Bradley alone, he was bathing in your attention and nothing had ever felt this good.
Your eyes were all too warm as they gazed up at him, just the tiniest bit squinted from the smile that never seemed to leave your lips whenever you were in his presence. And Bradley’s heart did somersaults in his chests when he caught your gaze flicking, almost imperceptibly, to his lips.
“I didn’t know you were such a good dancer,” Bradley whispered in an attempt to not break the moment, voice a bit husky from the closeness he shared with you.
You let out a small, endeared laugh. It was a stupid compliment, you both knew it. It wasn’t dancing, if anything it was more gently swaying and stepping to the side every once in a while, but he’d take any chance to compliment you.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
And by God did he want to know everything.
And just as he was about to finally voice this consuming desire, the music faded out, immediately replaced by loud drums, shattering the moment in the same time as the courage he had been mustering up all evening.
“Don’t look so gloom.” You almost cooed.
Shit, his face must have shown how annoyed he was at himself. Why couldn’t he just make a move ? The answer came too quick. What if you rejected him ? Bradley didn’t mind getting turned down, sure it was a little humbling at times, but it wasn’t that deep. But coming from you ? That was an entirely different story. One he wouldn’t be able to cope with if it ended badly.
Your voice got him out of his sulking turmoil.
“Bradley ?”
His eyes immediately snapped towards you.
“Yes ?” Voice going a bit high pitched at the end.
A chuckle passed your lips and Bradley got hit with a bone chilling realization, had you just been laughing all day at his inability to act like a normal person around you ? Did you think he was weird ? After all, you never really had the opportunity to truly see what he was like, since he was so guarded and uptight around you. Perhaps you thought he was the awkward, weird one of the squad. Oh god, what if you were just being nice to him out of pity ?
“Could you drive me home, please ? I’m a bit tired.”
That was it. You were tired of him, done, didn’t even want to go back to the squad.
“Are you sure ? Didn’t you want to stay for dinner at the Hard Deck after ?” He tried to reason, having a difficulty swallowing the lump in his throat. “The squad is gonna wonder where we are.”
“Yeah I’m sure, I’d like to go home, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course, no problem.”
He’d be damned if he didn’t at least make sure you got home safe after making you endure his presence all day.
“And don’t worry your pretty head about the squad, they’ll manage just fine without us.” You squeezed his shoulder for the nth time tonight, and when it had felt thrilling just a few minutes earlier, it just felt painful now.
“Alright.” Bradley hoped his smile came across as kind and did not convey any of the dread he was feeling up forming a pit in his stomach.
The drive to your house felt awfully charged to Bradley, and not in the way he usually liked. The soft hum from the radio was the only thing filling in the silence in the car. The sun was well set into its descending phase now, subduing a red and pink glow for the dark of the night. Bradley was unusually quiet, in the hopes of getting you the peace and quiet he thought you were looking for, after spending the last part of the evening babysitting him.
“Bradley ?”
God did he love hearing his name coming out of your mouth, and he prayed that after the awkward teenage boy act he had pulled tonight, that he would be given the chance to hear it again.
His eyes flicked over to you, seeing your hands playing with the buttons of his shirt on your chest.
“Yeah ?”
“You really are an oblivious guy, aren’t you ?”
Frowning, Bradley fully turned his head to get a look at you. His eyes widened when he saw you undoing every single button of the Hawaiian shirt, the fabric draping gracefully over your breasts, revealing the valley in between them. He quickly turned his gaze back to the road, his pulse roaring in his ears… and traveling quickly somewhere down south.
“I— um, I’m not sure, what is—“ his eyes flicked to you again, shirt open, your head was lolled to the side, looking at him with something he realized he might have misinterpreted from the start, his gaze returned on the road, taking the turn that led to your house, “what are you saying ?”
You let out a giggle as Bradley parked in front of your place, your bottom lip was caught between your teeth as your gaze traveled to his mouth, a smile stretching yours. Wordlessly, you got out of the car. Confused, and ridiculously turned on, he got out as well, rounding the car and watching you walk to your door while he just stood there, unsure of what else to do. Did you want him to walk you to your door ? Did you want him to just leave you the fuck alone…? He was so confused.
And so he just watched as you unlocked your door and walked in… without ever closing it. You turned around in your entrance hall, eyes boring into his despite the meters separating you.
“If you didn’t catch the hint,” you said, and Bradley watched wide eyed as you let the shirt slip off your shoulders and fall gracefully to the ground, baring yourself to him, “that was an invitation for you to get in.”
Oh yeah, he definitely got it now.
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Author's note : I like to imagine Bradley as either this very observant and aware guy, or totally oblivious, there is no middle ground. Also I’m still having a bit of trouble writing Bradley and characterizing him so if you think I wrote him out of character too much, please do tell !!
Alsoooo there are 300 of you guys following me, that’s insane !! Thank you so much, I’m really honored. I have some very excited things coming up and I can’t wait to share them with you all !! Thanks again💞💞
summary: a failed marriage, a traumatic brain injury, an old emergency contact, and a love that doesn’t give up.
warnings: okay, medical inaccuracies up the wazoo, I tried my best with research but at the end of the day I am simply just not a doctor :(, car accident, failed marriage, TBI, multiple panic attacks, memory loss, ONE USE OF (Y/N) BECAUSE I COULD NOT FIND A WAY AROUND IT PLS FORGIVE ME!
main masterlist | support dividers by @cafekitsune
Jack received the phone call at 3:48 AM.
It was his one night off, and his sleep schedule was so messed up that he didn’t sleep through the night even on off days. He was awake, staring at his buzzing phone, wondering why he was getting a phone call from Dana, of all people, at 3:48 in the morning.
“Dana, you okay?’
Dana stood on the other end of the line, free hand on her hip and wondering how the hell she was supposed to tell Jack the information that she had.
The silence hung heavy, something was wrong.
“Dana?”
Dana exhaled a breath, shaky and long. Your name tumbled past her lips and Jack nearly dropped his phone as he shot up off of his couch, fumbling for his prosthetic while Dana explained that you were there, in his ED, and he was still listed as your emergency contact.
“How bad is it?” He asked after getting changed and out the door, faster than he ever had while he fumbled with his housekey, shaky hands struggling to jam it into the keyhole.
“Just get here as fast as you can.”
“Page Robby.”
“Already did.”
Jack’s thoughts raced a thousand miles an hour as he drove the short distance to PTMC, after your divorce, he’d chosen a place close to the hospital so he could easily get out the door and to the hospital if he was needed. But he hated it, hated the small house he rented, not bought, just in case you’d ever change your mind one day and decide you love him still, decide you want him to come back and share your home again.
The house was small and cramped and rundown, but it did the job for a divorcee who didn’t do much but work and sleep. He thought the reason it was so void of warmth is because you weren’t there to fill it.
The day you handed him the divorce papers was the worst of his life, beating the day he lost his foot by miles. He worked too much, was no longer emotionally or even physically present. He was starting to feel like a roommate to you, not your husband. And he had let you go, you had given him a choice, and he let you go. He didn’t promise things would be different or that he’d change because he knew he couldn’t.
Or that he wouldn’t.
But as time drew on he realized more and more everyday how much he’d do anything to get you back, and was crushed by the weight that it was entirely too late. But now, as he sped through the streets of Pittsburgh to get to you, he realized he’d do anything for you to just be alive.
“I promise I’ll never ask you for anything again.” He whispered as his hands gripped onto the steering wheel, pleading and making deals with God, unsure if he could even hear him.
He didn’t know what he was walking into, but if Dana wouldn’t even give him details over the phone, he knew it had to be bad. So bad that Dana couldn’t even speak it.
His heart thundered in his chest, blood roaring through his ears when he made his way into the Pitt, having slipped in through the ambulance bay so he didn’t have to deal with the groanings of the very impatient patients that sat in chairs. The doors slid open and Jack was immediately met with two hands on his chest, stopping him from walking in any further.
“Jack, I need you to listen to me. Really listen.”
“Where is she?” His eyes were dark, darker than Dana had ever seen them, she was sure. There were too many people in between him and the only woman he ever loved and he needed her to move. But her feet were planted like cement to the floor, she’s seen worse.
“She’s already up in the OR with Walsh, Robby got her stabilized- Jack!”
As soon as he heard the word OR, his feet were moving, past both Dana and Robby who were trying like hell to keep him downstairs, but he tore his arms away from their grips and continued on his path.
Robby had to push him up against the wall, forearm barred over his chest to get him to stop. He felt bad and he was sure Jack would have a headache after but he didn’t have any other choice.
“You cannot go up there.”
Jack’s nostrils flared, moving his shoulder to make an effort to get out of Robby’s hold but Robby only pushed him further into the wall.
“She’s alone.”
His voice was cut raw as he spoke, each word painful.
Robby shook his head, “Walsh has her. She’s not alone.”
“She’s my wife.”
Robby hung his head, thinking over his next words carefully before realizing there was no gentle way to deliver the words he needed to deliver.
“Not anymore, Jack. Right now, you’re just her emergency contact.”
Jack’s breath sputtered, heart cracking in his chest because he knew Robby was right. He wasn’t even sure how he was still your emergency contact. He was sure you had friends, family, maybe even a new boyfriend to fill that space, but Dana had confirmed multiple times that he was the only one listed. Jack didn’t even know where to begin in finding someone else to call for you. Your dad died when you were in high school and your mom passed away during your marriage, leaving you with no other family except a few distant aunts and uncles and a handful of cousins. He didn’t know any of your friends anymore, didn’t even know if any of them were still around. He asked Dana to keep looking.
“What happened?”
Jack asked after Robby escorted him into a family room, finally give in that there was nothing he could do for you now, and he had to let the surgeons do their jobs.
Robby ran a hand over his face. He knew when Dana called him in that he would not only have to work to stabilize you and save your life, but he’d have to face Jack, and tell him what happened to you, tell him what he had to do to save your life.
He watched Jack’s face fall more and more as he explained you were in a car accident, hit head on and spun off of the highway and into a ditch. Explained how it took firefighters and EMT’s hours to figure out how to get you out of your car without killing you on the spot.
He told him how he didn’t recognize you when he entered the trauma room.
Robby had held his tongue for a moment before telling him that, but ended up realizing it was better for him to know what he was going to walk into when you were out of surgery rather than be blindsided.
He explained that they did, and are doing, everything they possibly can to save your life.
Jack would relive the day you gave him divorce papers over and over if it meant you never had to be here.
What Robby didn’t tell him, was that the guy who hit you was DOA, that he had seen pictures of your car and nearly vomited at the sight, and that your last conscious moments were spent terrified, asking for Jack.
It’s not what he needed right now, what he needed was to cling onto hope that you were going to wake up.
Hours drawled on, two friends crammed into a family room, sitting in chairs and couches that were two small for their large frames, unsure what time it was as they started to question reality by doing nothing except staring at the walls that stretched out in front of them.
Every so often, Jack would forget why he was there, forget why he was sat at an awkward angle staring at a picture of a pond that was supposed to be calming, then he’d remember and it would all hit him like a pound of bricks.
Robby fell asleep with his head tilted back and mouth open.
Jack envied him. Every time his eyelids started to weigh heavily, pulled down by lack of sleep and upset, his body would jolt him awake, like it knew this was not the time for him to get to happily doze off.
He was waiting for you.
“Jack.”
His body jolted, head snapping up as he was caught in a moment of dozing off.
Emery Walsh was in front of him, expression unreadable, she looked drained, deflated to the bone. Her shoulders sagged and the normal whites of her eyes were beat red, hair wild and coming out of what once was a neat bun in the back of her head.
“Please tell me you saved her.”
Emery crouched in front of Jack, eyes the softest he’s ever seen them and he prepared himself for the worst as she looked at him.
She brought a hand up to grip his wrist.
“You can go see her, Jack.”
Jack felt relief tear through his body, a noise shot from his throat that he’s certain he’s never made before as he nodded, his free hand coming up to squeeze Emery’s in a wordless ‘thank you’. A woman who, in the past, has been nothing but a pain in his ass, is now the woman that saved your life. As he looked at her he saw someone completely knew, a person, who just fought tooth and nail to keep another person breathing. He’d never forget it.
Robby stirred at the commotion, immediately asking if you were okay before he could even peel his eyes open, his eyelids lined with thick sleep.
Jack just nodded in response, unable to form words.
The elevator from the ED to the ICU felt like hours, as Emery explained the extent of your injuries, Jack felt sick to his stomach.
“I’m going to explain this to you as if you know nothing, okay? Just listen.” She’d said the second Jack and Robby stepped into the elevator. “She has a DAI, diffuse axonal injury. While it’s not primarily an internal bleed, her brain nerve fibers were torn due to the acceleration of the car accident, causing small, microscopic hemorrhages.”
Jack felt he was going to be sick, he knew what all of this meant, he knew what DAI was, had seen it too many times. Too many times to know that people don’t just bounce back from this. You were never going to be the same.
His hands clenched in his pockets.
He followed Emery down the halls of the ICU, the only sounds being the echoing of their footsteps and the too slow beeping of monitors coming from the rooms that they passed.
Emery stopped in front of a door, which he was assuming was yours, but paused before turning to him, her hand hovering over the handle.
“Jack you should know-“
“I know.”
“I know, you know. But I’m required to tell you the risks of what she faces when she wakes up.”
Jack swallowed, thick, his own saliva feeling foreign in his mouth. She took his silence as a sign to continue.
“She might not wake up for a long time, that’s not a bad sign, okay? And when she does, Jack, she-“ She took in a sharp inhale, she’s delivered these words hundreds of times but never to someone she knew. Someone she’d even say she respected. “She may not remember you.”
Jack didn’t move, his hands still firmly shoved into his pockets, eyes fixed on the handle of the door.
Robby choked behind him.
“Due to the severity of the TBI, we hope that it’ll only be temporary. But she-“ Her head turned towards the door to your room. “She’s really gonna need you. This is not a time for you to disappear into your despair.” She turned back towards Jack, eyes sharp and serious. “Do you understand?”
“Let me see her, please.” His voice rasped and broke around the edges and he didn’t care. Each second he stood there, with a door barring him from seeing you, felt like agony. His skin burned with every minute that passed that he wasn’t holding your hand or brushing your hair out of your face.
Robby’s firm hand squeezed Jack’s shoulder after he nodded, and he’d never been so thankful for his best friend as he was in that moment. He’d be too scared to walk into that room without him.
He realized when Emery opened the door he should’ve taken a few moments to prepare himself for exactly what he was about to see, he underestimated it tremendously.
You laid on the bed, practically lifeless, with a tube sticking out of your throat and white gauze wrapped around your head, eyes so swollen he probably wouldn’t be able to see your pretty irises even if you were awake. Your leg was in a cast, ending just above the knee, elevated with a strap that hung from the ceiling. Your arms were covered in bruises and stitches and he could barely tell that you were even there under all of that mess.
He stumbled into the room, breath catching in his throat as he brought a hand up to his chest, clutching at the material of his tee shirt as if they would do anything to hold his heart together as he felt it was being torn to pieces while he looked at you.
“Oh, god. Honey…”
His hands hovered over you, not knowing where he could touch you without causing further damage, and he settled for just resting his hands on the stiff mattress with his pinky finger pressed up against yours.
Emery backed out of the room without a word, gently shutting the door behind her. Robby stood by the door, arms interlocked over his chest as he watched his friend fall apart.
Not even he could walk him off of this ledge.
“She’s gonna fight like hell.” He said after a few moments of silence, watching Jack watch you.
Jack didn’t respond.
“And we are gonna fight like hell.”
Jack continued to stare at you, soundless tears slipped past his lashes. “I should’ve fought harder before.”
“Jack-“
“No.”
His voice was ragged, so broken as he still wouldn’t turn to face his friend, eyes glued to you.
“Maybe she wouldn’t be here if-“
“Don’t do that to yourself.”
“If I had fought harder for her before-“
He was panicking, chest rapidly rising and falling as he choked on his words.
“Nothing would have changed.”
Robby’s voice was stern, cutting through the anxiety that was radiating off of Jack.
“You hear me?” He stepped closer to him, so close that his voice rang in Jack’s ears. “Nothing would have changed. Fate has a habit of playing like that.”
Jack gripped the sheets, knuckles turning white.
“You’re here now. You can change it.”
“We’re divorced.”
That one thing, that one detail of this whole mess hung in the air, ugly and thick and Robby wanted to kick something.
“She needs you. Divorce or not. I’m here for whatever you need.”
And with that, Robby was out the door, and Jack was left with just you, your face being a cruel, physical manifestation of the heartbreaking reminder of what he’d done to your marriage. What he’d done to you.
-
It had been weeks, weeks of turning you over so you wouldn’t get bed sores, which took a whole team considering the countless other injuries that littered your body, Jack was just thankful you weren’t awake for it and prayed you couldn’t feel the pain through your sleep, the only thing that relaxed him was the steady rate of your monitor. Weeks of Dana coming in to administer your sponge baths while Jack waited outside the door like a guard dog, understanding that it wasn’t his place anymore. Weeks of reading you your favorite book, Little Women, aloud, and trying to ignore the ache in his chest when he got to the chapters of Beth’s sickness and eventual death.
“That’s not gonna be you, baby.” He’d said as he read to you.
It was weeks of waiting, not sleeping, and holding your hand once he’d worked up the courage to do so, after a little bit of encouragement from nurses and various doctors in the ICU. He was sure he looked like hell, curls awkward from sleeping in weird positions, heavy bags under his eyes, his irises watery and glazed over from his lack of sleep and tears. Every muscle and bone in his body ached from the discomfort of the hospital but nobody could convince him to leave because it was a thousand times worse for you and he refused to leave you alone here.
It was beginning to feel like routine, massaging your stiff muscles and sponge baths and turning you over and brushing your hair as gently as possible after Emery was able to take the gauze off of your head. Jack was beginning to think that maybe this was just life now, maybe this was all you were going to get and he was unconsciously okay with the idea of this being his new normal, if it meant you were safe from pain, comfortable, maybe somewhere nice in your sleep, he’d take care of you like this forever.
But a heartbreaking, sputtering breath brought him back to reality.
“Oh my god.” He pushed up from the chair he was in, the legs sliding across the ground with a sickening screech, and dropped the book he was in the middle of reading, the pages crumpling beneath him as they hit the floor, accidentally stepping on it as he scrambled to hit the call nurse button, not being authorized to remove your intubation himself.
“They’re coming, sweetheart.” He tried to comfort you as tears ran down the sides of your face, resting a gentle hand on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I know. Try to relax.”
His heart severed in half as he watched you struggle, at the painful choking sounds that came from your throat as the nurses pulled the tube out of you, the coughs that rang from deep in your chest, dry heaves that left spurts of saliva down the front of your gown as you cried.
“Breathe.” He soothed, finally smoothing his hand over your hair, his other hand grasped in yours.
“Wa-“ Your voice rasped and you couldn’t even finish your word before you were coughing again. He looked to the nurses and they nodded, busying themselves with pouring water into a small paper cup for you, sticking a straw into it and handing it to Jack.
“Small sips.” He instructed and you wrapped your lips around the straw, taking in probably too big of a sip and you closed your eyes with relief, whining when Jack pulled the cup away from you.
“I know, I’m sorry. More soon, okay?”
You continued to breathe deeply, cautiously, as if you were relearning how to breathe. The swelling in your face had gone down significantly, the bruises were either faded yellow or gone completely, your arms were returned to their original color and the cast on your leg had already been changed in the weeks you were still sleeping. You looked like you again.
Jack knew, he knew the whole time you’d been sleeping, having had weeks to prepare for you not to recognize him, and it still hit him like a tank when your eyes turned to him, confused and utterly helpless. You asked the question and Jack felt like the wind got knocked out of him. That dreaded question he’d put off thinking about for weeks.
“Who are you?”
Your voice was raspy and raw, as if you were talking through razor blades that were lodged in your throat, Jack winced at the noise and the pain that was evident on your face as you spoke.
Emery was in the room now, not exactly the doctor assigned to your care but she’d be damned if all she did was save your life and then disappear from your case.
Her eyes flitted to Jack, this had been a possibility, her and Jack had discussed it and still, it didn’t make this moment any easier.
Jack looked at Emery, almost for permission, not wanting to do anything that would stress you out or have to elongate your recovery.
She nodded.
Jack inhaled as he turned back to you, his hands awkward at his sides. He wore a soft smile to not scare you but it didn’t reach his eyes.
You noticed that it didn’t reach his eyes.
“We uh,” He coughed, “We were married.”
You didn’t say anything, just stared at him as he loomed over you. Familiarity flooded your veins but the lack of familiarity in your eyes spooked Jack as he watched you, waiting, hoping for something, anything.
“Tired.” Your voice was raspy, hardly above a whisper as you talked through the swelling in your throat, your eyelids started to flutter, Jack could tell you were fighting to keep them open.
“That’s okay.” Emery assured you, adjusting your pillows and pulling your blanket up around your shoulders. “Rest a bit, alright?”
She hadn’t even finished speaking before you were asleep again.
“She’s gonna hate me.” Jack spoke.
“Maybe.” Emery said, “Maybe not. Why don’t you give her the chance to decide?”
-
When you woke up again, peeling your eyelids apart like they had been glued shut while you were sleeping, the room was empty, quiet aside from the slow beeping of your heart monitor.
You groaned as the light seeped in through your squinted lids. Whose idea was it to make these lights so damn bright in here? And where even is here anyway?
“Hey, hun. Let’s turn these lights off, hm?”
A voice rang throughout the room, and suddenly the lights were dimmed and you relaxed, as much as you could with the throbbing in your head.
A woman with nearly white blonde hair entered your eyesight, a small smile playing on her lips as she looked down on you. She was dressed in grey scrubs and a pair of glasses were perched on the end of her nose. She wore a badge and you strained your eyes to read what it said.
Dana Evans, charge nurse.
“Aren’t you a vision in hospital wear?” She joked and you wanted to laugh, but everything just felt so scary and unfamiliar that as soon as you went to laugh you ended up choking on a sob instead.
“Oh, honey.”
You kept crying, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as your body wracked with sobs, tears were slowly turning into panic as your heartrate rose rapidly, the monitor being much faster than it was before. Your chest was burning, something thorned and sharp and unforgiving was lodged in your chest and you gripped at the sheets underneath you, wanting to curse and scream but feeling like a prisoner in your own body as you writhed and struggled.
“You’re safe.”
A new voice cut through the air and that same rush of familiarity sank into you, seeping through your skin and bones and settling deep into you.
A large hand laced through yours, and despite your confusion, you gripped back, harder. The hand was warm, calloused and rough but impossibly soft in yours, it was what you needed.
Jack had been sitting out in the hall while you slept, guilt started to creep in to his chest when you didn’t recognize him, unsure if you even would want him there if you knew who he was, if you remembered why your marriage failed and what he had done, or more so lack thereof, to get you to the broken place you are now, a place where he was afraid to even hold your hand.
Emery’s words rang in his head, a constant, aching reminder.
“She’s gonna need you.”
“This is not a time for you to disappear into your despair.”
He hated how accurately she read him, like a damn picture book on display for everyone to see and understand. Because as he sat here, eyes fixed on the lifeless walls of the ICU, all he wanted was to disappear, for Dana to find your real emergency contact, not the outdated one, and let you be taken care of in the way you deserved. And he was contemplating it, really truly thinking about walking away when a hand touched his shoulder.
“She needs you.”
Those three words snapped him back into place, back to the present.
You needed him.
He cannot disappear.
And now he was there, his hand clasped in yours, desperate for you to calm down, to stop crying and looking so scared because it was ruining him. The woman who was usually so confident, so sure of herself, now horizontal in a hospital bed, every limb and finger shaking because you didn’t know where you were and everything was confusing and you were so scared.
A noise broke through Jack’s voice as he watched you struggle, a mix between a whine and a choked sob, his body was trying to erupt with emotion at your pain but he had to hold it together, he couldn’t break. Not here, not in front of you.
“I promise. I promise you’re safe.”
Pet names were desperate on his tongue but he didn’t want to confuse you any further than you already were, so he pushed through with everything in them to keep them at bay. His free hand fretted over you, never really landing because he was just so unsure of his place in all of this. In where you wanted him.
“Keep talkin’ to her.” Dana encouraged, tilting her head towards the heart monitor and Jack was astonished to see that it was helping, your heart rate was going further and further down with each word he spoke.
“Just breathe, okay? Match mine.” He instructed, breathing in and out loudly so you could follow his steady motions. “Breathe when I breathe.”
You struggled for a minute, each breath being caught by the panic in your chest, but Jack was incredibly patient.
“It’s okay. Keep trying. Doing so good.”
His words were steady, his tone even despite the shake that threatened to break through his throat.
Eventually your breaths were matching his completely, eyes wide and teary as you looked up at Jack, completely enthralled by his presence despite still not understanding why he felt so comfortable to you.
“Good, that’s good. Good job.”
Your hand didn’t leave his.
“Did you ever find her emergency contact?”
Jack spoke low, mouth turned away from you in an effort to only have Dana hear him.
Your eyes widened, “I don’t have an emergency contact?”
Jack cursed at himself for not speaking low enough, your hand gripped his harder and he scrambled to find words, find an explanation. To figure out a way to tell you that he’s your only emergency contact, but there’s a high chance that you may not want him there.
“No, no. You do. I’m your emergency contact, but-“
“I don’t know you.”
Dana had already pulled out her phone and called for Emery, now that you were awake again, there was unfortunately a lot of questions to ask.
“Do you-“ Jack choked on his words, hating how he even had to ask this question. “Do you know who you are?”
You blinked, staring at him like he had just asked you the stupidest question in the world, but eventually the expression in your eyes began to fade, eyes widened and your grip on Jack’s hand tightened even harder because the answer was no, you had no idea who you were, or why you were here, or why this man kept holding your hand and looking at you like you were going to break in half.
Jack could tell just by your reaction, the mist forming in your eyes, what the answer to his question was.
“Hey, that’s okay. It’s normal after-“
“After what?!”
Emery opened the door then, giving you a tight lipped smile as she entered the room, stale with grief and antiseptic.
“Glad to see you’re awake again.”
Your eyes followed her as she crossed the room, each footstep methodical and properly placed, after doing this countless times it felt like a routine for her, but she had to remember now, in this room, this wasn’t routine, this was Jack Abbot’s ex-wife, the only woman he ever loved and things were different. She wasn’t on this case because of routine, she was on this case because Jack trusted her and her skills and because you could not be another routine rotation.
“I’m Dr. Emery Walsh, can you tell me your name?”
You just stared at her, face unchanging, stoic, even.
“Can you tell me why you’re here?”
You shook your head.
Emery nodded, giving you a small smile. “You were in a head on collision. Hit your head pretty good and got stuck under your car for a while,”
Something sharp twisted in Jack’s stomach.
Emery moved about the room as she asked you questions, checked your heart monitor, rest your IV, logged onto the computer and was now typing your responses into your chart. She explained your broken bones, what happened with your head and how they fixed it, and lastly that these scary moments of being unsure where you were, were totally normal all things considering.
“Post traumatic amnesia.”
She’d explained.
“Dr. Abbot, would you step outside with me?” Emery turned to Jack after bombarding you with probably too much information, and motioned for the door. Your grip on him tightened and his chest ached, he promised he’d be back, and that Dana would stay with you, he wasn’t leaving you alone. Jack followed Emery into the hallway.
“Post traumatic amnesia is temporary, Jack.”
Jack knew she had more to say, “But…”
“But sometimes it takes years.”
Jack swore, crossing his arms and turning away from the surgeon, biting at the inside of his mouth to try and control any sort of emotion that was threatening to expose him on his facial features.
“Why does she cling to me like she does?”
Emery sighed, “Even though her brain doesn’t recognize you, her body does. She probably notices little things in you that she doesn’t in anybody else she’s met so far. You were also there when she woke up, a comforting presence. She’s latched on.”
Jack wonders if you’d have latched onto him if you remembered anything.
Every bit of information that stuck in his brain from school, training, years in the field betrayed him, fled from his mind as if evacuating because of the sheer panic that was now living there, for the first time in his life, Jack Abbot didn’t know what to do.
“What do I do?”
Emery was more than sympathetic, more than she usually would be with Jack, because he was going through hell, and this was completely normal for doctors and surgeons. All of their muscle memory and protocol seemed to fly out the window as soon as it was someone they cared about, it’s why it was against the rules for them to work on their own family members and loved ones.
“Talk to her. Tell her things about herself, about you, about what you’ve done together.”
Jack sucked in a breath.
“And the divorce?”
Emery studied him for a moment, the way his fingers were shaking but he had them held so tightly between his arms that it was barely there, how his lip was wobbling but he was trying to hide it. The deep bags pressing into the skin below his eyes from his lack of sleep. He was wrecked.
“Tell her all of it, Jack.”
-
“Where did we get married?”
Jack smirked, “Courthouse down the road. You wore a white dress you found at goodwill and a cheap bouquet from the convenience store two doors down.”
You nodded as you soaked in the information, what kind of person you were, what kind of person Jack was, the kind of couple you were together. To you, it seemed as though you were the type of couple who just wanted to be together, and didn’t care about much else. The kind of couple that could get married at a courthouse and honeymoon at a motel on the edge of town because you were just so wrapped up in each other that none of the planning or grand gestures seemed worth it to you.
You looked at him now, nestled into a crappy hospital chair that was too small for his large frame and you wondered where it all went wrong, but you weren’t sure you wanted to know. You didn’t want to taint the picture perfect image you had of the two of you in your head, didn’t want to know what could have possibly happened between you and the handsome doctor that refused to leave your bedside as you recovered.
“You seem like you were a good husband.”
He wiped your face after you ate, he stood outside of the bathroom door while the nurse on shift helped you shower or use the toilet, he massaged your feet and read you books and reminded you everyday that you were beautiful despite the thin layer of grime that never seemed to go away even after you washed yourself multiple times. He’d brush your hair and rub creams and moisturizers into your skin and even brush your teeth for you when it all just got too overwhelming and tiring.
He didn’t respond, his eyes were fixed on the pink sheets that brought a little bit of life into your hospital room. Jack had gone to your house and brought back blankets and pillows, comfortable and familiar things for you to have here, even some childhood family photos you had framed and pictures of friends. Friends who hadn’t come by yet. The oblivion you had broke his heart, and he was eagerly awaiting yet mostly dreading the day when your memory came back and everything hit you, unforgiving and heavy.
You'd refused to look at the pictures.
“Emery said you can go home soon.” He avoided your comment, voice rougher than it was before. You noticed how familiar he felt to you, how you noticed sudden drops in his voice and small tremors in his hands or mouth. Despite your memory being completely shot to hell, he felt real to you. You knew him. You took comfort in it.
Home.
As sad as it was, this hospital was your home now. You don’t have any memories outside of the four walls of your hospital room and the hallway from walking up and down it with your physical therapist. Jack had pushed to get you outside multiple times but you kept refusing. You couldn’t admit that you were scared, feeling like a child for being afraid of going outside, but you were unsure of what waited for you outside, unsure if the trees or fresh air would trigger a memory and to be honest, you’d become nervous of regaining your memories.
You had already triggered a memory, just walking down the hallway of the hospital, something small. A quick flash of light and Jack next to you in scrubs, hands shoved in his pockets. It took your breath away.
Your nurse asked if you were okay and you nodded. You still haven’t told anyone about it. You knew they would take it as a good sign and would just push you more to look at pictures or go outside and you weren’t ready for it yet. You knew you had a life outside of this place and it scared you, because it was a life without the man you’d grown so fond of, and what if it was just a life of heartbreak and emptiness waiting for you. You really only asked small questions here and there, usually when you were tired and Jack would massage your arms with scented lotion, the kind that you liked when you were married, he said. You found that you still liked it now too.
You hummed at his statement, of going home, not giving a definitive answer because you weren’t sure what to say. As much as you didn’t like the smell of the hospital and the death and devastation that surrounded you, somehow you couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s all that waited for you outside of here too. At least here, it was contained. Controlled.
Jack watched as your heavy eyelids fluttered while he rubbed the sore muscles in your arms and he couldn’t help but wonder if you were just as afraid of your memories as he was.
“Go to sleep.”
-
You went home on a Tuesday.
The rest of the world went on, people got in their cars to drive to work, clocked in at their jobs, babies cried and people got married and kids in school took their tests and went on field trips and you were going home.
Emery agreed to release you only on the condition that Jack stay with you, which was his biggest relief yet worst nightmare. The two of you sharing your home together again would surely bring back memories, maybe even bring back memories of the last night you had together, the grief and the devastation and the words he didn’t mean. He couldn’t watch your heart break all over again.
But nonetheless, his fear of you remembering was conquered by his want to get you out of that hospital room and back to your real life.
He had all of your things packed into his car, the last thing being you, and your blanket, waiting for him in a wheelchair with a nurse in the lobby of the ICU wing of the hospital.
You were in a pair of your favorite sweatpants, or at least Jack said that they were, and his too big black sweatshirt that smelled just like him. He had bought you a nice pair of ugg slippers while he was out one day and your feet were slipped into those, clutching the blanket from your own home as if it was the last of your belongings.
Jack’s car pulled up, a shiny black truck, and an uninvited memory flashed behind your eyes.
A car dealership, a sunny day, Jack’s smile and his hand in yours.
Jack recognized it as soon as he walked through the automatic doors, the recognition in your eyes that had never been there before. You couldn’t pretend in front of Jack, couldn’t fake that your memories weren’t coming back. He’d spent years memorizing your features, every look and every small change in your irises, he knew it all.
He crouched in front of your wheelchair, cautious but eager as his hands hovered over you. “What’d you remember?”
“Your uh, your truck.”
Jack turned to look at his car, amazed at how something so simple like his basic black truck could trigger something for you, slowly bring you back to him.
“Yeah, honey? What about it?”
Honey.
“Jack…” Tears filled your eyes as you looked at him, that word dripping past his lips triggering so much emotion in you that you didn’t know was in there.
“Hey…” His voice softened at the tears spilling past your waterline, hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb catching the stray tears that were falling. “Sweetheart.”
Honey. Sweetheart.
You gasped, choking on more tears.
The nurse holding your wheelchair looked at Jack, raising her eyebrows in a question, asking him wordlessly if this was a good or bad sign. Jack gave her a slight nod that went unnoticed to you, telling her this was good, you were remembering. And it scared him to no end.
“You wanna go home?”
You nodded, movements frantic as you practically fell into Jack while he stood up, arms reaching for him. You didn’t have exact recognition of your memories but there was something there, this wasn’t just the man that you were told was your husband at one point, that you were growing to like. This was your husband. You could feel it blooming in your chest as the words lingered in your ears.
Honey. Sweetheart.
“Let’s get you home.”
Your home, you found, was warm. Low, warm lights filled each room, complete with pretty pictures adorning the walls and books tucked into every corner, draped with soft looking blankets and pretty colored rugs and cushions. You smiled when you saw it, the inviting glow of it chipping away at the fear that had built a wall around your heart.
“This is mine?” You asked, hands running over the dark brown wood of your bed frame as Jack got you situated in your room.
“Yeah, all yours.”
You didn’t miss the way Jack winced when he said it, and you realized this had been his home at one point too. This was your shared house. He’d let you have it.
“Are you going to stay here?”
Jack nodded, “Doctors orders.”
You watched as he unpacked your bag for you, putting everything back in it’s exact right spot, you must’ve not moved things around much after he left.
“And if it weren’t?”
Jack froze, muscles tightening as he clutched on of your tee shirts in his hands. The smell, the layout, everything being the exact same save for the pictures of the two of you on the walls was suffocating him. It hadn’t felt like this when he came back here alone to pick up your things for you.
“I wouldn’t leave you alone. Not for a second.” He said after he continued to move, busying his hands with putting your things away.
For some reason, his answer frustrated you. Because now, being in your house again, you remembered that your marriage failed, that the two of you were separated now and you didn’t know why, all of your past tangled feelings of not wanting to know, of wanting to stay in your oblivious bubble popped. The bubble was gone, you were back in real life, starting your life again.
“But you did leave me. Alone.”
Your voice shook, “I live here alone, don’t I?”
Jack didn’t respond.
“No friends came to visit me, or family. The only people I met in the hospital were doctors and nurses. So tell me again Jack, about how you wouldn’t leave me alone?”
Jack winced at the edge in your voice. He thought maybe it would be best to let your memories come back to you, but now, as you stared at him, anger and impatience laced in your voice as you exhaled through your nose, starting at him, demanding answers. He couldn’t keep it from you any longer.
“You asked for it.” He hated the way it came out, almost accusing, as if him leaving you was your fault, as if he couldn’t have fought harder for you. “You wanted the divorce. I’m sorry.”
The words hit you like a ton of bricks. “Why?”
Jack shook his head, avoiding eye contact with you as he placed his hands on his hips.
“What did you do?”
Jack’s chest caught as he took in a breath, gearing up to say the words he hated himself for. The words he beat himself up about over and over again, the reason he couldn’t sleep at night, the reason his wedding band taunted him on his nightstand, laughing in his face over the biggest mistake he ever made in his life.
“I didn’t choose you.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“You told me, medicine or you. And I didn’t choose you.”
Your jaw dropped and a broken sound escaped your throat, exactly the reaction you gave that night you gave him the choice. Jack wished he didn’t have to relive it but knew he deserved it.
“I want you out.”
“Please-“
“Out of my house!”
Your words cut deep, like a knife to his chest. Your house.
“I uh- I can’t leave you alone.”
You were fuming, chest heaving, angry at the audacity of the man in front of you, how he’s spent these past few months fooling you. Coddling you, making you believe there was a chance, that between the two of you hung something sweet, something good. Something worth saving. Everything felt broken around you.
“Out of my room then.”
Jack looked like he was going to say something but decided against it, the nodded, and ducked out of the room, purposefully trying to make himself smaller in your presence.
“You tricked me!” You yelled once he was out of the room, slamming the door shut and Jack flinched at the booming noise that echoed off of the walls of the house.
As he walked out of your room and down the stairs toward where he knew the guest bedroom was, he tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, the dryness that coated his mouth and the twitch in his muscles. He shut the door behind him and finally let a dry sob escape his lips, covering his mouth with his hand so you wouldn’t hear him.
Your words taunted him, pointed a finger in his face and laughed at him because the last thing he was trying to do was trick you. He loved you, was completely devoted to you in every way and as hard as he tried he knew he couldn’t take his words back from that night. The night where he chose medicine over you, words that he didn’t mean because he was mad, but now it was too late because he had said them and it was over and you shoved divorce papers in his face and there was nothing he could do to make it better. He thought maybe this was his chance, nursing you back to health and reading to you and telling you about your favorite colors and animals and food that you hated, reteaching you how to braid your own hair and crochet. You had to go through the grief process of learning your parents were gone a second time and he held you through it, wiped your tears and stoked your hair and whispered to you that everything was going to be okay, that he was there. He just wanted you to feel loved and safe because this was all so scary, but the other side of him knew, deep down, that he didn’t want you to hate him all over again, the selfish part of him thought maybe he had more time. That maybe you’d remember him as your husband first and ex husband later. He thought he had more time than just a car ride.
Hours went on, loud silence hung in the air of the house as the hours crept later and later. He decided that despite the argument, he was still here as your caregiver, and it had been too long of silence from you, and he should check on you. He was about to make his way upstairs when he heard a loud crash, and suddenly his cautious footsteps were purposeful and quick as he raced up the stairs to find you.
Another crash and a scream rang from his old office, now your storage room, and the sound shot straight through his heart, his foot and prosthetic couldn’t carry him fast enough as he swung open the door and quickly fell to his knees in front of you, body crumpled to the floor, surrounded by scrapbooks and photographs splayed out on the floor around you.
He took your arms in his hands turning them over and assessing you for any injuries, just hoping and praying nothing was self-inflicted because he knew that could happen all too often with cases of amnesia. People becoming frustrated and suffocated by unfamiliarity and just needing to be in control of something.
“What hurts?”
You were crying, loud and ugly tears and Jack peeled the hair from your face, sticky with snot and tears and pushed it back.
You shook your head.
“Get off of me.”
Jack paused a moment, this wasn’t a spill or a surgery complication or an injury, you were having an episode.
This was rage.
“No.”
Him leaving you alone to drown in your despair would help nothing.
You looked at him then, eyes widened from the audacity for him to say no to you. You pushed him but he didn’t move, his body sturdy against your grip while his arms still held yours.
“You left me!”
Jack’s face faltered as you yelled and screamed at him, still trying to push him away.
“I’m here now.”
His voice was even, not climbing even the slightest bit despite thr frustration he felt.
“That means nothing!”
You were getting weaker, dissolving into your own tears. “You should’ve come back for me sooner!”
“I should’ve.”
Eventually you had tired yourself out, your body slumped closer to the floor, away from Jack, arms still in his hold, head practically hanging.
“Why don’t I take you to bed?”
“M’tired.” Your words slurred.
“I know.”
Jack leaned forward to gather you in his arms, ignoring the sting from his prosthetic that he had been wearing for too long as he lifted you up, trying to hide the groan that escaped past his lips, not that you’d notice with how tired you were.
His heart broke as you held onto him tighter when he put you into bed, all he wanted was to be able to climb in next to you and hold your body against his, to pull you on top of him and revel in the comfortability of your body weight on his. But he unraveled your arms from around his neck and pulled the blankets up to your shoulders.
Once again, leaving you alone.
Jack wasn't asleep for long when his eyes shot open, sensing something had shifted in the house, sensing your discomfort even from all the way downstairs. He waited for a moment, eyes raking through the darkness of the room, a sharp cry set him into motion, securing on his prosthetic in record time and launching himself up the stairs and into your room.
Your limbs were tangled in the sheets, and Jack didn't have to get close to know that sweat drenched your forehead and soaked into your hair as sharp cries tore through your chest.
"Wake up, baby."
He smoothed your hair back, wiping the sweat from your skin.
"Baby." He shook you lightly and your body jolted forward, chest heaving and eyes blown wide as you tried to adjust to the dark.
"The car." You rasped out. You had a nightmare of the accident, one of the few things Jack dreaded you remembering.
His heart broke at the thought of how terrifying it all must have been, getting hit so hard then being stuck in your car, injured and bloody, not knowing if anyone was coming for you. If he was coming for you.
"You're safe."
"The car, it-" You were blubbering, messy tears fell down your face and onto your tee shirt and Jack's heart broke clean in half.
"It's over. It's all over. You're safe now."
"Don't leave." Your grip on him strengthened.
"Not leaving. I'm right here."
You fell asleep with him sitting at the edge of your bed, stroking your hair, and when you woke up again, he was gone.
-
Days passed with the two of you just coexisting, more memories came back to you as days went on, small things here and there, you didn’t share them with Jack but that didn’t mean he didn’t notice. How your eyes lingered on pictures of your friends or how your eyes bore into certain objects that belonged to your parents. You had already told him, the second you were recovered, you wanted him out, so he kept to himself. Kept himself busy by cleaning and finding various projects around your house, fixing whatever needed to be fixed.
“My name is (Y/n).”
Jack nearly jumped at the sound of your voice after going so many days without hearing it. You had been sitting outside, stretched out on a blanket in the yard, letting the sun hit your closed eyelids, and Jack was inside, tidying and reorganizing the kitchen.
He blinked at you, taking in your appearance, your jeans were rolled up to your ankles and a blue striped sweater hung off of one shoulder, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. You looked so cute that he wanted to scoop you up and kiss you all over right then, but he stayed in his spot.
Jack’s brow furrowed at the emotion hanging in your face because you knew your name, you were told your name when you woke up,
“Yeah.” He nodded, voice unsure as he looked at you, worried that maybe you were backsliding in your recovery.
You shook your head, screwing your eyes shut and letting a few tears fall down your cheeks.
“No. I know.”
Jack still looked confused, so you took a step forward.
“I remember. I know.”
Jack’s face washed with relief, eyebrows softening and eyes widening as it clicked into place. The confidence in your shoulders despite the tears and the assurance you carried in your posture. You weren’t being told your name, learning the sound and the letters of it, you knew your name. It was yours. It came back to you.
“Oh my god.” Jack breathed out a laugh and you ran to him, launching into his arms and he didn’t hesitate to catch you, securing his arms around your frame and squeezing tight because this was huge.
“You’re Jack.”
Tears were soaking his shirt and the top of your head, both of you a mess as you held onto each other, the tightness of your grips spoke a thousand words for each of you.
“Yeah, I am.” You were both laughing through sobs, probably the most joyful noise that’s filled your house since he left.
Jack pulled away, framing your face in his hands, beaming.
“This calls for celebration.”
It had been days of you ignoring him, giving him nothing but the cold shoulder and icy stares and yet, here he was, grinning ear to ear after happily cleaning your kitchen and celebrating your small wins, looking at you with nothing but adoration and love in his eyes that it made you feel weak in the knees. You remembered he’s Jack and that he bought a shiny black truck and that he’s a doctor who works in the ED of the hospital and nothing else, but as you look at him now, admiring the beautiful smile that adorned his face and the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes, your stomach erupted into something unfamiliar, a certain excitement as heat crept into your cheeks.
You had a crush. On your ex-husband.
“I only remember my name, Jack.” You murmured, burying your face back into his shoulder, suddenly feeling embarrassed for being so excited over such a small thing and for your previous outbursts and silent treatment towards him.
He was here, proving his devotion to you as each day passed and as you watched him clean the kitchen and reorganize your photos and deep clean your rugs that maybe love was possible again.
“Hey, that’s a big deal.” Jack rubbed circles into your back. “Will you look at me?”
You pulled your head up off of his shoulder and reluctantly looked at him.
A smile pulled at his lips, and the sparkle in his eye was completely captivating as you practically watched his thoughts dance behind his eyes.
“Will you go on a date with me?”
-
You looked at yourself in the mirror, knowing that the girl in the reflection was you, but not fully recognizing you.
You’d slipped into a black maxi dress and the pair of shoes you liked the most from your closet, something casual but pretty. You did your hair and spent too much time on your makeup, having to call Jack in to help you because your movements were still shaky and uncoordinated, you were happy you hadn’t put your outfit on yet, so Jack could get the full effect later.
You looked pretty, and you were satisfied with what the mirror showed you, but it felt so foreign, staring at your reflection and not being totally sure if it was you looking back at yourself.
A knock sounded from your bedroom door and your heart thumped in your chest.
You answered the door and nearly got the wind knocked out of you from Jack in his dress shirt, nervous hands clutching a bouquet of flowers, various different colors spilled out of the plastic wrap and you wondered when he even found the time to sneak out and get them. Your hands instinctively shot up to clutch your cheeks.
“Hi.” Jack said, holding the flowers out for you.
“Hi.” Your voice was a whisper.
You took the flowers, bringing them to your nose so you could get a whiff and you closed your eyes, taking in the scent.
Flowers. A ring. A party. Multiple parties. Jack.
“These are my favorites.”
“You remember?”
You nodded as you continued to stare at them, “Just now.”
“Wanna put them in water before we leave?”
“Yes.”
Jack guided you down the stairs, watching you closely as you moved the flowers from their wrapping and into a fresh vase. His heart squeezed as you took a moment to just look at them.
“You ready, sweet girl?”
You nodded and Jack held out his arm for you, escorting you out of the kitchen and through the front door. You found it all a bit silly, but incredibly sweet and endearing and you threw your head back in laughter when Jack opened the door for you and made a big deal of gesturing you into the car, bowing as you passed him as if he was your personal chauffer.
He played your favorite song for you in the car, a memory that had come to you recently, something he noticed from the subtle turn of your head and sparkle of your eyes when he played it in the kitchen.
“I Will” by the Beatles.
“Love you forever and forever,” Jack sang in the car with the windows rolled down, voice cracking and pitchy but he’d sing like that forever with no shame if it kept you giggling and looking at him the way you were now. “Love you with all my heart.”
“Love you whenever we’re together, love you when we’re apart.”
He looked at you out of the corner of his eyes, hoping you knew it wasn’t just words he was singing, but declarations to you. Words he meant.
With the look on your face, something told him he did.
He pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, the place where you had your first date. He hoped that in taking you here it might trigger some more memories for you.
He did all of the stereotypical date things, held open your door, pulled out your chair, held your hand across the table, and told you how beautiful you looked, over and over.
“Did I tell you you look beautiful tonight?”
You smiled, “Only like 100 times.”
“Good. Gonna say it 100 more times.”
Once you got home, stomachs aching from too much bread and laughter, you asked Jack if he’d watch a movie with you.
He was breathless, and hoped this whole day hadn’t just been a mood swing, the ones Emery had warned him about. He prayed and begged for this to be real, for this, falling in love, again, to be your new normal in your healing process.
“Yeah, sweetheart. That’d be nice.”
You squeezed his hand and disappeared into your room, mumbling something about getting comfortable and Jack stood frozen for a second before scrambling to do the same.
You beat him to the living room, curled up on the couch with you favorite blanket draped over you, picking at your nails as you stared ahead at the blank TV screen in front of you.
“Hey.”
Your head turned, eyes brightening as he entered the room.
“Hi.”
“What movie do you wanna watch?”
“Whatever was my favorite.”
Jack smiled, “Now there’s two answers for that one. You want the fake answer you’d give to other people when they’d ask or the real answer?”
You gave him a look, a smile tugging at your lips, “Real answer.”
Jack plopped down on the couch next to you, remote in hand.
“Good choice. Madagascar it is.”
“What was my fake answer?”
“Little Miss Sunshine. That would’ve been a good choice too.”
“Can we watch that one next time?”
“Anything you want.”
You were basically draped over Jack when the movie ended, his arm holding you up and in place with your cheek smushed against his chest, eyes drooping as the end credits rolled.
You turned your head to look up at him only to find he was already looking at you.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you kiss me?”
You could feel Jack’s heartrate pick up in his chest. He just looked at you for a moment, his eyes flickered to your lips and in that moment you knew it was a done deal.
“I-“
He was going to protest, unsure if that was something you were ready for. He wanted to push you to heal but he didn’t want to push so hard that he broke boundaries, and he feared this was teetering the line.
“Please.”
It was desperate, real and raw as you practically begged, eyes filling with tears at the sheer emotion of just needing him closer.
His hand came to cradle the side of your face and he nodded, he’d agree to do anything if it meant you wouldn’t cry.
“Shh, okay. Okay, baby.”
Baby.
He pulled your body up so you were more situated in his lap, facing him instead of straining your neck away from the TV.
He brought his lips to yours delicately, not daring to tease, and you choked back a sob at the feeling of his lips on yours.
Jack, your Jack.
You wrapped your arms around his neck as the kiss deepened, his other hand coming up to clasp the back of your neck, lips working against yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, the two of you desperate to pull each other impossibly closer.
His wife.
He pulled back, leaving one last chaste kiss to your lips before pulling away from you, breathless and lips swollen as he continued to hold you.
“You took me where we had our first date.”
“Yeah.” His voice shook. “Yeah, I did.”
-
The next few weeks were exactly like that. Almost like a honeymoon phase. Stolen kisses in the aisles of the grocery store, playing Beatles records while you made breakfast together, and watching all of your favorite movies to end your nights. You were starting to fall head over heels for him and as much as it scared you it excited you even more.
Jack had taken sabbatical so he could stay with you longer, and everyday you were more and more in awe of him and less and less upset about learning why it all ended, the two of you working through the negative feelings that came up as you drew closer, growing in deeper understanding of one another.
And the day the actual memory came back to you, you wished none of your memory even came back at all.
Jack had left for the store that morning, insisting you stay home because of the small headache you’d been complaining about, he said the fluorescents would only make it worse. Once you finally wandered out of your room after he left, you saw something perfectly placed on the kitchen island, propped up next to the most recent flowers Jack had given you.
The backside of a photograph with messy handwriting scrawled across it, written in blue ink. Jack had come across it while he was reorganizing some of your things and the photo and the note he'd scrawled on the back made him smile, he thought maybe you'd want to see it too. He had no idea the ugly ties you had with that specific photograph.
It read, “Since the first time I saw you, I have belonged to you completely.”
You turned the photo around and a gasp got caught in your throat.
The picture was of you and Jack, your arms thrown around his shoulders, a big smile stretched across your face as you looked at the camera, Jack’s arms wrapped around your waist as he looked at you. You were both standing on the street, you were wearing a long white dress and Jack was in a black button down and jeans.
White dress.
This was your wedding day.
Your stomach was in knots as you stared, memories starting to push through the dam in your brain and you slammed the picture on the countertop, twisting your eyes shut and trying to will the memories to go away.
Crying, glass piercing into your knees, the picture lying on the floor surrounded by ruin.
Jack yelling, you screaming, throwing things, empty threats cutting through the air.
“I’m not doing this with you anymore.”
“So what is it? Me or the ER.”
Silence.
“And if I choose the ER?”
“Then you’ve ruined our marriage.”
Jack disappearing out the door, his mind made up.
Your hand clutched your chest as your breaths came out uneven and rapid, crying and clawing at the material of your shirt.
“Oh my god.”
Jack dropped the bags at the front door, running to get to you and trying to push the panic down when he realizes you’re already deep in it.
Your hands clutched the kitchen island, muscles shaking from the force you were using and tears were relentless, marring the skin of your cheeks and rolling down your neck. Jack tried to pull you away but you weren’t budging, he could easily move you if he wanted to but he didn’t want to startle you or make things worse.
“Sweetheart.”
His hand gripped your wrist, the other coming to rest on the back of your head.
“I’m here. Breathe. Breathe for me.”
You continued to cry, but at the sound of the desperation in his voice, you crumbled, top half bending over the kitchen island, your forehead resting on your arms.
Jack felt helpless as he watched you fall apart, none of his normal tactics seemed to be working and he was seriously wondering if he should take you to PTMC.
“Baby, please.”
You were choking so much on your own breath and sobs that Jack was seriously worried, so much so that he ditched the gentle approach, pulling your body off of the counter top and grasping your wrists in his hands, guiding you backwards until your back hit the counter and his body caged you in.
“You’re not breathing. Breathe.” His voice was stern, face hard and serious even though you still refused to open your eyes.
“I remember-“
You opened your eyes then, starting to be in pain from screwing them shut so tightly. “I remember you leaving.”
He thought telling you was bad, you remembering it crushed him to pieces.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He pulled you against him then. “Sweetheart.”
He cradled you to his chest, letting you cry but reminding you to breathe as you did.
“I don’t want to remember that!”
“Me neither.” Jack confessed, wanting to press a kiss to your hairline but not wanting to overstep, knowing this was incredibly fragile for you.
“I want it to be just us again. Just us with happy memories.”
Jack ached because that’s all he wanted too. But he knew better than anyone that with falling in love came all of the ugly stuff. Part of love was loving despite hurt.
“I wish that’s how it worked.”
Jack wasn’t sure how much time passed, him holding you like that. It could’ve been minutes or hours, but it was long enough for you to stop crying and for him to start humming as he swayed you back and forth. Long enough for your voice to be hoarse when you finally did speak again.
“Jack?”
“Hmm?’
You surprised yourself with the words you spoke next, despite the suffocating pain of your newest memory, the words that tumbled from your lips were all you felt.
“I love you.”
-
You had a checkup with Emery at PTMC, and you were beaming from ear to ear with her satisfaction with your progress. From the past year of your recovery and Jack living with you, sleeping in your bed again, being your partner again, Emery estimated you had nearly 80% of your memories back, and they were still coming steadily. She even predicted that you’d have 100% of your memories back if you stayed on the course you were on now.
Life felt easy again, you thought you loved Jack without your memories, but with each one that came back you found that you somehow loved him more, even with the bad ones, not even knowing you even had the capacity to love another human being that much.
Jack decided that was cause for celebration, and invited his friends, now your friends, over for a barbecue at your house, together.
Your friends had tried reaching out, too little too late. Spilling excuses about husbands and kids and work. You’d assured them they were forgiven, but they just weren’t welcome in your life anymore, not that you were ever really that close anyway. Despite the ugliness and the pain and the devastation, you had fallen in love again. You had a family again.
You were in the backyard, making sure all of your roses were facing the sun, when you nearly fell over Jack as you walked backwards to make sure they were all looking their best before you expected company.
You turned to find him on one knee and the breath nearly knocked out of you as your hand shot up to cover your mouth that hung open, your hand gripped into the skin of his shoulder as he looked up at you on one knee, a small black box in his hands, and a delicate diamond ring placed in the center of it.
“Hi, baby.”
Your eyes moved from the ring to his, and you noticed how nervous he was. The corners of his mouth twitched and his eyebrows furrowed, just the slightest bit, eyes misted over with tears.
“Hi.” You whispered, but it was barely audible over your hand that was clasped over your mouth.
“Over the past year, I’ve had the pleasure of doing something not everyone gets to do.” Jack cleared his throat, “Falling in love with the love of my life, for a second time. I almost lost you and I-" His breath sputtered as tears swelled at his waterline, "I was given a second chance with you and i don't want to waste it."
Something in your heart splintered as he referred to the last year as something sweet, a privilege, instead of something you both wished deep down had never happened. You’d never thought about it that way, and suddenly you were overcome with thankfulness for it too. A second chance.
You dropped to your knees in front of him, one hand wrapped around his wrist and the other held onto the side of his face. You looked at him with so much love in your eyes Jack thought he might break, he thought he’d never get to see that again.
“I love you.” You spoke, breathless.
“I’m so in love with you.”
He turned his face and pressed his shaky lips to the palm of your hand, letting them linger there for a moment as he leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed before bringing his gaze back to you. A single tear ran down his face and smeared itself into your hand.
“Will you marry me?” He paused, a small smile playing at his lips, “Again?”
You just threw your arms round his neck, nearly knocking him over into the grass he hugged you back.
You pulled away, hands finding his cheeks and lips peppering kisses all over his face.
“Yes, yes, yes. 1000x forever, yes.”
Jack laughed through his tears and took the ring out of the box, pulling your left hand away from his face so he could slip it onto your ring finger, the diamond caught the sun and shone so brilliantly you thought you’d never take your eyes off of it.
“I think there may be a white dress for you to change into on our bed upstairs...” Jack said, feigning oblivion. “Might wanna put it on before the engagement party.”
-
After a night of just pure sweetness, all the girls fawning over your ring, bone crushing hugs from Robby and Dana once you worked up the courage with a little push from Jack to tell them both that you remembered them, too much food and stolen glances between you and Jack across your yard, he carried you upstairs to bed with whispered promises of cleaning up tomorrow.
“My bride.” He cooed as he set you down on the bed, his thumb running over the diamond on your finger.
“I love you.” You hummed. “Gonna lose my memory again just so I can fall in love with you even harder, again.”
“You are so terrible.” Jack reprimanded but he stifled a laugh before he pressed a kiss to your cheekbone.
“That’s just how much I love you.” You shrugged, humor laced through your tone and Jack loved it because it was real and you were here and he would go through it a thousand more times with you if it meant getting to where you were now.
"What a blessing in disguise that you were still my emergency contact." You said.
"Yeah, how'd that happen?"
"Never changed it."
Jack looked puzzled.
You swallowed, thick with emotion, "I knew you'd always come."
Jack buried his face into your shoulder, pressing kisses into your skin there and all the way down your arm, torn apart with fondness at your words.
“I'm never gonna stop falling in love with you." He confessed in a whisper against the soft skin on the inside of your arm.
“Fall in love again and again forever?" You asked, voice incredibly soft as you admired the man who was hopelessly lost in you.
summary: After years of mentoring under Dr. Michael Robinavitch, you’d become everything the ER joked about: his miniature clone. But when Robby begins pulling away, the comparisons stop feeling flattering and start feeling like preparation for a goodbye neither of you knows how to talk about.
tags/notes: platonic!mentorRobby, platonic!menteeReader, eldestdaughter/distantfather vibes, talks of robby offing himself, miscommunication, robby being an asshole (what's new though), arguing
an: I've been wanting to dip my toes in platonic!robby so here you go
wc: 9.9k
The ambulance bay doors slid open, and the Pitt was sent straight into its rolling pandemonium.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, crush injuring from scaffolding collapse,” the EMS rattled off while the gurney burst through the room in a storm of motion and noise. “Hypotensive enroute, decreased breath sounds left side, pelvic instability suspected—”
“Trauma one is open,” Dana announced, gray eyes looking at the patient over her glasses.
You slid automatically into position before anyone could call for a resident, already taking a place next to Robby before he even had to ask. Months ago, maybe even a year ago, you would’ve hovered at the edge of the bed waiting for instruction, careful not to take up too much space around the other residents and attending who carried significantly more years of experience in their pinkies than you possessed in your entire body. Now, however, after being thrown to the Pitt’s biting jaws through the worst of the worst, you moved with the flow of the room that felt like it had been stitched into your body. You planned in a way that screamed you were thinking one step ahead of the rest, even while they were doing the same. You stepped around Robby without colliding with him because you’d learned his habits so well you could almost taste where he’d turned before he did.
The patient cried out as they transferred him over in a wet, frightening sound that should have made your stomach twist if you were in any other career choice. Blood soaked through the side of his neon yellow work vest in slow spreading layers.
Robby’s voice cut through the room cleaning. “Chest rise diminished on the left. Collins-0”
“Not Collins,” Frank corrected from across the bed without looking up from where he was already cutting through clothing. “Some of us do need a break from your foreboding ambiance.”
Robby elected to ignore him completely. “BP?”
“Ninety over sixty and falling,” Princess answered.
You reached for the ultrasound before Robby even had to ask, earning you a raise of his eyebrows and a slight, almost humorous widening of his brown eyes. He had noticed but said nothing as he took the probe from your hand.
There was a reason people called him terrifying. Nothing, and you truly meant nothing, escaped him, not in medicine and scarily not in people. You’d once watched him identify a pulmonary embolism from the way a patient shifted uncomfortably in bed before labs even came back, and later that same week he’d pulled you aside after a grueling shift because you’d been quieter than usual and asked if you were sleeping enough. The man observed everything with the same relentless intensity that made the residents’ skin crawl just by being in the same area as him.
“FAST,” he ordered.
Already doing it, you thought, but years of self-preservation kept the comment behind your teeth.
Gel on skin. Probe down.
Your eyes tracked the monitor quickly, mind sorting through anatomy and shadowing and fluid collections fast enough that the room almost blurred out around you. Your heart skipped a beat when the screen finally showed you what you needed.
“There,” you said, holding the probe down in one spot. “Morison’s pouch.”
Robby leaned slightly closer, one hand braced against the bed rail beside you while he looked at the screen. You could feel the heat rolling off him through the sleeve of your scrub top, sharp citrus soap and stale coffee sitting familiar in your lungs.
“Yeah,” he said after half a second. “Good.”
Simple word for a complex man, and yet, it was enough to send warmth through your chest.
Frank looked over from the other side of the bed and sighed dramatically. “You know, some of us had to really work for validation around here.”
“You still do,” Princess hummed, eyes trained on the monitors around her.
“That’s hurtful.”
“It’s accurate.”
The patient started crashing before Frank could keep complaining. Blood pressure dipped again. Heart rate raced sporadically. One of the other nurses cursed under her breath as another IV line blew.
“We’re going to need a chest tube,” Robby muttered, hands raised as he waited.
You moved toward the instrument tray almost absentmindedly, hands reorganizing clamps and tubing while the nurse beside you struggled to tear the packaging open with slippery gloves. By the time Robby looked back down, everything sat in place exactly where he preferred. His eyes shifted back over to you again.
A delighted feeling cruised through your veins when recognition flashed in his eyes. Many of the residents, med students, and even nurses loudly prayed for at least a smidge of Robby’s praise to be sent their way. You somehow got it on a daily basis.
Nothing made your body sing more like his subtle acknowledgement of him knowing that you were so familiar with his methods that you’d started anticipating them before he voiced them aloud. It really shouldn’t have mattered to you as much as it did, but your entire residency had slowly rearranged itself around moments exactly like that.
Mix in a few daddy issues, and you’d really dug a hole for yourself that you didn’t really want to climb out of.
“Scalpel.”
You placed it into his waiting hand before the finally syllable fully left his mouth.
Frank snorted quietly from across the bed. “That’s unsettling?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What is?”
“Your synchronized trauma routine.” He looked between the two of you once before grimacing theatrically. “You know you do the same thing with your eyebrows now.”
Your nostril curled ever so slightly. “I do not.”
“You do,” he insisted. “You make that little judgement face Robby makes when somebody says something stupid.”
Robby didn’t even glance up from the procedure. “Most things people say are stupid.”
“That,” Frank pointed. “Exactly that. She did it to a med student yesterday.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “The kid tried to convince me that appendicitis presents in the left lower quadrant. What else was I supposed to do? Shake his hand and say congrats, you’re an idiot?”
Frank considered this was a pause. “Okay, yeah, you made the right choice.”
Princess laughed under her breath while adjusting pressure against the patient’s abdomen. “It’s honestly getting creepy at this point. They’re now starting to do the same posture too.”
You shifted your weight, mouth open and ready to argue, but Robby spoke first.
“She’s more tolerable than I am.”
Frank’s eyebrows lifted slowly before he looked at you with exaggerated pity. “He likes you. I hope you know that.”
Robby slid the chest tube into practiced precision. “Don’t make it weird, Langdon.”
“Too late. You take one intern under your wing, and now she follows you around like a very stressed duckling.”
“You’re just pissy Johnson didn’t do the same with you,” you shot back before looking back down to the patient. “Can we focus on the actively dying man, please, and not my flock tendencies?”
“We are,” Frank said. “I can multitask.”
Robby finally glanced up then, dry exhaustion written into every line and wrinkle of his face. “Somehow you became more irritating after marriage.”
“Stability gave me confidence.”
“Unfortunately.”
You bit back a smile as the room settled into a more controlled movement as the man’s blood pressure stabilized, his oxygen stats improved, and you could hear Garcia’s footsteps approaching for a surgery consult. The familiar rush of successful intervention loosened the tension slowly from your shoulders.
You reveled in this part.
Not the patient’s suffering, but the moment everything became more manageable again, the feeling of grabbing someone out of freefall with your bare hands and refusing to let go. You understood (maybe too well) why Robby had built his entire life around this feeling. It left you breathless like getting off a rollercoaster.
The patient was finally wheeled toward surgery a few moments later, leaving Trauma room one to sit in a strange aftermath that always felt louder than the trauma itself. Bloody gauze littered the floor. Someone peeled gloves off with a tired curse. Princess disappeared toward another room without ceremony.
You were wiping ultrasound gel off your forearm when Robby suddenly held out a chart toward you with no explanation. Your hand reached out and grabbed it, eyes already running over it with extreme precision.
“Walk me through the bleed,” he said, always the teacher.
Around you, a couple younger residents slowed subtly, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. They wanted to know if Robby’s protégé was as accurate as some people made you out to be.
You scanned the chart once more before answering. “Abdominal guarding worsened before the pressure drop. Bruising pattern suggested deeper impact than soft tissue trauma, and he stopped tracking conversation midway through transport.”
“Earlier.”
You frowned. “What.”
He gave you a look. “Earlier before transport. What’d you notice?”
Your brain rewound for half a breath. “Oh. The shoulder tension.” You looked bac up at him. “He was compensating before the vitals shifted.”
Robby nodded once. “Good.”
Fank leaned against the nurses’ station nearby, arms crossed and chest inflated. His eyes flickered over to Robby. “You know what’s upsetting? She answers questions exactly the same way you do now.”
You groaned softly, letting the chart swing down by your thigh. “Can everyone stop psychoanalyzing me during shift?”
“No. It’s enriching my work environment.” He grinned wickedly, pointing between you and Robby. “She even does the pause thing. You ask a question and suddenly you stare into middle distance like you’re consulting ancient prophecies.”
Robby scrubbed a hand over his forehead tiredly. “Langdon.”
“I’m just saying—” The raven-haired resident held up two arms in mock surrender. “If she starts emotionally neglecting interns we may need a divine intervention.”
You deadpanned. “You of all people shouldn’t be talking about emotional neglect. You cried during Toy Story 3.”
“The film was devasting.”
“The toys all lived, and yet you sobbed. Your children didn’t even shed a tear.”
“They have the emotional competence of a business man.”
Robby exhaled something dangerously close to a laugh before turning back toward you. “Did you eat today?”
Frank breathed in a hissing sound. “Oh, you’re so cooked.”
You shot him a quick glare before going for the most innocent, doe-like look that you hoped rivaled Samira’ eyes. “I had . . . a coffee.”
Like a balloon, Robby’s expression deflated. “Coffee’s not food.”
“It fills me up. Cream has protein, right?”
“Somehow you’ve made that worse in one breath.”
“Oh!” You suddenly remembered. “I had half a granola bar at like . . . ten.”
You’d think Robby would look more impressed by fish swimming the way it should than the way he was looking at you right in that moment.
“What time is it now?” he shot back.
You checked the clocked over his shoulder and instantly regretted it. “five-thirty.”
Frank somehow winced audibly. “See, this is exactly what Robby does!”
The glare he got in return from Robby was sharp enough that Dr. King in room five might not need a scalpel anymore if she reached up and grabbed the look instead. Thankfully, Frank Langdon new when he needed to step back, which was right now. His demeanor changed as he dropped his shoulders; you could practically hear the sarcasm sizzle out of his skin.
“I’m gonna go check on post-op before Dana gives me another boogery kid because I didn’t discharge someone fast enough,” he said lightly, pushing away from the counter. Then, as he passed you, his voice lowered. “Eat something before you pass out and make him develop a feeling.”
“Frank,” Robby warned.
“I’m leaving.”
He disappeared down the hall still grinning to himself.
You looked back toward Robby unconsciously mirroring the way Robby was also holding his face: pinched brows and the slightest pout on your lips. “He acts like we’re in a sitcom.”
“He acts like gossip built his entire personality.”
“That’s mean.”
“Eh, it’s a little accurate.”
You laughed softly, exhaustion pulling the sound lower than usual.
Robby watched you for a second afterward, gaze lingering just enough to turn your attention suddenly self-conscious. You’d gotten used to his intensity over time, but there were still moments where being perceived by him felt alarmingly thorough, as though he could line up every bad habit and stress fracture inside you with one glance.
“Does your knee hurt?”
You blinked. “How’d you know that?”
“You favor your right leg when your knee hurts. You’ve been shifting weight since the trauma so much you could sign up for a dance competition.”
You gawked before clamping your mouth shut with a chomp.
Because annoyingly enough, he was right. An old soccer injury had started throbbing three hours ago under your scrubs, but you’d ignored it so thoroughly you genuinely forgot it was visible to sway side to side.
“You notice way too much.”
He kind of eyed the whole department. “That’s my job.”
“That can’t possibly be healthy for your eyes.”
“No,” he agreed easily. “Probably not.”
Something about his casual honestly caught you off guard enough that you studied him for a moment. Somewhere between the past three months, exhaustion had carved deeper into his face. You’d started recognizing the signs while he started ignoring them. Quieter pauses, the headaches he pretended weren’t headaches, the way he pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose when charting got particularly brutal, the way he stopped existing after snapping at Gloria when she denied his request for the second time in a row.
Most people saw Dr. Robinavitch as this immovable force that haunted the ER like a ghost in a mid-century house people romanticized on Zillow.
You had started noticing his cracks because somewhere along the line, he’d stopped hiding them quite as carefully around you.
“You should sit down for ten minutes,” you said before thinking better of it.
One of his eyebrows lifted slowly. “. . . Did you try to assign your attending a break?”
“You’ve been here since six.”
“So have you.”
You smirked. “Yeah, but I’m young. My joints still contain hope and can bend without WD-40.”
His head nodded side to side slightly as he took in the quip. “You’re getting mouthier.”
“You accepted my terms and conditions when you personally walked me through that intraosseous access ten minutes into my first shift.”
“A mistake I continue to regret every night before bed.”
“You say that, but you keep answering my pages.”
“Hm.”
You fell into step beside him as he started down the hallway toward the physician workroom, both of you moving slower now that the leftover trauma adrenaline had burned itself out. Around you the emergency department carried on in restless motion: phones ringing, stretchers squeaking against tile, distant questions dissolving into static.
It struck you sometimes that the hospital had become its own kind of ecosystem for the two of you. Entire conversations carried out in passing glances across trauma bas. Shared coffees left untouched for hours. Long double shifts stitched together by dark humor and the unspoken understanding that both of you would stay longer than you should because leaving always felt harder than continuing.
“You know Frank’s right,” you said eventually.
“That’s the most concerning thing you’ve said all day.”
“About the posture thing.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
He sighed the sigh of a man deeply burdened by 24/7 nonsense. “You’re all incredibly dramatic. Is that a class they recently added in med school?”
“We literally huffed at the same time this morning while simultaneously crossing our arms.”
“That sounds more like a you problem.”
“It’s absolutely your fault.”
He side-eyed you. “You’re an adult. Legally your own responsibility.”
By the time you reached the workroom, the tension had dissolved almost entirely into familiar ease. You dropped into the chair beside his desk while he logged back into the computer with visible reluctance, shoulder sight beneath his navy scrubs and matching jacket you knew he owned three identical ones.
Without looking away from the screen, he slid a protein bar across the desk toward you. Much to your surprise (and delight), it was one of those IQ bars that were definitely too expensive for you to purchase on whim.
And it was the peanut butter one with chocolate chips.
Your favorite.
You stared at it and then at him. “You carry emergency protein bars for your residents now?”
“You forget meals with alarming consistency.”
His answer came matter-of-factly, as though that explained everything. Maybe to him it did, but to you, it lodged something warm painfully deep behind your ribs before you could even say thank you.
With a playful huff that said I’m going to eat this but not because you told me to, you reached forward and dragged it off his desk. Your fingers peeled the wrapper open quietly while he reviewed labs in silence in front of you, the room settling while the first burst of salty peanut butter hit your tongue. His typing was the only thing that droned on in the otherwise silent room, but you didn’t mind.
Because between that fateful intraosseous access and huffing at the same time after a patient said something incredibly stupid, you and Robby had found a way to sit in the quiet that no longer required effort to enjoy.
_______________________
By the final hour of Robby’s last shift before his sabbatical, the ER settled into a particular kind of weariness that made everyone meaner.
Monitors continued their endless chiming overhead, stretchers still rolled through ambulance bay doors every few minutes, nurses still moved at impossible speeds through overcrowded hallways, but the energy had shifted from morning urgency into something more frayed. Tempers shortened. Patience wore thin. Even the lights felt harsher this late into the shift, bleaching everyone pale in the wake of its glare.
You stood at the central workstation with a chart balanced against your forearm while a med student stumbled through a patient presentation beside you.
“. . . and since the pain radiates downward, we thought maybe pyelonephritis—”
“It’s gallstones,” you interrupted without looking up from the chart.
The student blinked. “But the flank pain—”
“Referred.” You flipped the page. “Positive Murphy’s sign, elevated bilirubin, pain onset after eating. If you anchor location before symptom progression, you’ll miss obvious pathology.”
The student stayed quiet, biting down on their bottom lip to keep from either speaking or crying. You couldn’t tell. A year ago, guilt would’ve hit immediately. But now, all you felt was a pure tiredness that only made you snappier. The student finally nodded and scribbled something down before retreating toward their patient’s room.
Behind you, Frank let out a low whistle. “Jeez,” he muttered around his coffee cup. “That one even sounded like Robby.”
Despite his teasing, you didn’t smile, didn’t roll your eyes, didn’t answer at all. The absence of a usual reaction sat strangely in the air as Frank’s smirk melted away. He leaned back in his chair, gaze flickering toward the opposite side of the department where Robby stood speaking with Dana near trauma three. Even from there, he could recognize the rigid set of his shoulders, the fatigue carved deep into his posture after weeks of increasingly brutal shifts and mounting administrative pressure surrounding his upcoming sabbatical.
Two months ago, he would’ve glanced toward you by instinct at least once during your conversation and evaluation with the intern. Now, Robby barely looked at you unless you were two feet away from him speaking directly about a case.
You hated how much you noticed despite the distance.
“Okay,” Frank drew out carefully after a second, “I’m officially banning everyone from saying that sentence for the next twenty-four hours.”
You kept scanning labs. “Saying what sentence.”
“You know which one.”
You placed the one chart down and picked up another harder than necessary. “People can say whatever they want.”
“Hm,” carried entirely too much skepticism, which you ignored entirely.
Across the room, Robby finally broke from Dana and started toward the workstation. Your body reacted before your brain caught up by your spine straightening slightly, your attention sharpening, your pulse kicking once beneath your sternum in the humiliating reflex of someone still waiting for approval you no longer received. The betrayal of it all made you angry every single time.
He stopped beside you without preamble, holding out a tablet. “Room’s twelve repeat troponin came back elevated.”
You took the tablet with a cocked eyebrow and lips halfway in a sneer. “I already paged cardio.”
“Not the issue.”
Your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly with that relentless distance he’d started using on you over the past few months, every interaction stripped down to correction and instruction and professional detachment sharp enough to cut you open if you even looked at him wrong.
You grazed the chart quickly. “His pain worsened after the repeat EKG.”
“You didn’t document that.”
“I was about to.”
“You should’ve already,” he spat before pursing his lips like he hadn’t meant for the words to slip out so violently.
To your side, Frank glanced very deliberately at his own computer screen.
You swallowed thickly, saliva and pride gliding down into your belly. “The consult was more important.”
Robby huffed. “How many times have I told you that documentation matters.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
A heated feeling flared in your chest at his insistence. He’d corrected you so many times before, the feeling shouldn’t have risen and burned, but he never used to correct you like that: without context, without conversation, without a lick of dry humor to soften the blows of his teachings. Every conversation since his sabbatical had been announced felt cleanly impersonal, as though he was sanding the relationship down on purpose until there was nothing left except chief attending and learning resident.
You handed the tablet back with more oomph than necessary. “I’ll fix the note.”
“Good.”
The wall was so high and incredibly thick that you wondered if anyone else could see it or if you were the only one still stupid enough to keep running into it headfirst.
Robby turned slightly towards a med student lingering nearby. “Walk with me.”
The student nearly jumped to attention.
You stared down at the chart in your hands hard enough the words started blurring together. Months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to ask you to join him at his side. Instead, he handed cases to other residents whenever possible, redirected questions, stopped sitting beside you during charting, stopped checking whether you’d eaten, stopped falling into those easy exhausted conversations s at 2 a.m. that used to make 24-hour shifts feel survivable.
When he stared doing it all, you convinced yourself that he was just busy. Then you moved on to him being tired and then stress before all you had left was the ugly realization that he was pulling away carefully enough to make his actions look unintentional.
Which somehow hurt worse than if he’d looked you in your face and said, “Because I’m leaving, I’m going to stop treating you like someone that matters to me and more like just another one of my residents.”
Frank watched Robby disappear down the hallway before looking back toward you.
“You know,” he said slowly, “for two of the smartest people I’ve ever met, you’re both handling this incredibly badly.”
You kept your eyes down, almost willing for the chart to blow up under your gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.”
“I’m trying to chart.”
“And you’re glaring at the chart hard enough to intimidate the lab results.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose.
“He’s scared.” Frank’s voice had softened, matching the way his eyes looked at you like he’d look at a stepped-on flower. With pity.
“Of what?” flew out of your mouth before you could trap it behind your teeth.
He paused; his hesitation made your stomach twist, because you’d never seen Frank Langdon hesitate as long as you’d been working at the Pitt.
He finally spoke one word: “You.”
A laugh turned scoff pushed through your lungs. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Frank studied you a moment longer. “You know when everyone says that ‘you look just like him’ they mean it as a compliment, right?”
Something ugly curled low in your chest. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I know.”
Lately, the comparison sounded different than admiration. It sounded more like preparation for something that hadn’t happened yet. The department already talked about you stepping up to take on more responsibility after Robby left for sabbatical. Your fellow residents who had equal footing had started looping you into discussions they used to have with him. Nurses sough you out first during trauma overflow. Med students watched you during difficult cases with the same wary attention they watched him.
Every time someone laughed and called you “Baby Robinavitch” or joked that the ED had cloned its favorite workaholic, all you heard were just reminders that Robby was leaving, and you hated yourself for thinking it, hated him more for making the thought possible.
The overhead pager crackled suddenly before another ambulance alert rang through the department signaling an incoming trauma. Around you, the ER shifted gears like a character from a Fast and Furious movie.
Frank stood with a groan, tossing his empty coffee cup toward the trash. “Excellent. Maybe getting screamed at by surgeons will heal the emotional devastation around here.”
You rolled your eyes. “Doubtful.”
“Worth a shot.”
You followed him toward the trauma bay automatically, pulling gloves on while nurses rushed around preparing equipment. Robby was already standing near the ambulance doors, crossed arms resting against his chest. He didn’t look at you when you took your usual position beside him.
The paramedics burst through moments later with a teenager strapped to a backboard, blood matted through dark curls near her temple.
“Seventeen-year-old female, restrained passenger in MVA, brief LOC at scene—”
The next twenty minutes swallowed everything else whole. At least through Robby’s season of confused and surprised emotional warfare, medicine still made sense. Movement, priorities, protocols: you slipped seamlessly into their rhythm beside Robby despite everything that unraveled outside the trauma bay. You still handed instruments over before he asked, still anticipated orders, still caught a subtle pressure drop before monitors reflected it.
At one point, your hand brushed his wrist while passing gauze. Once upon a time, he would’ve made some dry comment about personal space or quip something about Do I need to hold your hand while you cross the street next? Now, he only stepped back slightly in a tiny movement that felt enormous.
By the time the patient stabilized enough for CT transport, sweat clung damp against the back of your neck, and your knee throbbed beneath your scrub pants. The room smelled sharply of saline and iron and overheated machinery while nurses weaved around on another in a practiced dance as the last of the bloody gauze disappeared into red biohazard bins.
Dana stripped off her gloves first. “Nice catch on the pressure change.”
You nodded absently, already reaching for the chart.
Almost like instinct, Frank pointed between you and Robby while reaching for fresh gloves. “See? Same brain. It’s disturbing.”
His comment landed differently than it used to. You felt the impact like a bruise that got pressed on too hard. Dana noticed the way your face pinched briefly. Frank did too, judging by the way his mouth shut halfway through his next sentence.
You knew you should have kept yours in your mouth, but the back and forth had your lips loosening. So, in hurt and emotionally drained fashion, you let your next statement fly.
“At least one of ours is working properly.”
Robby, despite every push back, finally looked at you. Really looked. And for one awful second, you though he understood exactly why it all hurt now. Why that every time someone said you were becoming him, or did something he did, or even claim you were morphing into his spitting image, all you could think about was how everybody spoke about his sabbatical with careful, rehearsed optimism.
A few months away.
He needs the rest.
It’ll be good for him.
Nobody said the possibility that he might leave the hospital and simply not come back out loud. But you heard it clear as day anyway. You heard it in the gentleness people used around him lately, in the way Dana watched him when he looked particularly exhausted, in the way residents had already started shifting responsibility toward you before he’d even gone.
They tiptoed around the possibility like they were already cushioning the impact in advance. Preparing the department slowly enough that nobody panicked. Replacing him piece by piece while he still technically belonged to the hospital for 35 more minutes.
You realized too late that the room had gone quiet around you the same way a theater quieted before the conductor started the show.
Robby’s gaze narrowed slightly down at you. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Sorry,” you stated flatly. “Did you want me to document my emotional response too?”
Frank closed his eyes briefly; Dana muttered something like Good Lord under her breath; Robby went very still.
“You’re overtired,” he said evenly.
The lack of an exploding response snapped something inside you hard enough to make your pulse ring.
“That’s funny,” you answered before you could stop yourself. “I learned that from you.”
The room froze. Despite popular belief, no one gasped dramatically, the monitors didn’t stop screaming, and the ER kept moving around you the same way it always did, but inside the trauma bay, something tightened all at once, thin and dangerous as a piano wire.
Robby’s eyes locked onto yours. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Dana took a slow step backward while Frank looked like a man witnessing a controlled detonation.
Robby’s voice stayed low and borderline cold as he spoke your name in a warning. “This isn’t the place.”
You laughed softly with a brittle edge. “Right. God forbit anybody notices there’s a problem.”
“There isn’t a problem.”
Weeks—months—of him pulling away from you one careful inch at a time, and he still wanted to pretend none of it existed, pretend none of it scooped out your insides on painful spoonful at a time. You stared at him, suddenly furious enough to shake.
“Seriously?” you asked. “You stopped speaking to me unless it’s to criticize something. You hand my cases to other residents. You act like I’m inconveniencing you by standing in the same room, and now there’s suddenly no problem?”
Your voice rose pitches at least three times in those statements as you slowly were losing control on how you said things.
Robby pursed his lips once. “This is exactly what I mean,” he snapped. “You’re exhausted, you’re reactive, and you’re taking everything personally.”
“Because you—” Your finger jutted out and pointed right at his chest. “—made it personal!”
His jaw tightened below his beard. “Lower your voice.”
“No,” cracked out instantly.
Around you, nursed had started finding reasons to leave the bay.
Smart people.
“You don’t get to do this, Robby,” you continued, chest heaving now with something dangerously close to panic beneath your anger. "You don't get to spend years teaching me how to think and how to work and how to survive this place and then suddenly decide I’m too much of a problem to deal with.”
Robby glanced briefly toward the hallway before looking back at you. “You’re not a problem.”
“Then stop acting like you think I’m one before high tailing it out of here without a second thought!”
And there it was in all its twisted and emotionally stunted glory: the real thing.
Not the charting. Not the criticism. Not the endless cutting distance between you.
That ugly truth that no one was brave enough to say out loud.
Robby’s entire expression changed at once, exhaustion surfacing visibly beneath his waning control. “This is not about my sabbatical.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not,” he argued.
“Then what is it about?” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Because everybody else in this entire fucking department already acts like I’m supposed to replace you when you’re gone, and apparently you do too.”
He shook his head, eyes closing briefly. “That’s not what’s happening.”
“Really?” You took a step closer. “Because every time someone says I remind them of you or that I look like you or that I act like you, you look at me like I’ve done something wrong.”
His face gave you nothing, wordless confirming it all, making the hurt twist sharper inside your chest.
One single tear, with its own sheer will, slid down your cheek after you closed your eyes for half a second to breathe, a second for the room’s energy to lessen to a point that could be more manageable for everyone.
“You know what the worst part is?” you asked quietly. “I used to love hearing that.” Your tongue peaked out and wetted your lips. “You are the best doctor here. You care about people. You take the time to teach everyone no matter the circumstance. You made this place survivable, because if Dr. Robby could make it through then so could I.” You swallowed hard. “And now you can barely look at me.”
Robby paused for a moment before saying, “That’s not true.”
“Then look at me and tell me you’re coming back.”
For the first time since the argument started, Robby looked genuinely caught off guard as your demand landed between you and him with terrifying weight. He hesitated, and you took it right to the heart.
Your laugh came out in a shaky breath, closer to grief than humor. “Wow.” You blinked away the rest of the tears rapidly, hands coming to rest on your hips.
He said your name with such earnest you almost believed he wanted to make amends before “That’s not fair,” followed.
“No,” you replied, voice breaking harder now despite your best efforts. “What’s not fair is turning me into your pet project for three years and then deciding you’re done with me before you even leave.”
His eyes hardened. “That is not what this is, and you know it.”
“But I don’t. I don’t know what this is,” you told him. “Because from where I’m standing, it really looks like you’re trying to make leaving easier on yourself while the rest of us have to pick up your shit you left behind.”
“That’s fucking enough.”
“No, it’s not.”
The exhaustion, the fear, the months of swallowing every ugly feeling until they curdled into resentment finally erupted all at once like a shaken bottle of Coke.
“You know what?” you snapped. “Fine. Go.”
You watched in real time as Robby froze.
Your eyes burned with unblinked tears. “I’m serious. Take your three-month sabbatical. Leave us all behind wondering if you’ll ever step through the doors again.” You inhaled shakily, ready to give the final blow. “Maybe then we’ll finally realize the ER was better off without you anyways.”
The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. In its stillness, your anger vanished so quickly it left nausea behind.
Frank stared at you in horror.
Dana looked openly stricken.
Robby . . . It broke something inside as he looked at you like you’d just hit him with a tiredness you’d never seen before. It transformed his whole face. And for one terrible second, you saw how shattered he really was beneath all the sharpness and control and impossible competence he projected daily. How worn thin he’d become. How much effort it probably took just to keep showing up every day while everyone around him quietly waited to see if he’d finally break.
Guilt crashed into you so hard your hands started shaking, but pride kept your mouth shut.
In the end, Robby looked away first, and when he finally spoke, his voice had gone very quiet as he said your name. “Go home.”
You swallowed the creeping bile down. “Robby—”
“Go home,” he repeated, voice void of any anger, any hint of yelling, any edge of sharpness, just finality.
Dana moved slightly as though she wanted to intervene, but Frank caught her wrist subtly before she could.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, Somewhere down the hall, somebody laughed at something entirely related. A monitor alarm started beeping almost immediately afterward. The ER kept moving; hospitals never paused long enough for personal disasters.
You stared at Robby for another second, desperate suddenly for him to say something else, yell back, be angry, give you something to fight against besides that awful, exhausted distance settled back over his expression. But he only stepped around you and walked out of the trauma bay without another word.
And somehow that felt exactly like being left behind before he actual left.
_______________________
In the dying embers of the argument, the ER had mostly settled by the time the nightshift started filtering in during handoff. That frantic point of day shift dulled as nurses traded clipped updates at central stations while exhausted residents disappeared toward lockers or call rooms with the hollow-eyes look of people whose brains had stopped processing new information two hours ago. Pages still crackled through the halls, monitors still beeped intermittently from patient rooms, gurneys still traveled through ambulance doors under the forever buzzing lights, but the melody of it all shifted into a different key.
Robby sat alone at the nurses’ station staring at a chart he hadn’t actually read in the last five minutes with the argument replaying over and over again in shifts and flashes.
Maybe then we’ll finally realize the ER was better off without you anyways.
The words should have made him angry. Instead, they pounded against his ribs like he’d earned each kick. He harshly dragged a hand over his face slowly enough that his skin lagged behind the motion before snapping back with probably another wrinkle added. Everything around him blurred together in disconnected pieces. Dana argued with transport near triage, a nurse laughed tiredly somewhere down the hall, a supply drawer slammed shut with a distant metallic clang.
He knew he should have gone home already, should have already been on the road with his motorcycle rumbling between his legs down the highway. Yet, he kept finding reasons to stay. One more chart, one more patient review, one more handoff clarification. He wondered if leaning now would somehow solidify what had happened in trauma two.
“You look terrible, brother.”
Jack Abbot dropped into the chair beside him holding two coffees (Robby noted that they were from the cafeteria), one immediately shoved toward Robby without ceremony.
Robby accepted it but set it down quickly right after. “You say that every handoff.”
“Because every shift you look terrible.” Jack leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out with a groan that should have rumbled the table. “Age comes for us all.”
“You’re younger than me by four years.”
“And spiritually eighty-seven.”
Robby took a sip of coffee that tasted burnt enough to strip paint before finally looking toward his friend. Jack, despite already being there since the cyber-attack, had already changed into his night shift mode: more awake now, energy settling into place as the rest of the department started fading.
Jack’s gaze flickered once around the workstation before settling back on Robby. “Where’s your mini-me?”
Robby’s jaw clicked before he could stop it, something that Jack picked up on almost immediately.
A low whistle sung through Jack’s lips. “That bad?”
For a moment, Robby didn’t reply. Around them, the sounds of the ER swelled and receded in restless waves, mirroring what Robby was feeling on the inside. A part of him wanted to run after you, the other wanted to stand its ground after what he said.
Jack sighed quietly. “What happened?”
Normally, Robby would have brushed the question off, but the day had worn him thin enough that the words came easier than they should’ve.
“She’s been increasingly reactive for weeks,” he stated like he was reading off a patient’s symptoms. “Combative. Defensive. Every conversation either ends in an argument, or I get the silent treatment for the rest of the shift.”
Jack listened without interrupting.
“I’ve been trying to give her space before I leave,” Robby continued, eyes fixed somewhere past the computer screen now. “She’s too attached to this place already. To me.”
His admission tasted sour out loud.
Jack nodded along. “And today?”
Robby exhaled slowly through his nose. “Langdon made another joke about us being the same.” His eyebrows pinched as that part of the memory flashed over his eyes. “She snapped.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “What kind of snapped?”
“She accused me of pushing her away.”
“Are you?” Jack leaned back farther in his chair, studying him now with the same calm attention he usually reserved for difficult patients. “Oh,” he said after Robby failed to answer. “You really screwed this up, brother.”
Robby finally looked at him, neck snapping at a speed Jack should have been concerned for dislocation. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“She told me the ER would be better off without me.”
“And you think that happened in a vacuum?”
Irritation flared through Robby’s stomach. “Jack.”
“No seriously.” Jack gestured toward him with his coffee cup. “What exactly did you think was going to happen here? That she’d send you off with a card and a Good Luck after treating her like that for the past few months?”
“I was trying to make this easier on her, on everyone.”
Jack stared at him for one long moment before a disbelieving laugh barked out of him.
“You really don’t hear how you sound,” he muttered. His hazel eyes locked onto Robby’s brown ones. “She thinks you’re disappearing.”
Robby’s lips tugged into a deep frown, smile lines pointing the wrong way. “I told everyone it’s temporary.”
“Yeah,” Jack huffed. “And everybody talks about it like you’re dying.”
And somehow, Robby never thought of it like that. The realization felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water down his scrubs in the way he froze under it all.
Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Come on, Robby. Look around lately. Dana watches you like she’s waiting for you to collapse. Langdon keeps making jokes because nobody knows how else to handle the fact that you’ve worked yourself half to death for years already.” His sharp features soften somehow like it’d lessen the blow. “And meanwhile she’s listening to everybody compare her to you while you slowly start handing pieces of your job over.”
Robby said nothing, because for the first time in months, he could see it how you saw it. Every joke about your similarities, every conversation about responsibility after his sabbatical, every careful smile people flashed his way lately, every time he’d pulled away desperate to make the separation cleaner safer.
He truly believed he’d been protecting you from becoming too dependent on him all while convincing you that he was preparing everyone for his absence—a permanent sounding absence.
Something must have inched across his face because Jack nodded once.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Now you see it.”
Robby’s back hit the chair in a silent protest, exhaustion suddenly feeling bone-deep while your words rang in his ears but this time from your perspective.
Then look at me and tell me you’re coming back.
You hadn’t said that in anger, but rather a deep and genuine fear that must have been festering since . . . well, his elaborate plan to make “space” started happening. Your type of fear wasn’t that he was leaving the hospital for a few months, it was that you believed one day he would simply stop existing in the shape the Pitt had built around him.
The same way Adamson had back in 2021. Not by abandonment but just gone, just someplace where no one living could ever reach him. The idea that you believed that hollowed out everything in his chest, leaving behind just an empty old heart.
“She said the ER was better off without me,” he finally ended with, voice cracking the way your heart probably did every time he pushed you away.
Jack’s lips curled into a thin line. “Yeah. And I’m guessing she looked about ready to cry when she said it.”
Robby looked down at the coffee and stared blankly at the small bubbles. “She already was.”
“Then congrats, brother,” Jack chuckled lowly. “You’ve officially hit the point where the kid starts saying horrible things because she thinks she’s losing you and doesn’t know how to fix it to where you come back.”
The word kid should not have affected him as much as it did. Robby was past the golden dreams of fatherhood the minute he bought the motorcycle during his so-called mid-life crisis. Yet, at some point, somewhere between overnight trauma shifts and cafeteria coffees and years of teaching you how to survive emergency medicine, he had stopped thinking of you as just another intern a long time ago.
And apparently you had stopped thinking of him as just another attending a long time ago too.
He closed his eyes, letting everything sink in down to his bones. “I need to find her.”
“Probably.”
He stood too quickly, chair scraping harshly against the tile, vision going a bit fuzzy from the change in bodily direction.
Jack eyed him carefully before asking, “You are coming back, right?”
Robby just glared sharply.
Jack held up a hand in defense. “I know. Stupid question.” He licked his lips. “But maybe say it out loud to her anyway.”
His advice thundered in Robby’s chest because no one had ever said something like that to him. Not during COVID, not after his mentor passed, not when the grief hollowed the entire department out for weeks after Pittfest when everyone kept working because there wasn’t anything else to do.
Nobody had sat him down, looked him in the eye, and said: I’m not leaving too.
Just before Robby could answer, Dana appeared from down a hallway with a chart against her hip. “You’re still here?” she asked, eyes narrowing when she took them both in. “Why do you two look like someone died.”
“We’re working on preventing an emotional catastrophe,” Jack answered.
Dana sighed. “Ah. So business as usual.”
Robby grabbed his zip-up jacket from the back of his chair. “Have you seen her?”
Dana’s pointed features softened instantly. “Yeah,” she said. “Thought she went home at first, but Langdon found her about twenty minutes ago.”
“Where?” he asked with a zealous to make things right before he lost one of the best things that’d ever happened to him.
Dana tilted her head toward the hallway leading deeper into the department. “In your office.”
_______________________
Robby’s office door stood half-open when he reached it with the inside light turned off.
Only the dim spill from the hallway stretched across the floor in pale bands, cutting through the darkness just enough for him to make out the shape of you sitting against the far wall beside his desk. He frowned. You hadn’t chosen the chair, not even close to it, just choosing the floor with your knees pulled loosely toward your chest, one arm draped over them while the glow from a laptop screen reflected faintly across your face. His desk chair sat abandoned a few feet away, turning crooked as thought you’d shoved it rather than use it.
You didn’t notice him standing there immediately. Your attention stayed fixed somewhere distant, eyes unfocused on the char opening in front of you. The exhaustion in your posture hit him harder than the yelling had. You looked wrung out, small despite the fact that he’d spent years watching you grow beautifully and more capable inside the hospital.
He wanted to take a few more minutes, prepare for what he was going to say, but the floor just had to creak softly beneath his show.
Your head jerked up at the sound with a guarded looking flashing across your face. When it clicked that Robby was the person in the doorway, you looked back down at the computer.
“Thought you went home,” you mumbled like a child who didn’t get ice cream for dessert.
Robby flicked the light on before closing the door fully with a soft click. “So did I.”
A pout tugged at your lips. “Forgot to finish my charts.”
“That’s a lie.”
You huffed a tired breath through your nose. “Yeah,” you admitted tiredly.
He stayed standing for another moment before finally crossing the office in slow, measured steps. You watched him approach this time, shoulders curling inward the closer he got, as though you expected another argument to start back up, another correction, another clean profession distance placed between the two of you with the most sterile goodbye he could manage.
To your surprise, Robby lowered himself to the floor beside you with a quiet groan of tired joints. He was close enough that his shoulder pressed almost deliberately against yours, and the contact nearly undid you on the spot.
The action was such a small thing, barely anything, but after months of him slowly stepping away every time you got too close, the solid warmth of him beside you felt almost unbearable and entirely unbelievable.
You let out a shaky and wet exhale at the same time Robby’s was just pure fatigue.
Your eyes strained at the floor between your shoes. “I didn’t mean it,” you finally confessed with closed eyes. “What I said before.”
“I know.”
You swallowed thickly around burning hot tears that welled too quickly in your eyes. “Still shouldn’t have said it.”
“No,” he agreed. “You shouldn’t have.”
His honestly almost made you laugh because that was the most Robby answer he could ever give you. He’d never lie just to make you feel better; that’s just not how the world worked. Beside you, his shoulder shifted more firmly against yours in a grounding and intentional choice.
Your lips pressed hard enough that they started shaking. “I thought you hated me,” you admitted before you could stop the words from slipping through.
The silence afterward felt too large for the small office.
Robby turned toward you fully, eyebrows furrowed like he didn’t believe that at all. “What?”
Your laugh cracked embarrassingly halfway through. “You stopped talking to me, started questioning everything I said while you let other residents call everything, wouldn’t look me in the eye unless you needed to.” Your throat tightened painfully. “I thought maybe you realized everyone was right, and I was turning into you too much and you just . . . didn’t want me around anymore.”
“Honey.”
The name shouldn’t have hit hard enough for tears to spill, but with one blink, a torrential downpour flooded down your cheeks. You covered your face quickly, humiliated by how fast you were suddenly crying, but Robby kept talking before you could apologize for it.
“That is not what happened.” He shook his head to really send it home.
“Then what was it?” you asked. “Because it really felt like you were getting ready to leave and making sure that I didn’t matter enough to miss you.”
You felt the way his shoulder stiffened follow by the way he stopped shuffling. Taking a peek at his face, your chest twisted at the sight of devastation plastered clear as day in his features, in the way his own eyes seemed glassy.
“Oh,” he breathed out, chest visibly deflating with the word.
“I know it sounds stupid,” you whispered. “I know you said it’s temporary, I know everyone keeps saying it’s temporary, but—” Your voice broke hard enough you had to stop for a second. “Everybody talks about you like you’re planning to die.”
Robby looked away sharply.
A shuddering breath filled your lungs. “You’ve been exhausted for years. Dana watches you constantly. Frank keeps making jokes every time the word sabbatical gets thrown around because no one knows how else to act. Dennis is freaking out about watering your plants and is constantly wondering if he even gets to message you about them while you’re away. And they all keep talking about me taking over things while you’re gone and—” A hiccup cut you off. “And then you started pulling away.”
The office fell silent except for the faint hum of the old air conditioner overhead.
When Robby finally spoke again, his voice sounded rougher than usual. “I thought I was helping.”
You wiped angrily under your eyes. “By pretending I didn’t exist.”
“By making sure you’d be okay without me.”
Each thing he said hurt you so badly that you couldn’t help but laugh through the tears at his stupidity. “That’s the problem. You sound like you’re dying.”
For a second, neither of you moved. And then Robby, poor old man Robby with his complicated feelings, leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees while one hand covered part of his mouth hard enough you watched him drag in a slow breath through his fingers like a cigarette.
"Oh, kid."
The grief in his voice was the final straw, breaking everything open inside you completely. You bent forward before you could stop yourself, crying in earnest now; silent at first, shoulders shaking beneath scrubs that desperately needed a wash while months of fear and bubbling anger and hurt finally collapsed under their own weight.
At the sound of your sobs, Robby turned toward you fully. “Hey,” he said gently. “Hey.”
One of his hands rose and settled carefully against the back of your head. The other wrapped around your shoulder before he pulled you into him. The moment your forehead hit his shoulder, you broke. Your sobs weren’t anything graceful like the movies where the girl’s makeup stays perfect; they weren’t quiet like some people could manage; they were loud with waves of devastated tears soaking straight into the front of his scrub top while he held you with one arm tight around your back and the other cradling the back of your head protectively against him in the same way he held Baby Jane Doe hours earlier.
“I’m s-sorry,” you choked out uselessly.
“No.” He hushed you firmly. “None of that.”
“I didn’t mean it, I swear—”
“I know.”
His hand moved slowly through your hair in long, grounding movements from the top of your skull to the base.
“You listen to me,” he said quietly into your hair before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes looked tired but achingly clear. “I am not dying.”
You pulled in a gasping breath.
“I’m not disappearing,” he continued. “I’m not going to vanish on you. I’m taking three months because Dana threatened bodily harm if I didn’t stop working eighty hours a week.” He cooed your name when a watery laugh escaped you. “There you are,” he murmured barely above a whisper. “Good.”
You wiped uselessly at your face again. “You can’t blame me for thinking something was wrong.”
“I know.”
“You looked miserable every day.”
“That’s because this place is terrible.”
“You love this place.”
“Horrible character flaw. Writers should have done better.”
Another tiny, broken laugh escaped, but Robby’s face melted fully for the first time in months at the sound. Suddenly, like a door opening to another universe, you could see Robby again—the version of him you’d been missing so badly underneath the distance. Yes, he was still run through and emotionally constipated beyond belief but still him, still yours in the strange, complicated way mentorship sometimes became family before either person noticed.
You sighed loudly. “You should’ve just told me.”
“I should’ve.”
“You’re supposed to be the emotionally intelligent one.”
Robby looked genuinely offended. “That has literally never been said about mel”
You laughed harder through the remnants of tears, forehead dropping briefly against his shoulder again. He thankfully let you stay there, not rushing, not teasing to bring a heat to your cheeks, just keeping one hand stead at your back while the other rested warmly against your hair.
After a while of catching up on lost moments, he spoke more quietly. “For the record, the ER would not be better off without me.”
You groaned, nose practically smushed into his collarbone. “Fuck off.”
“I’m just saying, objectively, moral would plummet, satisfaction scores would drop down to the floor.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Hm.”
You stayed there before finally pulling back, eyes misty again as another question sat behind your teeth. “Are you really coming back?”
“Yes.” There wasn’t any hesitation on his part. “Yes. I’m coming back.”
Your chest ached with relief so sudden it almost felt painful. Robby was able to catch the way it made your whole body melt against his in real time.
“And if you want,” he added slowly, “you could come up for a weekend.”
You blinked. “What?”
“The cabin.”
“You’re inviting me to your creepy forest recovery era? Have you ever seen a horror movie?”
“It’s a lake.”
“Same concept. Serial killers don’t pass over doctors.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You could get out of the hospital for forty-eight hours. Dana claims the fresh air prevents personality disorders.”
“That feels medically inaccurate.”
“Probably.”
“But Dana’s smarter than us combined.” You smiled, teeth poking through, eyes still red and swollen.
Robby looked down at you, almost burning this version in his mind to remember what he almost made himself lose, before reaching over and brushing his thumb carefully under one eye, catching the last tear there with a gentleness so careful it nearly unraveled you all over again.
“You know,” he added, “you don’t actually have to become me to be a good doctor.”
You let the words sink into your system, ones that you’d been so wired to accept that they almost felt foreign coming from him. He wasn’t warning you this time but giving a gentle reassurance that, yes, you could do just fine without him.
Even if you wanted to keep choosing to follow him for a long while.
You leaned back against the wall beside him, shoulder once again pressing against his. “Good,” you muttered. “Because your coping mechanisms are terrible.”
Robby barked a tired laugh beside you. “Yeah. Gotta work on that too.”
For a long while after that, neither of you moved from the office floor.
The Pitt continued around in muffled motion, but for the first time in months, the unnamed space between you and Robby no longer felt fragile enough to shatter under one wrong word. He stayed pressed against you, solid and familiar, and every so often his hand would tap absently against your arm like he was reassuring himself you were still there too.
Eventually, the exhaustion would catch up to both of you. Robby would leave for his sabbatical, and you would stay behind in the ER he’d helped shape around himself for years. But now there was something steady thrumming along under the fear where there hadn’t been before: the quiet certainty that he was coming back, and then the equally terrifying realization for Robby that someone wanted him to.
