[tw1sters]

Sympathy is a Knife

Your lives have always moved in parallel: close enough to touch, yet separated by an irreconcilable distance. Bucky is a prince and you are his sister's lady-in-waiting. But love ignores rank, and so does the kingdom's newest desire-inducing substance.

▸ PAIRING: Prince!Bucky Barnes x Lady-in-Waiting!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, dubcon because of sex pollen, so much yearning, slight hurt/comfort, public sex, porn with too much plot tbh, possessive!bucky, degradation, filthy talk that border on dubcon but know that she wants to be there as much as him, breeding kink, insecurities, both virgins, bucky is nasty and a lil mean under the influence, probably a lot of historical inaccuracies ▸ WORD COUNT: 16.1K ▸ A/N: "this will be a short pwp," i say, famous last words. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab. dedicated to @artficlly in honor of pursuit of jade episode 37 iykyk — i'm gifting you the sex pollen by the stream that we never got <3 hope you enjoy this baby of mine. if you do, please let me know your thoughts (even if they are incoherent) through reblogs, comments, and likes!!

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Princes James Buchanan Barnes has everything he could ever want. A palace fit for the king that he will eventually become. Mountains of jewels that shine brighter than the sun and all the stars combined. Bespoke dress uniforms made from the finest fabrics, adorned with elegant aiguillettes and medals of his valor in battles fought and won. Countless women and men alike throwing themselves at his feet for the opportunity of him even sparing them the briefest of glances.

But the only one he truly wants, the only person he truly wishes to hold, is the one thing he cannot have — and it’s you.

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[russianblush]

no ai usage over here. you’re gonna get my shitty authentic writing whether you like it or not

[sleepyangelkami]

smut's fun. have you ever read soul crushing, heart aching, head throbbing comfort that makes your eyes burn out of your head to the point where you just have to crawl into a ball because your inner child feels so safe? haha... yeah smuts fun.

[zanerose]

I love deeply traumatized men with haunted eyes. Like hell yeah babe look at me as if I'm the only good thing you've ever known.

[vessvessels]

been smiling a little too hard at pics of older men lately

[freakoutgirl]

how it feels to accept you're fucked forever

[sluttylittlewaistenthusiast]

╰┈➤ 18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all the fanfics i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some will have summaries if provided <3

ᡣ𐭩 fic recs m.list

@docrobinavitch

That Was Me Blue

when the wedding invitation arrives for your ex husband's marriage to your little sister, you're tempted to set fire to your entire life. your attending, jack abbot, has other ideas.

Did I Do This To Myself?

after jack breaks up with you out of the blue, you show up at his favorite bar to stir up chaos

@lovebugism

Off Day

in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident.

Tender is the Night

you have a perfectly casual, no-strings-attached night out with a charming stranger you met at a bar; only for jack to find out that he's slept with his resident the next morning, and that you’ve made a very memorable first impression on your new attending.

Coming Around Again

while trying to calm down from a panic attack, you accidentally end up in the same room jack abbot is sleeping in, after you've already switched to the day shift just to get away from him.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are.

Looking Good Today, Doc | @softundermoonlight

your shift had started terribly. and texting the wrong person (the way-too-hot night shift attending) might be the final stroke.

@flowersforbucky

Its Always Darkest Before The Dawn

after a heartbreaking night shift, all jack wants is to get home to you.

Petals For Armor

vignettes of your relationship with jack abbot told through the five love languages.

Sargeant. M.D. | @drjohncarters

you stop providing camgirl services to your clients when you start your residency. except you can't let go of your favorite client, who, as you quickly find out, is your new attending physician for the next four years. he recognizes you immediately and is ready to stake his claim.

@s-writing-s

Everywhere, Everything

Taking your friend's advice and buying a sex toy might end up being the best thing you ever done—even if it doesn't seem like it at first.

Distance

Jack's a good attending. He's nice to you. Polite. But he doesn't treat you like he does the others. He doesn't send you smiles. He never laughs with you, and he never seeks out your company. It hurts enough that you've decided to leave and take an attending position elsewhere.

Diagnosis: Married?

One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

Slim Pickins | @flofaiiry

a tipsy reader confides her boy troubles to jack, then realizes maybe one of the good men she's been waiting for has been in front of her the whole time. (it's him, he's good men.)

Cologne and Money | @relaxdiva

You tell yourself it’s just a crush. Just proximity. Just long nights in the ED and shared adrenaline. But when a workplace incident ends up with you being accidentally sedated, your filter is stripped away, the truth slips out—and the man you’ve wanted for months hears it all. You wake up embarrassed, determined to pretend it never happened, but he has other plans. In a department where gossip spreads fast, you’re forced to confront what’s been simmering between you two all along.

On Me | @snoopysupe

5 times jack pays for you +1 time you pay for him.

@pencil-n-pen

You've Ruined My Life

good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.

Too Sweet

being in and out of the hospital all the time has never been an enjoyable experience. But after meeting a certain ED doctor who you can't seem to get away from, things just might start looking up.

Thinking Of You | @peachyparkerr

after things fall out between you and jack, you do your best to stay away from him when you can. but that doesn't mean that you don't wish that things were different, and it certainly doesn't mean that jack enjoys seeing nurse mateo diaz flirt with you.

@inkydelusions

Hoola Hoop

when you first heard of code hoola hoop you'd whished you'd never have to use it, but the pitt is full of surprises. when jack abbot finds you on the hospital roof, defeated and hurt, he makes the decision to change both your lives for good.

Something Med School Didn't Cover

when the doors of the pitt swing open to reveal you on the gurney, dr. jack abbot’s world shatters, forcing him to fight for two lives he didn't know were at stake.

Elevator Confessional | @mariposium

getting stuck in the elevator with the one doctor on the emergency floor you were hoping to avoid at all costs was not on your bucket list for your shift. neither was having to face the feelings you both had buried for each other.

Oblivious To Him | @mabel-777

jack likes his younger resident, but you are completely oblivious to it, thinking he’s just a nice attending.

It Had To Be You | @munsonpetal

you and jack abbot have known each other for five years. over those five years, feelings on both ends began to bloom. will one failed date finally give one of you the courage to admit your feelings?

Fall in Love (Again and Again) | @cryonme

a failed marriage, a traumatic brain injury, an old emergency contact, and a love that doesn’t give up.

@dearwalker

Gorgeous

You’ve been secretly losing your mind over Dr. Abbot for months. One slip on ice later, and your giant crush on the night attending becomes everyone’s business thanks to a concussion and a mouth that won’t stop calling him gorgeous.

The Great War

Years after your separation, life throws you back into Jack Abbot’s orbit in the worst way possible, carrying a devastating diagnosis that could be the reason your marriage fell apart in the first place: a tumor that may had erased the part of you that fell in love with him all those years back. And he’s not ready to lose you twice.

10 Things I Hate About You | @voidsagent

After joining in on the bet on Westbridge, you find an old bet on your relationship with Jack.

Where Do I Put My Love? | @alinathinkstoomuch

abbot offers up his house for a simple family bbq to help you out of a jam...unfortunately, neither of you are capable of keeping it simple.

Unaffected | @geminiwritten

even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.

The Jack Abbot Effect | @mariposium

your boyfriend has a way about him that draws women in like bees to honey. it’s never bothered you before, but after a bad shift and an ill-timed bet, you are quickly reaching the limit of what you can handle.

Dancing In The Dark | @inknopewetrust

jack learned to deal with all of his problems alone. when he finds someone to help shoulder his burdens, he falls deeply, unconditionally head over heels for you—and he loves coming home.

@weird-is-life

My Savior

When a creep at a bar won't take a no for an answer, you fall into Jack's lap and get him to play your boyfriend.

Shy Shell

It becomes Jack's mission to get you out of your shy shell around him, and somehow it works.

So Fucking Endearing | @inkdrinkerworld

you do a bar crawl with the night shift as a new couple with jack abbot and he’s concerned about your blood sugar

Mornings At Robby's | @dearkeery

Robby had asked Jack Abbot to house-sit while he’s off on his three-month sabbatical. It just so happened that Robby also asked you, his sister. Out of all the things he’d managed to list, one would think Robby would have the decency to let you know that you weren’t the only one tasked to keep his house intact. But no, of course he didn’t because where’s the fun in that?

Casual | @hearts4hughes

I Couldn't Make It Any Harder | @annaevermore

You consider yourself really hard to love, so you try to keep your distance from Jack. He won't have any of it.

Bed Chem | @spikedfearn

Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring the night he kissed you at your apartment door. Widowed and still learning how to want something again, Jack turns the best date you’ve had yet and one charged goodnight into something neither of you is ready to walk away from—and for him, wanting you is one thing, but letting himself have you is another entirely.

@seewhoyouwanttosee

Slim Pickins

In a final and desperate attempt to try and revive your love life, you turn to a dating app– only to have every attempt sabotaged by your boss.

Go Go Juice

After a series of bad dates, mid-conversation ghostings and a week straight of rejections– you need some good ol’ fashioned fun. Unfortunately, you end up drunk-dialing your hot, older boss– the one you’ve been crushing on since starting your residency. For some reason, he picks up.

The Terrible Date | @fromsil

a terrible date, on your evening off, ends you up at the emergency service in a bad state. the very same emergency service you work at.

@beccasdoll

Attuned

the new nurse in the pitt has caught jacks attention.

First Times

a collection of their first times together.

You Shaved Your Bush | @keytomylockhart

In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.

[spikedfearn]

BED CHEM

ONE-SHOT

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

summary: Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring the night he kissed you at your apartment door. Widowed and still learning how to want something again, Jack turns the best date you’ve had yet and one charged goodnight into something neither of you is ready to walk away from—and for him, wanting you is one thing, but letting himself have you is another entirely.

wc: 5.3k

a/n: I want this man to fuck the mario coins outta me. not beta read.

warnings: piv, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, oral/nipple play, praise/dirty talk, canon widower Jack Abbot, grief, emotional vulnerability, first time, age gap-adjacent vibe, couch sex, spit/tongue kissing, body worship, breast play, established relationship (if a few dates counts)

MASTERLIST

Jack Abbot was still wearing his wedding ring when he kissed you.

It had started innocently enough, if anything involving Jack Abbot could still be called innocent after the last few weeks. A late dinner that turned into drinks after because neither of you had been ready to call it a night. A table tucked into the back corner of a low-lit restaurant where the candles guttered in their glass holders and threw amber light over the lines of his face, catching in the silver at his temples and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The place smelled like charred citrus and expensive liquor and rain drying off the pavement outside every time somebody opened the front door.

He’d looked unfairly good all night.

Not in a polished, trying-too-hard way. Jack never looked polished. He looked lived-in. Worn in all the places that mattered. Dark button-down with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, broad hands around a whiskey glass, wedding ring still on the finger he never seemed to think about until you caught him turning it once with his thumb when the conversation went quiet. Hair a little mussed by the end of the evening, not styled so much as left alone, with that slightly unruly way it had of falling however it pleased. Tired eyes that missed absolutely nothing. A mouth better suited for dry remarks than pretty ones, which only made it matter more when he said something gentle.

Especially tonight.

Tonight he’d been quieter.

Not cold. Never that. Jack’s silence had texture to it. It had weight. It lived between you in the pauses after a joke, in the way his gaze rested on you a beat too long before he looked down at his drink, in the warm press of his hand at the center of your back when the hostess led you to your table. He listened like he always did—completely, with that unnerving kind of focus that made you feel not just heard but studied—but there had been something else under it tonight, something steadier and darker and impossible not to notice.

Want.

It ran beneath everything like a live wire.

By dessert you’d been so aware of him you could barely taste what was on your plate.

By the second drink you’d stopped pretending not to know what was happening.

By the time you stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the city had gone glossy and dark around you, the street damp from an earlier shower, the air cool enough to wake up the skin at your throat. Traffic hissed past. Somewhere half a block over, music thumped behind a closed door. Jack stood beside you while you got your coat settled, one hand low and brief at your waist to steady the fabric, and that simple touch hit with such clean force you nearly lost the thread of whatever you’d been saying.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

His mouth tilted at one corner, not quite a smile. “You good?”

“Fine,” you said, and heard how unconvincing it sounded.

That earned you a soft exhale through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah?”

You should’ve been embarrassed. Instead you found yourself smiling back at him, warm all over and a little breathless in a way the cold air did nothing to fix. “Don’t start.”

“Wasn’t starting anything.”

That was the problem. He hadn’t had to.

The walk to your building wasn’t long, but it felt stretched thin with awareness. Your shoulders brushed once at the crosswalk, then again half a minute later, and the second time neither of you corrected it. His stride was easy despite the slight unevenness that was more apparent on longer walks, a detail you never stared at because you knew he’d hate that, but one you were always aware of all the same. He carried himself with that same unshowy competence he brought to everything—like whatever hurt, whatever history he hauled around with him, none of it got to dictate the terms.

He asked if you’d had a good time in that low voice of his, the one that always seemed to land somewhere below your ribs.

You told him the truth. “I had a really good time.”

His glance flicked to you, then forward again. “Yeah.”

“Just yeah?”

“That was me agreeing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re a real charmer, Abbot.”

“I got you out with me twice, didn’t I?”

“More than twice.”

“Then I’m doing better than I thought.”

It should’ve been easy, that exchange. Light. Harmless. But something in his tone kept it from floating away. He said things dry, understated, almost like he was trying to throw a layer over them before they could mean too much. The trouble was, he meant everything.

At the entrance to your building, he reached past you to get the door before you could, his sleeve brushing your bare wrist. The clean scent of his cologne—cedar, soap, the faintest trace of something smoky—slid through the cool night air and settled into your head. You stepped inside first, and he followed you into the quiet of the lobby, where the overhead lights were dimmer than they ought to have been and the old tile floor clicked faintly under your steps.

Neither of you said much in the elevator.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the opposite. It was crowded.

He stood beside you with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders loose, looking at the changing numbers over the door like he wasn’t acutely aware of you standing there in a dress he’d spent all evening trying not to stare at. You could feel the heat of him beside you. Feel your own pulse ticking faster with every floor.

When the elevator opened, he let you walk ahead of him down the hall.

At your door, you turned, keys already in hand, and that was where everything slowed down.

There was the hallway, quiet and softly lit.

There was the muffled hum of somebody’s television behind a neighboring wall.

There was the jangle of your keys going still in your hand.

And there was Jack in front of you, close enough now that the details sharpened all at once—the tired set of his eyes, the crease beside his mouth, the shadow at his jaw, the way he looked at you like he’d spent all night being careful and was running out of room to do it.

“Thanks for dinner,” you said, because somebody had to say something.

“Yeah.” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then came back up. “Anytime.”

He should have left then.

You felt it—the point where the evening could still split into two different endings. One where he kissed your cheek, maybe, or touched your arm and told you to get some sleep. One where he walked back down the hall and the two of you did this again another night, and another after that, stretching the tension until it frayed you both raw.

Instead he stayed where he was.

So did you.

“Jack,” you said quietly.

He inhaled. Held it for half a beat. Let it go.

There was something almost brutal in the restraint of him. He wasn’t a young man fumbling his way into impulse. He wasn’t careless. He looked like somebody standing on the edge of a decision he’d spent a long time refusing to make.

When he finally lifted a hand, he did it slowly enough that you felt every inch of the movement. His knuckles brushed a loose strand of hair back from your cheek. The touch was rougher than it should’ve been, callused, warm. It left your skin tingling in its wake.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, voice quiet enough to disappear into the hall, “and I won't trust myself to be a gentleman."

The line should’ve made you laugh. It nearly did. But the way he said it—worn and honest and a little wrecked around the edges—sent a pulse of heat right through you.

“Maybe I don’t need a gentleman tonight.”

Something flickered in his face. Not surprise. Not exactly. More like the last brace of restraint giving under pressure.

He kissed you then.

Not tentative. Not careless either. Just deliberate in a way that made everything in you go still before it all rushed back at once harder than before. His hand moved to the side of your neck, his thumb settling just below your ear, and his mouth covered yours like he’d thought about it too many times not to do it well. There was no rush in it at first. Just heat. A long, deep first taste of him that had your keys slipping against your palm and your free hand catching at the front of his shirt.

He made a sound—low, rough, barely there—and kissed you again like that sound had gotten away from him.

The second one broke something open.

You felt him step in, felt the wall cool against your shoulder blades, felt the shift in him as the carefulness started to burn off. His mouth moved against yours with more urgency now, still controlled, still precise, but the control had stopped being distance. It had become intensity. His hand slid from your neck to your waist and held there, firm enough to make your breath hitch.

When you kissed him back harder, he answered at once, a low sound catching in his throat as his tongue swept into your mouth. The kiss turned deeper, hotter, messier in the span of a breath, all that hard-held restraint giving way to something far more dangerous. You tasted whiskey and heat and the sheer force of how badly he’d been trying not to do exactly this.

That was maybe the most dangerous part of him, the responsiveness. The fact that for all his steadiness, for all the hard-earned discipline in him, he felt everything. Every small shift. Every shaky breath. Every press of your fingers into his shirt.

He pulled back only far enough to look at you.

For a second all you could hear was both of you breathing.

His forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes stayed closed, then opened. You saw it then, plain as anything—the want, yes, but also the other thing beneath it. The hesitation. The knowledge of what this was.

His hand at your waist tightened once.

“I was trying to take this slow,” he said.

You swallowed. “Maybe slow is overrated.”

That almost-smile touched his mouth and disappeared again. “You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, not speaking. You knew enough about him by then to understand that silence wasn’t emptiness with him. It was effort. It was him sorting through what he was willing to say, what he was willing to let you see.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Lower. Stripped down.

“You have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

The truth in it went through you even faster than the question itself.

You could have made a joke. Could have eased the pressure, given both of you an out. Instead you said, just as quiet, “Probably the same thing you’ve been doing to me.”

His eyes shut briefly, as if that landed harder than he’d expected.

When he opened them again, there was less distance in them than you’d ever seen.

“I haven’t…” He stopped, jaw working once. Started again. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

Not dramatic. Not overexplained. He didn’t say her. Didn’t say wife. Didn’t have to.

The history was there all the same, a shadow laid carefully at your feet.

Something in your chest ached.

Your hand came up to his face almost without thinking, palm against the rough warmth of his cheek. He leaned into it before he could stop himself. Just a little. But enough.

“I know,” you said.

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh in a different mood. “Do you?”

“I know this isn’t casual for you.”

“No,” he said, and there was nothing dry in his voice now. “It’s not.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around you.

You could feel the next moment waiting. Could feel the choice still sitting there between you, changed now but not gone.

Jack stepped back a fraction, not far enough to leave, just enough to give you room if you wanted it. His hand slid from your waist but didn’t leave you entirely, fingertips skimming your side once on the way down.

“Tell me to go home,” he said. “I’ll go.”

The generosity of that nearly undid you.

He meant it. Even like this. Even with his mouth still pink from kissing you, his breathing heavier than before, his whole body carrying the strain of holding himself in check. He would go if you asked. He would walk away from this and take it with him.

You fumbled the key against the lock on the first try and heard the tiny metallic rattle it made. Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand. Then lifted slowly back to your face.

“Jack,” you said, opening the door. “Come inside.”

The look he gave you then was enough to make your knees go weak.

Not triumph. Nothing so easy. Something deeper, denser, almost disbelieving in its intensity.

The door swung inward. You stepped back into the apartment, and he followed you in.

The click of the door shutting behind him sounded louder than it should have.

Everything changed with that sound.

The apartment was dim except for the lamp you’d left on in the living room before the date, its warm light spilling across the hardwood floor and the books stacked on the coffee table and the throw blanket half-fallen from the couch. Familiar space, ordinary space. Except not anymore. Not with him standing just inside the door, shoulders squared beneath the dark shirt, looking at you like crossing that small distance had cost him something real.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Jack dragged a hand over the back of his neck and gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Christ.”

“What?”

He looked around once, like he needed somewhere to put the force of what he was feeling and found nowhere for it to go. Then he looked at you again.

“You ask me in here,” he said, “I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

Heat bloomed low and hard in your stomach.

“Good.”

That did it.

He crossed the room in two steps and kissed you again, not careful this time. Still controlled—he would always be controlled, even like this—but no longer pretending he wasn’t half out of his mind with wanting you. His hands found your waist, then your back, then settled hard at your hips as he walked you backward until the backs of your knees met the couch. He stopped there only long enough to look at you, chest rising under your palms, eyes dark and fixed on your face like he was giving himself one last second to think better of this.

Then he kissed you again.

Deep. Hot. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth slanted over yours with enough force to make your breath catch, and when you opened for him, he took full advantage, tongue sweeping into your mouth in a way that felt far filthier than it should have, all heat and intent and hard-won control fraying at the edges. A wrecked sound broke from him when you clutched at his shirt, and he answered by pulling you closer, one hand spread wide at the small of your back, the other still locked around your hip like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. The kiss went molten in seconds—slow nowhere, urgent everywhere—until the room, the lamp, the whole apartment blurred at the edges and there was nothing left but the drag of his mouth on yours, the press of his body crowding you into the couch, and the staggering relief of finally being touched by him the way he’d clearly been denying himself all night.

This close, you could see the tiny shifts in him. The effort. The disbelief. The sheer force of everything he’d spent the whole evening packing down until it had nowhere left to go.

“Still want this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want this.”

His eyes held yours another second, confirming, grounding, making sure.

He kissed you again, slower this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened back up for him. The sound he made was low, almost pained, and it undulated through you. His hand slid from your back to your hip, his fingers pressing into the curve there, pulling you closer until you felt the hard line of his erection against you stomach.

He didn’t lay you back against the couch, instead turning you both, sitting first then pulling you into his lap so you straddled him. The position was intimate, decisive. Your dress rode up your thighs, the worn microfiber of the couch scratchy against your bare skin.

His hands settled on your hips, holding you there. He looked up at you, his eyes dark in the lamplight. The grey at his temples was silver now. He was studying your face, reading every shift, every breath.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He reached for the first button on his own shirt. His fingers, usually so steady, fumbled for a second. He got it open. Then the next. He pushed the fabric apart, revealing the taut plane of his chest, a dusting of dark hair. He didn’t remove the shirt, just left it hanging open.

His hands returned to you, sliding up your sides, over the dress. He found the hem. Gripped it. Lifted it slowly up your body. The cool air touched your stomach, your ribs. He pulled it over your head, letting it fall somewhere behind the couch. You sat before him in just your bra and panties, exposed in the soft light.

He didn’t move for a long moment. His gaze traveled over you—the slope of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts above the lace, the softness of your stomach. It wasn’t a leer. It was an inventory. A remembering.

“Christ,” he breathed, the word full of awe.

He leaned forward and put his mouth on the skin between your breasts. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. You felt the scrape of his teeth, the wet stroke of his tongue. Your back arched, a silent plea.

His hands went to the clasp of your bra. It gave way. He peeled the lace down your arms, letting your breasts spill free. His control was a visible thing, a tightness in his jaw as he looked at you. Then he bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.

You cried out. His tongue was rough, his suction relentless. He lavished one breast, then the other, until the peaks were hard and wet and aching. His free hand cupped the weight of you, his thumb circling the neglected peak, and the dual sensation made your thighs clamp around his hips.

“Please,” you heard yourself say, not knowing what you were asking for.

He understood. His hand slid down your stomach, over the front of your plain cotton panties. They were already damp. He pressed the heel of his hand against you, and you rocked into the pressure.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot.

“Yes. God, yes.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, and then you were bare, straddling him, his open shirt the only fabric between you. The head of his cock, trapped within his dress pants, pressed insistently against your damp heat.

He looked down between your bodies, watching as your wetness darkened the fine wool of his pants. A muscle in his cheek jumped. He brought his hand back, his fingers glistening now with your arousal. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought those fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.

The groan that left him was raw, unfiltered, your name leaving his lips in a breathy exhale.

His hand returned to your, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit. He circled it once, twice, a slow, maddening tease. Then he pushed two fingers inside you.

You gasped, your head falling back. He was deep, his knuckles pressed against you. He curled his fingers, searching, and brushed a spot that made your vision blur. A wet, squelching sound filled the quiet room as he began to move his hand, a slow, thorough fuck with his fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, and the fullness was exquisite. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles in time with the thrust of his hand. The coil in your belly pulled tight, too fast, too soon.

“I’m close,” you warned, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, met his gaze. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his eyes locked on yours as he worked you with his hand. He saw the exact moment you started to come. Your cunt clenched rhythmically around his fingers, a pulsing, milking grip, and a broken sound tore from your throat. He kept his hand moving, drawing the orgasm out until you were shuddering and limp against him.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, slick and shining. He brought them to his mouth again, his eyes holding yours, and licked them clean with a slow drag of his tongue.

“My turn,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

His hands tightened on your hips, lifting you just enough. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room.

He freed himself, his cock springing hard and thick against his stomach. The head was flushed dark, already drooling pre-come. He guided you with a firm pressure, the tip of him nudging against your soaked entrance.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained.

You dragged your eyes from where your bodies met, finding his. His gaze was locked on yours, unblinking, as he began to lower you.

The first inch was a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that made you gasp. He stopped, his whole body rigid, letting you adjust. His breath shuddered out.

“Okay?”

You nodded, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “More.”

He lowered you further, another excruciating inch, and the wet, tight slide drew a groan from deep in his chest. He was thick, filling you completely, and the sensation was overwhelming. You felt every vein, every pulse.

He didn’t move, just held you there, impaled on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. A fine tremor ran through his arms. His forehead dropped to your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin.

Your name was a broken moniker on his tongue.

He lifted his head, his eyes glassy. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking you cheekbone. Then he kissed you, deep and slow, his tongue mirroring the join of your bodies below.

He began to move you. His hands on your hips set a deliberate, rocking rhythm, lifting you almost off him before pulling you back down. The drag was exquisite, a wet, slick friction that made you whimper into his mouth.

The sound of your bodies repeatedly meeting was obscene—a steady, squelching slap of skin on skin, your wetness coating him with every rise and fall. He broke the kiss to watch, his eyes dark with a kind of ravaged hunger.

“See that?” he rasped, his gaze fixed on where he disappeared into you. “See how you take me?”

You looked down. The sight of his length, glistening with your arousal, sliding in and out of your swollen flesh, made you clench around him. He groaned, his hips jerking up to meet your next descent.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Just like that. Keep squeezing me.”

His control was fraying. The measured lifts became more urgent, his thrusts upward harder, deeper. The couch creaked beneath you both. He found an angle that made you cry out, a spot that sent sparks up your spine.

“There?” he gritted out, chasing it.

“Yes—yes. Right there.”

He hammered into that spot, his rhythm turning relentless. The wet slap of your bodies filled the room. Sweat gleamed on his chest. His open shirt was damp, sticking to his skin.

You felt the coil tightening again, a fierce, fast build. “Jack, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Come on my cock.”

It shattered you. Your cunt clamped down in rhythmic pulses, milking him, and you sobbed his name as the waves tore through you. He watched you fall apart, his expression one of awe and agony.

His own release followed, triggered by your clenching heat. He drove up into you one last, deep time and held there, his body bowing against yours. A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he emptied himself, pulse after hot pulse filling you. You felt the warmth spread deep inside.

He collapsed back against the couch, taking you with him, still joined. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. His heart hammered against you ear. His breath was ragged in your hair.

When the both of you finally came apart, it was slowly, reluctantly, like neither of you was quite ready to break the spell of it. You stayed where you were for another minute, straddling his lap, foreheads nearly touching, both of you breathing hard, before you shifted off him and onto the cushion beside him, legs unsteady and skin still warm everywhere he’d touched.

The apartment felt quieter than it had before, though nothing outside had changed. The same distant traffic moved below the windows. The same lamp burned in the corner, casting soft gold over the room. Somewhere in the building, plumbing knocked faintly in the walls. But inside the cocoon of your living room—couch cushions displaced, throw blanket dragged half to the floor, both of you breathing easier now—everything had settled into that strange, suspended calm that only came after something long anticipated had finally happened.

Jack sat at the edge of the couch for a moment, elbows on his knees, one hand covering his mouth while he caught his breath.

The sight of him undid you in a wholly different way than before.

Hair a mess now. Shirt hanging open, damp with sweat and pasted to his skin. Head bowed slightly, broad back rising and falling, the hard lines of him softened not by weakness but by exhaustion, by release, by the fact that he wasn’t trying to be anything except exactly what he was. When he finally lowered his hand, he stared down at the floor for a beat, then scrubbed both palms over his face.

You smiled despite yourself. “You okay?”

His laugh was short and rough. “Ask me in ten minutes.”

“Bad sign?”

He turned his head to look at you then, and something in his face gentled so completely it made your chest tighten. “No,” he said. “Pretty much the opposite.”

You shifted closer, pulling the blanket up over yourself. He noticed at once and reached for the edge of it automatically, tucking it around your legs with absentminded affection before leaning back into the couch. The movement was so instinctive, so quietly caring, that it hit even harder than it should have.

Jack looked tired.

Not in the everyday way you’d seen before, not the end-of-shift version of him with that brittle edge to it. This was different. Looser. A little stunned, maybe. As though some locked room inside him had finally been opened and he wasn’t yet sure what all the fresh air in it was going to do.

You touched his arm. “You got real quiet.”

“That surprises you?”

“No.” Your fingertips traced once over the coarss hair on his forearm. “Just trying to figure out if I should be nervous.”

His brows drew together faintly, and he turned more fully toward you. “About what?”

“That you regret it.”

The answer came so fast it was almost sharp. “No.”

You believed him immediately.

Not because he’d said it quickly. Because of how he’d said it. Clean. Certain. Like the idea itself offended him.

Jack exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment to where your hand still rested on him. When he spoke again, his voice had gone softer.

“I don’t regret you.”

The simplicity of it made it land harder than anything more elaborate could have.

He was quiet another second, then added, “I think maybe I’m trying to catch up to the fact that this was a terrible idea.”

Your heart sank for exactly half a beat.

Then his mouth twitched.

“Terrible,” he repeated, “because now I’m not gonna be able to think about much else.”

You laughed, relief bright and immediate, and he finally smiled properly—small, tired, devastating.

“There he is,” you murmured.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

He shook his head, but there was no argument in it. Only that faint lingering disbelief, like he still couldn’t quite accept that this night belonged to him now too.

For a while you sat there in the warm quiet, tucked against his side, his arm along the back of the couch behind you. Not rushing. Not filling the silence for the sake of it. It was one of the things you had learned fastest with Jack: the right kind of quiet could be its own form of closeness.

At length, he tipped his head back against the cushions and looked at the ceiling.

“I should probably go,” he said, without sounding like he meant it.

You angled your face up toward him. “You should?”

“No.”

“Good.”

That drew a softer laugh from him. He turned then, lifting a hand to brush his thumb over your cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it almost made you stop breathing. His eyes searched yours for a moment, not guarded now exactly, but open in a way that felt rarer than anything else he could have given you.

He looked less haunted like this.

Not healed. Not transformed. Nothing that false. Jack Abbot was still Jack Abbot—still a man built from long nights and hard choices and grief he carried with practiced silence. But some of the strain had eased from his face. Some old brace had loosened.

“Come here,” he said quietly.

You went without hesitation, folding into him, his arm coming around you with a firmness that made the whole world outside the apartment feel irrelevant. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then rested his cheek there, and the intimacy of that nearly outmatched everything that had come before.

No performance in it. No seduction. Just the truth of him.

After a minute, you felt his mouth move against your hair.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

He sighed, caught. “I said this date got out of hand.”

You smiled into his chest. “In the best way.”

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Yeah.”

The room was warm. The lamp cast everything in honey-colored light. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere far off and then faded, taking the city back with it. Jack’s hand moved once, slow and absent over your back, then stilled there as though he’d found where he wanted it.

If you’d looked up just then, you thought you might have seen it plainly on his face—the knowledge settling in, undeniable now.

Not that he’d wanted you.

That part had been obvious for weeks.

No, the more dangerous thing.

That he was already in much deeper than he’d ever meant to be.

[bambiiette]

been thinking too much about jack abbot with younger gf who cries at everything because she’s very sensitive: commercials, little dogs, the elderly on the street…. so when jack is balls deep in her and she can’t help but cry, he has to comfort her and he’s fucking dirty about it

crybaby with jack abbot

WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT AHEAD (MDNI) - dacryphilia, penetration sex, jack calls himself daddy yeah i stand by it, fem!reader, established relationship, age gap relationship mentioned, lowkey not as dirty as i would’ve liked it to get but i felt like it was just getting too long

A/N: ohhhh my fucking god YES. you get me. also i’m sorry these requests are coming out so slow. i have so many ideas of new stories or ways to write my requests but sometimes i suck at actually sitting down and writing!! i’ll always get there eventually lmao

────────── ୨ৎ ───────────

you’re always one to cry. you hate that you are. especially when you started dating jack. he was so much older than you, much more stoic and mature. age plus the army made his maturity seem like something you could only dream of. but he was so patient with you.

so patient when you pathetically welled up at the thought of old people or dogs being put down or the life insurance ads where the family talk about what would happen if one of them died. tears would form in the corners of those pretty eyes of yours and jack would comfort you. you cried over everything. so he really shouldn’t have been surprised when everything included when he was balls deep inside you.

you're panting into his mouth, senses dulled as he continues to fuck you. his mouth crashes against yours, messily tangling his tongue with yours. you don’t know when it happened. all you remember is feeling the way jack's hips snap forward with rough, deep thrusts. his hips are ruthless as his balls smack against your ass, each thrust slapping his thighs against yours. you arch your back, nails searching his shoulders as you try to hold on for support. it’s too much, it’s all so overwhelming. you’re so overstimulated from the feeling of him deep inside you.

you felt wetness starts to gleam in your eyes, eyes shining over and your lower lip started to tremble. before you knew it, you started sobbing. fat, pretty tears streaming down your face, dampening his pillow when you turn your head to the side. you whine and blink up at jack pathetically, sniffling loudly and drool coming out of your mouth. your eyes and nose were red, lips swollen and sticky from where your tears fell down your cheeks and you caught them.

the first time you cried during sex, jack came within seconds. seeing you like that, all pliant and pleading. it got him so fucking hard. like right now. you’re looking at him through wet lashes, and your eyes glistened. his hips rut against your faster when he looks into your eyes, he’s got less control over his movements. he hits deeper inside you, your walls clenching around him.

“oh sweetheart, what’s got you all worked up, hm?” he coos at you. which makes you feel even more pathetic. you feel like a baby.

he moves one of his hands to your face, wiping your tears with his fingers. his fingers glisten and he presses them against your lips. you open up for him without hesitation, tasting the saltiness of your tears on your tongue. he pushes them deeper into your mouth to hear you gag, tears forming in your eyes again. this time because you’re trying not to choke.

“fucking you so good that you can’t speak, huh?” he says, fingers finally coming out of your mouth. it’s all too much for you. his voice, his movements, the feeling of his cock grinding against your deepest parts over and over again. globs of tears stream down your face again, sniffling dramatically as you whine loudly.

“shhh no need to cry sweetheart, daddy’s got you.”

[love-chx]

no promise of tomorrow | joaquin torres

summary: you and joaquin work together and have sex--two entirely separate parts of your lives. but when you suddenly as for more one day, joaquin falters. a week long mission where another man captures your attention makes joaquin regret the words he doesn't say. but does it really change anything?

warnings: mdni. joaquin’s pov, pre-established situationship, angsty and passive aggressive joaquin, commitment issues!joaquin, jealousy, one-bed trope but on the floor but also on the bed, lots of fighting, a bullet graze, injured!reader, cursing, an overall very angsty fic, lowkey not a happy ending bc the situationship!joaquin universe shall persist after this. barely proofread by me everyone say thank u @sortagaysortahigh for reading every part as i wrote for an entire week

smut warnings: oral m!receiving, dick riding, ass smacking, hand pressed to throat but not choking (f!receiving), missionary, fingering, nipple sucking (f!receiving), creampie.

wc: 15.1k 

gif credit: @optional

-

What a stupid decision, Joaquin thinks to himself. Jaw flexing, his finger trails the rim of the whiskey cup in front of him before downing the drink in one go. The shoddy, dimly lit bar was not where he wanted to spend his Saturday night and the stench of sweat and alcohol filling the air was somehow worse than some of the bases he’s been on. The worn leather is scratchy beneath his jacket, and he does his best not to focus too much on how his combat boots were sticking obnoxiously to the floor below him. Misery exudes off of him like a warning to any passerbyers. 

But he pays them no mind. His eyes are focused on you. 

You’re across the room, only a small distance away from him but somehow it feels like worlds. Perched on a barstool, your legs are crossed and one elbow rests casually against the bar, as if you were the most relaxed you could ever be. Joaquin’s eyes follow as you pick up a tall glass, fingers wrapping around the condensation before bringing it to your familiar lips. The carbonated, bright red liquid glides down your throat, and Joaquin’s lips part as he watches you swallow. 

It’s a mocktail, he knows this. The reminder of why you opted for some bubbly soda sickenly reminds him of what the pair of you were doing in this seedy town to begin with. Naturally, Joaquin’s gaze moves to the man across from you. 

CIA Agent Matteo Locke. 

Zero, he said his codename was. Joaquin scoffs out loud. Dumbass codename. His name is The Falcon. He has wings. 

Whatever.

Joaquin observes as your glossy wet lips spread into another wide smile, and his finger twitches in irritation at the way you throw your head back, hand landing on the bicep of the federal agent across from you. 

Your laugh was loud. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe no one else in the bar could really hear it over the loud of conversation and camaraderie, but Joaquin hears it loud and clear, ears picking up the melodic giggle through the busy room. But a bitterness chokes him at who you were sharing it with. 

He’s not that funny. Joaquin thinks to himself, eyes glued on your manicured hand that remains on his arm. Not that Joaquin would really know. They’ve only met five hours prior. Other than a brief introduction and a solid handshake once you and Joaquin were boots down in Arizona, which was truly the extent of his interaction with the man, Joaquin hasn’t really had the pleasure of getting to know him. 

That honor was all yours it seems. 

He’s brooding. 

At the recognition of his own behavior, Joaquin lets out a sigh, forcing his eyes away from your couple with much difficulty. Instead, they scan the room. He checks every exit, surveying all the patrons. Despite the task at hand, he still finds his mind wandering to you. 

You’re just trying to pass as casual customers, Joaquin reasons, that’s why you were so close to Locke. He hears you laugh again and grits his teeth.

He’s heard the laugh a million times, loved it a million more, but he can’t help the way his discomfort blooming in his chest at the idea that it may never be directed at him again. 

All because of a stupid decision. 

Two nights before you knew about the upcoming mission, you found yourself at Joaquin’s in the middle of the night. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, slamming his head back against the wall. It took everything in him not to push his hips upwards and he remembers the feeling of his thighs shaking in restraint. You seemed to enjoy his misery, as teary wide eyes looked up at him. Joaquin opened his eyes just a smidge, sneaking a peek down at you. He couldn’t help the shuddering breath that left his mouth at the mischievous gleam in your eyes. 

Lips wet with different liquid than the one you’re nursing at the bar now and spread wide over the girth of his cock, Joaquin thought you look absolutely mesmerizing. 

He brought a large palm up to cup the side of your head, swiping sweaty strands of hair away from your forehead. Joaquin was absorbed in the moment, feeling every time your cheeks suctioned inward, every swipe of your tongue over the slit of his head, every inch of him that you sucked him in deeper and deeper.  

With one hand, he gathered all of your hair, fisting it in his palm. A tight grip. But he didn’t so much as move your head an inch. Joaquin had let you take control and you had gone at your own speed until you found a rhythmic pace, his hand a simple accessory to your motions.  

He had let out another groan when your hand came up to stroke the parts of his shaft your mouth couldn’t fit, hips had thrust upwards to chase after the warmth of your palm. The sound of you gagging had only turned him on more, but he would never push you further than comfortable, and forced himself back onto the bed. 

But he eventually had enough, Joaquin needed more. 

His hand had let go of your hair and gripped your upper forearm, pulling you up to his chest with ease. Joaquin tried to not let your displeased whine get to his head, giving you a satiating kiss to the cheek, murmuring some complacent phrases as his hands roamed along the sides of your body, gripping and massaging your curves as he went. 

Joaquin remembers the way his fingers danced along the edge of your panties, your wet core grinding against his cock as one of his hands guided you back and forth. His head was spinning from pleasure, his cock aching to feel more of you. 

Skillful hands had gripped the back of your panties before a gentle finger ran along the seam pressed against your ass until he reached your hole. His large hand was stretching the fabric, and he prayed that you wouldn’t care, but you hardly seemed to notice at all. Joaquin had teased, pads of his fingers just brushing against your entrance before pulling back. 

At the sound of your moan and the feel of your hands fisting the curls at the back of his head, Joaquin finally pushed your panties to the side. He had adjusted his grip, each of his palms finding the flesh of your cheeks, his right palm pinning the thin fabric of your ruined underwear between his hand and your ass. 

Joaquin had let out a relieved sigh, guiding your hips down the length of his cock slowly. The initial push past your hole made him throw his head back again, eyes closed in pleasure. Inch by inch, you gripped him like a vice and he had let out a guttural moan at the feeling. 

Soon enough, in the dark of his room, salacious sounds had begun to fill the air. The two of you had found a harmonizing pace, a more than familiar one, as you worked in tandem to pleasure each other. 

A loud sound of glass smashing makes Joaquin snap back to reality. Some drunken himbos had gotten into a fight it seems, and Joaquin just leans back into his seat as he watches security escort them out. It’s a non-threat. 

He shifts uncomfortably in the booth, unsticking parts of his jacket from the patchy leather to adjust his pants discreetly. He shouldn’t even be thinking about this, should be focused on the whole reason they’re at the bar. But then his eyes find their way back to you. 

You lean back, letting out another laugh, but that’s not what he pays attention to this time. Instead, Joaquin watches the way your denim shorts ride up your thighs, and there’s nothing he can do about the way that his mind flashes back to that night again. 

In the glowing aftermath, Joaquin’s boxers rode low on his hips as he walked back into his room. Tangled in the sheets, you sat up at the sound of him returning, and he had passed you a cup of iced water without a word. Joaquin had sat on the edge of his bed, the cold of his gold chain pressed against his flush skin as he reveled in the silence. It wasn’t an unusual routine. 

But then you reached over, placed the glass onto his nightstand and said, “Joaquin, we need to talk.” 

His heart dropped in his chest. No good thing ever came from those four words. His lips had turned downward in a frown, and he rubbed a hand across his chest to ease the ache. You were making him nervous. “Alright, what is it?” 

Joaquin had watched patiently as you sat up, and though he forced his face to remain stoic, he dreaded the many possibilities of what you could say. Joaquin watched as you hesitated, and dread only seemed to sink deeper in his stomach. 

“I think…” Your brows knit together in what Joaquin perceived to be confusion. He gave you the time to find your words, unmoving at the end of his bed. “I don’t think we should keep doing this.” 

His frown deepened. The words rushed through his head and Joaquin wasn’t sure what to make of them. He’s not sure what in his expression gave it away his distress, but you rushed to continue before he could respond. 

“I mean,” you nibbled on your lower lip. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just need clarity.” 

“Clarity about what?” Joaquin replied, frown unchanged as he straightened. He had folded his arms, thinking maybe if he kept his body in control, then his mind would follow. But Joaquin’s stomach had twisted anyways, slow and nauseating, and he’d been in enough missions to know that one wrong move here and things would go sideways quick.

“This,” you had gestured, a frantic wave between the two of you. “Us.” 

“I don’t understand,” Joaquin had tiptoed. “I thought we were on the same page.” Things were going well, the two of you had a good thing going. One that you had already established. So what more did you want from him? He felt a lump form in his throat as he considered what you might truly be asking, and he had frustratingly hoped the conversation never came up to begin with. 

Your loud sigh had him panic, but he willed himself to sit still. His eyes simply watched as you pushed yourself out of his bed, reaching for your discarded clothes on the floor. You were upset, that much was obvious, and he hated seeing that, so he called out your name. 

You slipped your pants on before turning to look at him, shirt fisted in your hand as you sighed. “We are.” You replied before pausing. “We were.” 

Joaquin’s arms had dropped from their defensive position, and at your admittance, he had forgotten how to breathe. He remembers the way his mouth opened, and then shut again, because what was he supposed to say?

“I think I bit off more than I can chew with you, Torres,” you had told him, voice significantly quieter than before. The way his name sounded when it fell from your lips, soft and tired—Joaquin didn’t know what to do with that. “I like you.” 

He felt his chest crack wide open. All that did was remind him of why things had to be the way they were. Afterall, if he couldn’t handle how you sounded merely confessing, what would he ever do if he did pursue things? What would he ever do if it didn’t work out and he hurt you? 

Joaquin’s jaw had clenched, and nothing had come out. Not an explanation. Not the reassurance you needed. Not the confession he didn’t want to admit. He had wanted to reach out to you at that moment, grasp your wrist in his hand and pull you towards him and say, “It’s okay. I like you, too.” 

But his throat was tight. He felt his hand have the slightest of tremors, and all he could do was stare at the floor. Joaquin couldn’t trust himself. Not with you. You would matter too much and things could go too wrong. You work together, for Christ sake, there was too much on the line. He couldn’t lose you. 

So the room fell quiet. Too quiet. 

“Right.” He heard you say. Sounds of shuffling signaled to him that you were getting dressed and gathering the rest of your stuff. Still, Joaquin didn’t move. He had told himself that silence was the safest option here, knew that if he looked up at you he’d give in to you. 

Joaquin heard his bedroom door open and without looking, he knew you had paused there. “You know…I didn’t need you to say everything, Torres.” He tried not to wince at how distant your voice sounded, cold and at arm's-length, but still low. “I just needed you to say anything at all. But your silence said enough.” His door closed with a soft click. 

Joaquin felt like such a coward. 

He shouldn’t have started anything with you to begin with, because then he wouldn’t be here. But he was selfish. And stupid. So, very stupid. 

Joaquin sighs, shuffling in his seat in the booth again. Agitation crawls under his skin, exhaustion creeps in between the crevices. They’ve been here for so long and unlike you, Joaquin is not having a good time. Guilt sits heavy on his chest, dull and persistent, like an old bruise that aches when pressed. Rubbing his jaw, Joaquin relaxes it, realizing how tense it’s been from all the clenching he’s done. 

“Iago’s not coming.” 

His head snaps up, taking you in. One hand on your hip, the other presses flat against the table as you lean in towards him. Besides you, Agent Locke stands a bit too close for his liking, and Joaquin’s eyes narrow. 

“We got word that TSA did an unexpected search on him when he landed in the States and after they let him go, he fled. Chances are he’s laying low on the West Coast for a couple days before heading over here,” you relay to him. Joaquin just takes in your words, mind shifting into work mode. 

“So, he’s probably going to push the deal.” Joaquin’s voice is deep and horse, hours of not talking and alcohol doing a number on his system. 

“That’s what we’re thinking,” an unwelcome voice chimes in, and Joaquin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he keeps them fixed on you, and the two of you inadvertently enter an unspoken staring contest, neither of you refusing to break away first. 

Joaquin’s eyes are smoldering as he watches your movements. You reach across the table, picking up the empty glass sitting in front of him. Joaquin is silent as you bring it up to your nose. “Drinking on the job, Torres?” 

His posture is relaxed, leaning back into the cushion of the booth, but underneath Joaquin can feel every muscle taut with tension. It’s a performative calm as he reigns in his embarrassment of being caught by you. 

“How do we know he won’t bail?” Joaquin murmurs, deflecting. “He’s a cautious guy. What if he got spooked? Worried the Feds are onto him, and calls it off?” He waits for you to answer despite knowing you won’t be the one who would have that information. 

“He won’t bail,” an irritatingly grating voice responds. “This is a huge trade. He won’t let it go that easily and he won’t risk leaving and coming back. Chances are he’s not off U.S. soil unless he’s got eight million dollars tucked in his pocket.” 

Joaquin’s eyes don’t leave yours as he digests the CIA agent’s analysis. Despite his grievances, Joaquin has to agree with the man. With that realization, Joaquin’s lips press into a thin line. Still looking at you, he says, “Let’s get out of here, then.” 

-

Joaquin should’ve taken you more seriously. 

He swears that did in the moment, but Joaquin didn’t understand the gravity of the situation until now, as he lives in it.

The reality of your dynamic was one where he never asked you about your previous partners and never bothered to check if you had ones other than him. It was arrogance, he admits. Security in the fact that he believed you weren’t with anyone else, despite the non-exclusiveness of your relationship. But it was mutual. Joaquin would never disrespect you like that, and despite the ambiguity of your label, it was monogamous. He hopes you know that. He wouldn’t be surprised if you thought so little of him, though. 

Regardless, certainty he felt meant he never had to deal with this. Jealousy. 

The room is quiet as the two of you shuffle around each other, preparing for bed after a long day of travel and work. He hates that he’s uncomfortable in the silence now, a space that used to be filled with understanding now filled with hesitation and acute awareness of the other person. 

Joaquin’s mouth opens as he turns around, preparing to break the discomforting silence, but a quiet click of the bathroom door has him locking his jaw back into place. The sound of the shower starts to take over the quiet, and Joaquin forces his mind to think of something other than your soft, wet body naked in the small bathroom. 

With a shake of his head, he walks away from his duffle bag that sits in one of two armchairs, the other occupying your bag. He makes his way towards the nightstand, in pursuit of a pen and paper; might as well make use of the time and jot down some strategies. 

But his foot gets caught on the way, getting tangled. Looking down, Joaquin lets out a quiet sound of confusion. Blankets and a pillow are laid out on the floor, next to the bed, and Joaquin’s head whips back towards the bathroom door where the shower is still running. His initial confusion narrows into realization—you were planning to sleep on the floor. To create distance. From him.

He’s frozen for a second, the sting of rejection hitting him in the chest at your deliberate actions before it’s replaced with a quiet guilt. His own actions made you feel this way. Joaquin wonders if he should move the blankets back on to the bed, wonders if you’d even let him. 

“Hey.” Your voice is neutral, breaking Joaquin out of his trance. He instinctively straightens up, as if he had gotten caught snooping somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. Turning around to face you, his mouth parts, getting ready to defend. But once he realized there was nothing to defend, he shut it. You point behind you, “Bathroom’s free now,” you alert him quietly. 

“Yeah, alright,” he replies hastily, breathless for some odd reason. His heart hammers anxiously in his chest at his discovery and at being caught making said discovery. Grabbing fresh clothes on the way to the bathroom, he passes you, the smell of vanilla body wash invading his senses. “Take the bed,” he murmurs before shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Leaning against the wooden frame, Joaquin lets out a sigh. He strips slowly, distracted and lost in thought by the events of the night. Despite the newly founded sexual avenue that the two of you have been exploring, at the base of it all was always friendship—one of the most important ones in Joaquin’s life. Working together for years, the two of you have always managed to ebb and flow so well. He shouldn’t have jeopardized it, should have been stronger.   

Hot water droplets hit his back, but it does little to relax him, his chest feeling a bit too tight. He keeps replaying your neutral tone, the space you made on the floor. It’s dumb of him to feel surprised—he’s the one who pushed you away—but stupidly he still hurts. 

He towel dries his hair with one hand, tugging his shirt down with the other. Stepping out into the room, his jaw tightens. You’ve already laid down. On the floor. 

You don’t even look at him as he enters the room and that makes it worse. 

Breaking the silence, Joaquin’s voice is low and frustrated. “You’re really sleeping down there?” 

The sheets ruffle, but you don’t turn to look at him. “Yeah.” 

“That floor’s gonna kill you. Last thing we need is you throwing your back out in the middle of taking down some bad guys.”

For a second, you don’t respond, and Joaquin’s heart seizes in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been this distanced from you, ever. 

Then you let out a small chuckle. 

Well…more like a huff of air. But it’s something. 

“Come on, get up,” Joaquin insists, tone softening. 

“Joaquin—” 

“No,” he demands. “Seriously, get up.” 

You turn over to glare at him, but Joaquin can feel the corners of his mouth lifting anyways because at least you’re looking at him. He’s patient as he watches you move at the slowest speed known to mankind. Snails have moved faster than you, he’s sure of it. Yet, he doesn’t dare utter a word, feet solidly planted near the bathroom entrance as you make you ascend from the floor to the bed. You’re stiff as a board, laying horizontally on the furthest edge of the bed you can manage, and Joaquin can’t stifle the snicker that he lets out this time. 

“Goodnight,” he says gently, flicking the switch for the both of you. Joaquin bends down to the floor, lifting up the thin sheet that you were planning to use as a blanket for the night before his head settled on the pathetic excuse of a pillow this motel offered them. He slaps the pillow a few times, doing his best to fluff it up, but he stops midway when he hears you shuffle to peer over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” you inquire, and Joaquin looks up at your scrunched up brows. 

“Uh,” he hesitates. It’s the most direct attention you’ve given him for the past few hours and Joaquin feels like he’s malfunctioning, cheeks warming under your gaze. “Just…thought if I smacked it enough times, it might remember how to be a good pillow.” 

He winces when your expression is unchanged and he’s disappointed in the fact that his joke may not have landed; he might have pushed the thin ice he was already on with you. 

“No,” you combat. “What are you doing down there?” 

Your clarification does little to alleviate his confusion. Maybe it’s the gaping expression on his face or maybe it’s the lack of a swift response, but you steam onward. 

“I’m not letting you sleep down there! Last thing I need is for you to throw your back out mid-battle. I’d never hear the end of it.” 

Joaquin sits up, hands braced behind him. A warmth spreads through his chest because the worst part of him loves to hear how you care, no matter how threadbare it truly is. Part of him feels a sense of relief that you’re speaking to him, but then he looks up at your narrowed eyes and his smile drops the slightest bit. Vulnerability slips through his usual confidence as he takes in your face in the dark room. The only light that comes through is a soft, distant glow from the large neon sign out front shining the word ‘Motel’. It frames you like a halo. 

He knows you made a joke of it, but he couldn’t help the honesty that bleeds through his words. “Figured it was only fair.” Joaquin’s eyes soften as he looks at you. “Didn’t want to push it.” 

Your lips part, and an unfamiliar expression crosses your face before it settles into a frown. “Just get up here.” It’s quiet, a mere whisper, and Joaquin’s heart throbs in his chest. 

“Relax,” he responds, voice significantly louder than necessary, intentionally breaking the ambiance. How soft you look, the concern in your voice—it’s too much for Joaquin to handle. So he reverts back to what he feels safe with—humor. “I’ve survived worse than some dingy one star motel room floor. Have you slept over on Sam’s couch? Not much better than this.” Joaquin lays back down and forces himself to turn his back to you, but his eyes stay open. He just stares at the carpet in front of him, and he hopes that you didn’t hear the crack in his voice. 

The bed creaks, and Joaquin’s eyes shut in relief, thankful that you’ve dropped it. He lets out a shaky exhale, but then he freezes. 

Familiar, warm skin brushes against his back. Not flushed, but close enough that he can feel the faintest kiss of your skin, and Joaquin tries not to jump that spark that dances along his back. He doesn’t dare move. 

“What’re you doing,” he whispers. 

You shush him. “Go to sleep, Torres.” 

And despite the hammering in his chest and the rush that he feels when your skin ghosts against his in the faintest of movements, Joaquin feels his eyes growing heavy anyways. 

-

Faint streams of sunlight shine through the small break in the curtains. Joaquin winces, blinking his eyes open with a slight groan. He tries to stretch his sore limbs, but instead finds himself restricted. Still in the midst of his dream and awake state, confusion floods him, until he starts to look around. 

Regaining his senses, Joaquin starts to feel it. A pressure on his chest, his arms trapped underneath something, and his leg pinned down. 

Holy—

Joaquin snaps awake, jolting in shock before forcing his body rigidly still. Steadily, he tilts his head downward until he sees you fast asleep. Arm slung around his waist, one of your legs hiked up over his, Joaquin melts at the attention. Your face is tucked below his jaw and your even breaths fan across his skin. 

He should move. Create space. 

But he hesitates. 

Your grip tightens unconsciously and Joaquin finds himself relaxing into you, the smell of your shampoo has him closing his eyes in comfort. In and out, he forces, willing his heart to stop its incessant thudding. You’re holding on to him like he’s worth holding on to, and it’s doing things to him. 

Joaquin’s eyes snap open. 

No. He can’t think that way, it’s too dangerous. 

But the feel of your body against his. It’s so…intimate. 

You’ve been so distant these past few days, and Joaquin can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to deserve this treatment now. Maybe you didn’t mean to end up wrapped in him last night, even more reason Joaquin should let you go now, but he can’t. 

A selfish hero. 

Yet despite the realization he remains still, laying motionless with his breathing shallow to prolong the moment as much as he can. 

His mind spins. The two of you have done a lot together, bodies wound in moments of primal instinct and heat, but never like this. Never lingering. 

It’s his own fault. Admitting that truth, Joaquin swallows hard. 

This isn’t sex. This isn’t a rushed need for physical touch. It’s simple closeness, the kind that terrifies him more than anything in this world ever could. 

And it’s undoing him. 

A soft groan below him makes Joaquin’s body stiffen before he forces himself to relax. In pure panic, Joaquin closes his eyes and forces his breathing to even out in a false illusion of sleep. It takes everything in him not to move as he feels you awaken. 

A soft hand on his chest makes Joaquin sigh, the feeling bringing him an odd sense of comfort. His ears strain as he listens to your movement, some confused muttering before you sit up and untangle yourself from him. He instantly misses the warmth. 

Joaquin hears you stretch, the loud moan you let out as you do so tells him all he needs to know. 

“Joaquin,” your groggy voice calls out. He doesn’t dare move. A sharp finger digs into his waist, and he bites down on his lower lip in response. Stretching, Joaquin lets out a fake yawn before blinking his eyes open at you. Sitting with your legs crossed, you’ve turned your body to look at him. He smiles softly at your bedhead, a grouchy expression on your face that consists of the cutest pout he’s ever seen. 

“Morning,” he bids you, pretending to rub his eyes. 

“We gotta get ready,” you say through a yawn. All Joaquin can do is watch you. 

You’ve been on missions together before, many times. And though Joaquins never admitted it out loud, one of his favorite versions of you is the one he’s looking at now. Early morning, fresh out of bed—you’re at your softest. God knows Joaquin has done nothing to deserve being on the receiving end of anything soft, but he cherishes the moment anyways. His fingers twitch, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a fallen strand of hair on your forehead. 

Instead he’s silent, watching as you get out of the makeshift bed the two of you shared the night before. Joaquin doesn’t even care when you rip the comforter off of him and drops it on the mattress where it belongs, simply thankful that you had enough consideration last night to drag it down with you when you joined him on the floor. 

“I’m g’nna go first,” you say, voice still shrouded in sleep, stretching up towards the ceiling. Joaquin wets his lips when your shirt rides up as you do so and the tiniest sliver of your belly reveals itself. He doesn’t argue with you, too entranced by the sight in front of him. 

You mumble something about your back, both hands placed on it as you head towards the bathroom, but when the door slams close Joaquin falls backwards flat against the limp pillow. Both hands run over his face, and he cups his mouth with a loud groan. 

Weirdly enough…Joaquin thinks he just had the best sleep of his life. 

-

Five days into the mission and Iago still hasn’t made a move to cross the Arizona border. After days of endlessly following Iago’s very bleak paper trail, endless debriefs in some fancy CIA building, and spending more time than necessary in an entire life with him—Joaquin’s patience is wearing extremely thin. 

“This guy’s good, I’ll give him that,” Agent Locke mutters from the bed. Joaquin’s side of the bed. 

After the development of the first night, you had insisted that the pair of you share the motel bed instead of the floor. 

“Don’t let it get to your head, but you might’ve been right,” you had muttered. “Damn floor might kill us before Iago even gets past border patrol.” 

Granted, the two of you hadn’t cuddled since, much to Joaquin’s chagrin. The line of pillows you built between the two of you each night was a clear boundary that wasn’t to be violated, and despite missing the warmth of your body, Joaquin never pressed for more. 

A container of takeout was held tightly in Locke’s hand, chopsticks sticking out as he uses his free hand to scroll through his computer. Joaquin scowls from his seat in the armchair, his own laptop going unattended. 

He hates the way you’re brushing against Locke, your arms pressed against one another as you peer over at his screen. Joaquin’s laptop is working just as fine, mind you. You could have easily shared with him. Instead, you sit at arm’s length away from him, biting your lower lip in concentration as you read whatever data Locke has pulled up. 

It’s distracting. How the hell is he supposed to get through any of the traffic cam footage if you’re over there doing that? 

Joaquin taps his trackpad, just to look busy, the blue glow of the paused video feed flickering over his face. His eyes keeps sliding over to the bed, over to you, and the way your head tilts ever so slightly toward Locke while leaning into him. Joaquin’s jaw clenches, forcing his gaze back to his screen and presses play. 

A car pulls up to the gas station. Not Iago. Don’t care. 

A low laugh from the bed draws Joaquin’s attention, fingers tapping frantically on the table. Joaquin’s eyes focus on the grainy footage in front of him but none of it is truly registering. Every few seconds, his focus drifts. Your shoulders are relaxed as they pressed against Locke’s. Your laugh was airy and unguarded, for Locke. Your smile is soft as you whisper something to Locke. Joaquin’s jaw clenches. 

You’re not together. That’s the unspoken truth. It’s not like he has a right to feel any sort of way, but it doesn’t stop the way his stomach twists and the ache in his jaw. 

Close enough to touch, always, but miles away from him. It’s all been polite conversation and civil reports and division by those goddamn pillows. 

He misses you. 

Not the sex—you.

Joaquin exhales slowly through his nose, his own share of the food going cold on the table in front of him. At the sound of another laugh, he snaps. 

The chair he’s in nearly flips backwards from the force of his standing, bumping loudly into the wall behind him. It has both yours and Locke’s gaze snapping up, but Joaquin avoids eye contact with you both. Instead, he slams his laptop shut and grabs his wallet. “Grabbing a soda.” 

He’s stepping out of the room before his thoughts can catch up to his actions, but he doesn’t miss the subtle, “I don’t think your partner likes me very much,” from Agent Locke accompanied by your giggle. It makes Joaquin slam the door shut in anger.

In the little nook to the side of the motel parking lot, Joaquin stands in front of the vending machine. Rubbing his nose aggressively, Joaquin lets out a loud sigh as the low hum from the machines fill the air, fluorescent light flickering above him. It’s dark out and cold, the whoosh of cars flying by on the nearby freeway could be heard, but Joaquin’s not paying attention to any of those things. Instead, he tilts his head back, closing his eyes to take a shaky breath. 

This is so much harder than he thought it would be. 

Huffing, he shakes his head and pulls out a dollar bill from his pocket, stuffing it into the cash slot. Only for it to be returned to him. There was a bent corner, and Joaquin did his due diligence in fixing it before putting the bill back in. It slides right out. Opening his wallet only leads to the discovery that he had no other small bills with him.

“Come on,” Joaquin grunts, forcing his only dollar back in. He groans in frustration at the sound of the bill being pushed back out again. Straightening the money against the denim of his jeans, Joaquin curses when the vending machine still refuses to take his bill. “Take the stupid dollar,” he yells at the inanimate object.

In the midst of his tantrum, Joaquin fails to realize that someone else has joined him, until a hand he knows like his own slaps him away from the machine. You insert your own dollar and it accepts on the first try. 

“Of course,” he deadpans. 

He feels your warmth against his back despite you keeping a careful distance from him, and it was so familiar that Joaquin doesn’t have the strength to turn around and face you. His deep inhale forces him to inadvertently inhale the smell of your sweet shampoo again, and Joaquin holds his breath, lungs squeezing painfully in his chest. 

You reach around him, pressing the code that has an orange soda tumbling against the glass before landing in the bottom compartment with a clank. 

Neither of you move. 

“That crap will clog your arteries before the age of fifty, you know that, right?” Your breath fans against Joaquin’s back, and it makes him shiver. 

His voice is low, almost lower than the hum of the lights as he mumbles. “I just needed a minute.” 

“What is going on with you?” you respond, matching his volume. 

Joaquin hates that he can hear the tone of compassion in your voice, knows that he’s done nothing to deserve it. Your kind nature is unmatched, and Joaquin doesn’t deserve any of it. Even in this moment Joaquin knows—what can he even say? The situation he’s in is the result of no one but himself, and despite how greedy he’s been about you, he’s not selfish enough to confide in you about having to bear the consequences of his own actions. 

But then a flash of you and Locke flashes in his mind, and his emotions turn into misguided anger. Afterall, how could you get so close to someone else in the aftermath of what happened? Did you truly mean so little to him? The hurt was too much for him, and instead bleeds into frustration. 

“Nothing,” his voice is gruff, jaw clenching. 

Your voice still carries the same tone as you state, “You were kind of being an ass in there.” Of course. Joaquin rolls his eyes. Is that what you were out here for? It sparks a flash of annoyance through him. Was he not being nice enough to Locke for your liking?

“Didn’t realize you noticed me there. Thought I was interrupting something.” It’s an obvious low blow, Joaquin should’ve taken better control of his emotions and kept it to himself, but he couldn’t stop the words from rushing past his lips anyways. 

He doesn’t have any time to feel regret before you scoff, though, and the sound has him turning his head over his shoulder to get a look at your face. You’re less than pleased with him, fairly so, but Joaquin had a hard time caring. Not when Locke kept touching you and looking at you, the two of you sharing laughs at his expense. 

You shake your head when the two of you make eye contact. “It’s called working, Torres. You should try it sometime this week instead of walking around like a brooding asshole.” 

“Yeah?” He challenges, licking his lips. “Looked more like flirting to me.”

A noise of disagreement strangles out of your throat. “You’re ridiculous.” It’s conclusive. You and Joaquin simply hold each other's gazes, both holding your own ground in this deliberate staring contest. 

It was you who broke away first, turning away from him with a clenched jaw. Looking back, there was something else in your eyes alongside the simmering anger, and all you do is reach past him to pull the soda out from the metal flap. A sniffle catches his attention, but you shove the drink into his chest before he can take a good look at you. “Don’t say I never got you anything.” Your voice is firm and decisive. 

With that, you depart, and all Joaquin can do is take in another breath as he watches your retreating figure. It was only when your shared room door slams shut that guilt begins to swirl in tendrils in his veins. The lights above him go out. 

-

That night, after Locke took his leave and confirmed that Iago’s been spotted at a nearby hotel, Joaquin merely watched in the corner of the room as you threw down an extra sheet and pillow onto the floor next to the bed before settling on the mattress. No words were exchanged, but it was clear: Joaquin was sleeping on the ground tonight—his metaphorical dog house. He took it in stride, laid down without a word, but his back wasn’t as prideful as him the next day. It certainly was not a good night's rest. And it definitely didn’t help when your foot landed on his stomach, using him as a stepping stone as you made your way to the bathroom the next morning. All he could do was groan and curl up on the floor, back and stomach now aching. 

Now, in the dark, dingy van, Joaquin shifts uncomfortably in his designated seat, body complaining from the events that took place. One hand rubs the crease in his forehead while the other taps against the armrest. His eyes remain locked on the various monitors in front of him. 

On the opposite side of the van, you sit just as tense and silent, working on the comms. 

For once, Joaquin’s glad Locke is there as a buffer, though the agent himself doesn’t seem to be too glad about it. It’s so apparently obvious and even without multiple years in the academy, anyone can deduce that things are tense. It’s palpable, and obnoxiously fills the already stale air in the tiny vehicle. 

To the right of him, Locke clears his throat, and Joaquin’s ears twitch in irritation. “So,” Locke drags. “Did something happen last night?” 

“No.” 

“Just focused.” 

Joaquin’s and your response overlap one another, answering Locke with haste in a stern tone. 

“Alrighty,” Locke sings, clearly unconvinced, but the message from both sides is clear and the man returns his attention to the same monitors Joaquin is watching. “Wait…” the CIA agent calls out, though all previous humor is devoid from his voice. The air shifts instantly, heavy with purpose, as everyone leans in. 

“Right there,” Locke’s finger comes up to tap on one of the screens, the grainy picture flickering slightly as he narrows his eyes. 

Following him, Joaquin’s eyes trail the screen, catching a small blurry figure peeking around a pillar before ducking into the building being surveilled, but not before turning around to look over their shoulder. Joaquin types quickly on his keyboard, the lens capturing the movement. The camera footage pauses, and Joaquin zooms in. “That’s him. That’s Iago.” 

The sound of a camera shuttering fills Joaquin’s ears, and once Locke finishes capturing evidence, Joaquin zooms out. 

“Wait, hold on,” you call out. Reaching across, you point at a different monitor on Joaquin’s side to the left—a different figure entering the frame from the opposite side of the building. “There’s Monica.” The confirmed buyer. 

The trio watches as she moves towards the back entrance of the building, her signature confidence radiating off the screen. She’s flanked by two guards. “They’re armed,” Locke confirms in a grim voice. 

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Joaquin keeps his eyes on the screen until all parties disappear inside. “They’re both here. This is it.” 

“Hold on,” Locke demands, fingers moving with speed as he switches the feed to the cameras they’ve placed inside. “We need confirmation of the exchange,” he announces. 

Watching in tense silence, Joaquin keeps his eyes locked on the screen. 

The criminals move through separate parts of the building, and each one of you watches with intent, tracking them. Joaquin ignores the radio static of Locke’s comms, telling his team to hold their positions. 

When Iago and Monica finally meet, it’s in one of the back offices, and Joaquin holds his breath as the two shake hands. Monica’s guards part slightly, forming a perimeter in the small room that barricades the door. The flash drive glints faintly as Iago pulls it from his pocket, and Joaquin can only watch as the two mouth to each other, unable to make much out due to the lack of audio and the low-resolution footage. The two of them take a seat on opposite sides of a round table centered in the room. Under different circumstances, Joaquin would have rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but he knows better. Big fish like these have a knack for flare. 

“Wait. Something’s wrong,” you murmur. You reach over Locke, taking over the comms, shifting the camera away from Monica and Iago. Joaquin shouts your name in protest, but you simply ignore him. “There’s more,” you hastily rush out. “There.” You were right. With the change of perspective back to the entrances of the building, Joaquin sees it. More shadows. More shapes. 

There’s others. 

Joaquin counts five…six…eight others. Unmarked and heavily armed, surrounding the building from the inside. 

“What the hell…” Joaquin’s heart rate starts to pick up. 

“She brought extra backup,” Locke sounds distant, as though his mind was processing the information. “That’s too many bodies for a simple deal.” 

Everyone falls still, watching the men on the screen. “Iago’s the biggest black market tech broker we know. He’s hacked into the U.S government more times than we can keep track of. All operative information—Super Soldier data, blueprints for war plans…” you let the insinuation hang in the air. “Whatever Monica’s buying…she’s not sticking around after,” you quickly pick up. “After the handoff, she’s fleeing.” 

Locke overtakes the comms, switching it back to Monica and Iago, who are still sitting across from each other, a seemingly casual conversation taking place. “The target is Iago,” he states. “We wait for the handoff. Let Monica leave first, then we come in for him.” 

“She’s right.” Joaquin jumps in to agree with you. “We can’t wait. Monica’s going to kill him after she gets what she needs,” he shakes his head. “I’ve read her file. With this many men, she’s planning something big. She won’t leave any loose ends.” 

“We will get there in time. We need Iago to transfer the drive to her or we can’t get either of them. Right now they’re only crime is meeting up in an abandoned warehouse.” Locke insists, voice firm. “Let the exchange happen and we track Monica from there. Going in now just blows this whole thing.” 

Joaquin’s lips part, ready to disagree, but the slamming of the van door draws his attention. 

“She won’t wait that long.” You’re flying out of the van before anyone can process it, gear half on and boots hitting the gravel with a crunch. 

Joaquin’s stomach drops. “Wait,” he shouts, calling after you, only to hear you shout back, “I’m not letting anyone die on a technicality.” 

“Dammit!” Joaquin lunges towards you, but you’re too fast, and he hastily grabs his own gear despite the shouts and protest of Locke. “Fucking shit!” Joaquin curses, ankles ringing when he lands harshly on the ground. Joaquin chases after you, but you don’t look back once, and he keeps his head on a swivel as he locks his vest into place. 

The two of you sprint down the alley, Joaquin only a few steps behind you, as you near the distance of the warehouse together. Slipping around the side, you crouch low behind a dumpster near the loading bay. 

Joaquin’s breath burns in his throat, not from the sudden adrenaline rush, but from the fear that grasps him at the sight of you rushing into a scene without telling him anything. You’ve never done that before. Each inhale scrapes sharply against his ribs and muscle memory overrides the flurry of thoughts crashing in his head as he secures his weapons. He’s pissed—at Locke for his douchery and at Monica for ruining the fucking plan—but mostly he’s angry with you. 

But none of that matters right now.

Dropping beside you, his back pressed to the rusted metal of the dumpster. Grasping your shoulder, Joaquin forces you to look back at him. “What’s the plan?” His voice comes out calm and focused—the exact opposite of how he feels on the inside, where he wants to shake you and yell at you for your reckless actions—but he knows the two of you have to make it out of this first. He needs to trust you. 

When you turn towards him, your eyes are sharp, and he knows you’re where you need to be. “We go in quiet. Straight to Iago. If Monica gets even a hint that something’s wrong, it’s game over. Once we get in there, if she makes a move to kill him, we take all of them down. I don’t care what Locke says—we neutralize and extract, even if the exchange hasn’t happened.” Your eyes flicker down to the gun in his hand. “No gunfire.” 

Joaquin looks down before tucking it back into the back of his waistband. He nods, once. 

It’s a terrible plan. Ten people versus two. But Joaquin forces himself to push that thought away, it won’t do him any good on the field. Joaquin exhales slowly, steadying his pulse. He doesn’t say it verbally, but the two of you know—he’s with you. 

Peering around the edge of the dumpster, the back entrance to the warehouse is maybe thirty yards away. Next to it, there’s a cracked loading door spilling yellow light onto the concrete. He sees a shadow move past the gap—tall and armed. Then he sees another shadow, moving the opposite direction—smaller feet, but Joaquin doesn’t dare make the mistake of assuming they’re any less dangerous. That’s two out of eight, not counting Monica and Iago themselves. 

Joaquin feels you tap his arm once—ready? 

He gives you the smallest of nods. Let’s move.

You both rush out from behind the dumpster, feet barely making noise against the concrete as you huge the warehouse wall. The two of you duck low, passing the cracked loading door and Joaquin holds his breath as you do. 

Once your duo gets to the back door, Joaquin is quick to move to one side, flanking it, while you remain on the other, facing the loading dock. Reaching over, his palm grasps the knob and gives it a steady turn. All he can focus on is the rhythm of his breathing, eyes scanning you and your surroundings. One wrong move and they’re done. 

You glance back at Joaquin and he nods before pushing the door open. 

Joaquin slips in first, hunched low as he surveys the environment. The smell of oil and dust fills the air, and he takes in the wooden crates that surround the place. He tiptoes behind one for cover. When you slip past the door to join him, Joaquin signals you to move further in. You’ve yet to be discovered by the two guards, and Joaquin waits until you’ve found a safe spot, too. Both of your eyes are on the men pacing near the open door. 

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

One of them turns in his direction. 

Joaquin shrinks down, hidden behind the wooden crate, just for a second. He presses himself to the side and turns to look at you. Joaquin holds up two fingers, waving them towards you then towards the guards. Take them down. 

You give a single nod in return, eyes sharp. 

Joaquin moves first, circling wide along the stacked boxes, steps-feather light. He keeps his ears trained on the sound of the guard's footsteps as Joaquin closes the distance between them. He times it. One heartbeat. Two. 

Then he springs. Arms locked around the guard’s neck, the other reaching to grab the man’s weapon as he brings him down in one smooth, silent motion. He tosses the gun away and it slides smoothly against the floors. Joaquin’s face scrunches, quiet grunts leaving him as he forces the pressure of his forearm into the criminal’s neck, straining to keep a grip on the resisting man. His biceps burn as he presses down as hard as he can, dragging the man backwards with him. 

Joaquin lets out a small breath of relief when the body slumps, unconscious, and he moves quickly to conceal the man’s body behind some crates. Then, Joaquin reaches down, stripping the man of his comms. 

He places the earpiece in his left ear before turning around to look for you. 

Across the room, you’re still in motion. A sharp crack as your elbow connects with the guard’s jaw before he can shout. The large man stumbles, and you’re quick to press him against the wall, arms braced across his throat until his body goes limp and slides to the ground. 

Joaquin’s own silhouette glides through the room, reaching your side as he breathes fast and quiet. “Clear,” he whispers to you. 

The two of you look ahead into the stretch of the warehouse—the endless grid of crates and towering shelves is casting fractured shadows across the concrete floor. You both knew that beyond them, tucked into the far back corner, are the offices. That’s where Iago is. That’s where Monica is. 

But between where the two of you stand and there is large open ground—space that requires you to directly pass the front lobby—where the rest of Monica’s minions stand guard. 

Joaquin hears a crackle of radio static in his stolen earpiece, and he reaches out to grasp your upper arm with a serious expression on his face. With a flat hand, he gestures across his neck. Don’t move. 

“Alpha post, status report.” 

A pause before another radio crack floods Joaquin’s ear. 

“Clear at the front. No sign of movement. ETA on exchange?” 

“Ten minutes. Boss says no one comes in or out. Keep your eyes on the doors.” 

In the distance, Joaquin can hear the echoing of multiple pairs of shoes shuffling against the floor and the movement of fabric—they’re pacing, getting impatient. 

“Bravo post, check in.” 

Shit. Joaquin’s pulse spikes. That was their post. The two of you meet eyes, and Joaquin knows that you easily detect the trouble in his. Silence won’t go unnoticed for long

“Bravo, do you copy?” 

Joaquin raises a finger, ready to press the comm, but your hand quickly clamps over his wrist. You shake your head fervently, and the scrunch in your brows reading the clear words, Too risky. 

“Sir, heading to West wing to check on team Bravo now.” 

His breath stutters in his chest, body going still, save for the twitch in his jaw as tension floods his limbs like ice water. Your warm fingers wrapped around his wrist serve as a reminder to wait, stay hidden. But they’re cutting it close, too close. Joaquin can hear them now, two pairs of footsteps marching in their direction. 

“Bravo post, all clear.” The delivery is low and clear, an octave lower than his own voice, in his best attempt to seem inconspicuous. He holds the button for a second longer than needed before a shaky finger lets go. 

The footsteps stop. 

Joaquin feels your hand squeeze his wrist, but he can’t focus on it, mind still racing. If they don’t respond…

His eyes flickering over to you before seizing into knots in his stomach. A sour taste of worry settles in his mouth as he takes in your slow blinks, watching him with intense focus. Despite his efforts to keep a sharp mind and despite all his trust in you, if anything happens—

“Copy that, Bravo.” 

Joaquin exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, but the tension doesn’t leave him. He can’t take his eyes off of you, the close too close for his liking. At the realization that you’re waiting for an update, Joaquin mentally shakes his head of any previous fearful thoughts before giving you a singular nod. Then, one tap to your arm. With both hands, he holds all his fingers, relaying his intel. You nod back in understanding. 

You’re in a time crunch now. Ten minutes to get in and out with no casualties. 

But your problem still persists—open ground between where you stand and where you need to be. Wooden crates and shelves can only provide so much cover. But then Joaquin watches as you point upwards, head following your movements. 

Overhead. A narrow catwalk runs through the length of the warehouse. Even from below, he can see how old and rusted it is, hanging on with metal wires that look ready to snap. Joaquin frowns. But it’s intact. And it gets you directly to the back offices without crossing free space. 

His eyes flick to you. Smart. 

Together, you rush over to the shelves lining the warehouse wall, climbing in quick, practiced motions. 

Just a second after yours, Joaquin’s boots land on the metal in a quiet stomp as he pulls himself up. The steel groans under your shared weight, but Joaquin suspects that a gust of wind would have the old catwalk making the same noise. Straining his ears, Joaquin listens to the way the guards continue to pace, none the wiser. 

Looking ahead, Joaquin watches how fast you move, low and silent as you make your way down. He follows your lead. 

The whirling of vents overhead fill the air, and shadows from flickering lights cut across your forms as the two of you make your way towards the back offices. Focused and stealthy, being extra careful when you come into view of the lobby. 

Four gunned men. Just as you had figured when you did your recon. 

Soon, the back offices come into view and despite the multiple rooms in the row, you and Joaquin easily spot Monica and Iago’s location, for the small window on the door spilling yellow light into the hallway gave it away. 

The two of you crouch down, watching the space from directly above for a few seconds. Turning to each other, you hold up a four with your fingers. Four people. 

“How are you going to take them down? They’re all armed.” Joaquin’s voice is merely above a whisper, the hum of the vents blanketing his words. 

But you don’t answer with words. 

A mischievous gleam in your eyes makes Joaquin’s narrow in suspicion. When you pull a small metal bolt from your belt, some leftover scrap you picked up from the warehouse floor at some point, Joaquin shakes his head ‘no’. This time, it’s his hand clamping your wrist. “That’s a terrible plan!” he doesn’t hesitate to speak out this time, still whispering. 

He looks at you as you raise your brows innocently, accompanying it with a slight shrug. 

Joaquin’s gaze snaps back to the office door, and the counting he’s been keeping track of in his mind reminds him they only have so much time left. Shoulders tight, Joaquin’s teeth grit as he lets you go with a huff. The second he does, you toss the bolt over the catwalk, and the two of you watch as it clatters to the floor below, rolling. 

You both duck back into the shadows. 

Inside the office, one of the guards steps out with his gun in hand. He stands barricaded by the door, only peaking out to look back and forth down the hallway. Joaquin tenses, worrying that their plan backfired. Every line in his body is alert, gaze locked on the man’s movements. His mind is spinning as he calculates other options. 

But then you reach into your pocket again, this time pulling out another bolt. 

Joaquin’s hand shoots out, “Wait—” he hisses. 

Too late. 

The second small piece of metal sails down just as the guard begins to step back inside, landing directly at his feet. This time, the guard steps out, squinting upward in the direction the bolt came from.

You jump forward and drop.

Joaquin jerks with a sharp inhale, one hand gripping the edge of the catwalk as he watches you plummet downward. You land on top of the guard, hard, knees braced on his back as your arms snake around his neck before he can react. The two of you hit the ground with a loud thud. The man’s gun, strapped across his chest, slams into the concrete floor. 

His heart lurches into his throat, the sharp echoing crack of your bodies hitting the ground was loud and unmistakable. 

Shit.

He grips the catwalk’s edge tighter, knuckles going white as he grinds his teeth. Every instinct in his body was telling him that this is it—this is the moment where everything falls apart. Joaquin’s eyes snap to the left, panicking at the idea that the other four guards would head in their direction. They were running out of time. 

When his eyes rush back to the hallway, the second guard is bursting through the office door, gun already halfway raised. 

“Fucking dammit!” he curses. Joaquin doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe. 

Before his mind can catch up, Joaquin is already halfway over the railing. In one smooth, desperate motion, he launches himself off the catwalk. His body flies through the air, a blur of dark clothing and braced limbs. Joaquin feels the wind whip past his ear, pulse pounding so loud it drowns out everything else. His breathing is caught in his chest, and when the guard’s face tilts up and Joaquin’s boots crash into his shoulder. 

The two of them hit the ground hard, launching away from each other from the force and trajectory of Joaquin’s fall. Despite the wind knocked out of his lungs on impact, Joaquin wastes no time. Pure adrenaline rushes through his veins, and he jumps back up to his feet before he can even process it. 

Joaquin’s ears tune in to the way the guard groans, but before the man can reach for his weapon, Joaquin is already there, grabbing him by the collar and slamming his head into the floor. Releasing one hand, Joaquin swings his arm back before striking his fist into the side of the guard’s face. Once. Twice. Until the struggle stills. 

He sucks in a large breath, knowing silence was no longer a necessary cover, and Joaquin blinks to focus his blurry vision from the sudden drop and adrenaline. Sweat beads along his brow, and his hands are shaking. 

Whipping around, Joaquin searches for you. 

You’re still struggling, pinning your opponent down with your knees as he thrashes beneath you. Joaquin’s stomach twists when he sees a smear of red along your sleeve, but there’s no time to check. Rushing towards you, Joaquin’s leg is already cocked, and he slams his boot into the man’s shoulder, kicking him to weaken his struggles. The man howls in pain, and Joaquin watches as your grip tightens. With the full use of your body weight, you slam the man’s head hard enough to knock him out. 

Silence. 

It’s heavy and shallow. 

Joaquin's hands are shaking, and he kneels down to check on you. Hand brushing against your back, he asks if you’re alright. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, chest heaving. 

He doesn’t believe you, but there’s no time to argue. 

Both your heads snap up at the sound of screaming voices, coming from inside the office. Instantly, you’re both back up on your feet, and Joaquin reaches towards the door to swing it open. 

You both freeze. 

Monica is on the other side of the table, the furthest distance she can be from the door in the small room. Her arm is locked around Iago’s neck as she drags him backwards—a pistol is jammed into the underside of his jaw.

Joaquin takes the time to scan her and he feels his blood freeze in his veins. She’s steady with sharp eyes and face devoid of any sign of fear. His eyes flicker to the gun in her hand. Safety’s off. Finger on the trigger. Whatever she’s planning…Monica’s not bluffing. 

Iago is breathing hard, eyes flickering between the barrel and the two of you. His hands are raised in surrender, and Joaquin winces at his split lip, the blood dribbling down the collar of his shirt. 

“Nobody move.” Her voice is calm. 

Joaquin raises his hand in surrender and from the corner of his eyes, he sees that you do the same. “Easy, Monica.” 

The hardened villain doesn’t so much as flinch. Her grip in Iago stays tight, pistol unwavering. “The only way this ends is me walking out of this building unharmed.” 

Neither of you answer her. 

Taking the gun off of Iago, she waves it in the air to make her point, “I have men crawling all over this building. Even more outside. Snipers, runners, you name it.” 

The gun lands back against her captive, and Joaquin’s eyes train on him. He’s shaking like a leaf. “I walk out.” Monica proposes. “With him.” She flickers down to Iago, letting out a ‘tsk’ as she does, as though he was an afterthought. “And no one dies. Simple as that.” 

Joaquin takes a step forward, just enough to show her that he’s not scared. “I can’t let you do that.” 

From behind him, Joaquin hears you speak up, too. “Why do you want him?” 

Monica’s eyes flicker towards you, and heat burns at the pit of Joaquin’s stomach at the idea of her attention on you. 

“Want him?” She lets out a small laugh, though it sounds less than humorous. “Sweetie, I don’t want him. He just happens to be the unfortunate bastard who knows too much.” She slides the gun further down the column of Iago’s throat, and the man swallows harshly. 

“It’s a shame,” fake sympathy laces her voice. “We could’ve done so much together,” she sighs. “But I can’t work with cowards who reach out to people like you.” 

Iago parts his lips to protest, but before he can get a word past, Monica moves at lightning speed. She redirects the barrel of the gun in your direction with a whoosh, and a deafening, unmistakable crack of a shot flies through the air.

Before the echoing can finish ringing out, Joaquin’s body is in motion. “Get down!” he shouts, diving with all the strength he has towards you. His arm latches around your waist as he drives the two of you backwards, falling into the hallway behind you. 

You crash into the floor in a tangled heap. 

Joaquin tightens his grip on you when he hears you let out a strangled sound. A gasp or a cry, he can’t be sure, but then he feels it—warmth. He’s scrambling off of you in an instant, taking in your scrunched expression. 

Panic rockets through his chest, clenching around his heart. “No, no no,” he’s muttering over and over, both hands pressing against the bloom of red on your shoulder that’s starting to stain your clothes. “Shit,” he cries, hands starting to shake. Joaquin doesn’t know where to start, what to do. You’re groaning beneath him, face scrunched in pain with gritted teeth. 

His lungs start burning, and Joaquin realizes he’s been holding his breath. He lets out a stuttering exhale, fingers clenching against the wound. Whispering numerous desperate apologies, Joaquin continues to apply pressure despite your cries. 

“Joaquin,” you grit, “Joaquin, stop.” The hand from your non-injured side comes up to grasp at his forearm, nails digging into skin. He hears your ragged breathing, the struggle in your voice as you tell him, “Graze. Just a graze.” 

“Don’t move,” he shushes you. “Just…just wait, hold on—” He swallows hard, vision swimming for a second and Joaquin’s head starts to hurt, the way his brain is struggling to catch up. 

“Joaquin,” your nails dig further, but he can’t register the feeling. “I’m fine. Monica,” you gasp. “Go.” 

But it’s not fine. You’re not okay. You were nearly shot. 

“Joaquin, go!” you scream. 

He wants to argue, wants to scream at you for pushing him away because all he wants to do right now is keep you safe—the thing he should’ve done to begin with—and you’re not letting him. 

But then—

A clattering behind him. A muffled grunt. 

Joaquin’s head snaps around just in time to see it—Monica dragging Iago down the hallway. The man’s legs are failing and she’s got a grip on his collar, yanking him like dead weight, moving fast as her head occasionally snaps back to look at you and Joaquin. 

She’s getting away. 

He turns back to look at you. Beneath him, your face is twisted in pain, and the fabric around your shoulder only continues to darken with the passing time. His own hands are covered in your blood, fingers trembling. Your lips are parted, drawing in short, shallow breaths. 

But then he looks in your eyes, and all he sees is sheer determination. No panic or fear. 

Joaquin gets your message loud and clear: Trust me, you were saying. His heart constricts so sharply in chest, he aches and Joaquin blinks the tears in his eyes away. Slowly, he lifts his trembling fingers away from your shoulder. It’s the scariest thing he’s ever seen—the blood on your shoulders—but he wills his fingers to stop their shaking and clenches his jaw in resilience. “I’ll be back,” his voice is hoarse, and the words come out a bit choked up as they force their way past the lump in his throat. “You hear me? I’ll be back.” 

He drops lower, just long enough to reach you, and Joaquin cradles your face in his blood soaked hands. A brush of his thumb over your cheek is the only moment of solitude he can give you before Joaquin presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s rushed and apologetic. 

Then Joaquin’s gone. Running down the hallway, he doesn’t turn back once. He can’t. 

If he does, he won’t be able to leave.

-

The door creaks open on its old hinges, the sound echoing through the small townhouse. Joaquin steps in first, multiple bags slung over his shoulders as he holds the door open for you. The weight of them burns, and internally Joaquin wonders if you packed ten pounds of rocks for your mission, but the thought quickly evaporates when you step in and his eyes land on your bandaged shoulder. 

Joaquin watches as your eyes flicker to him on the way in. “I could’ve carried my own bag, you know.” He can hear the stubbornness in your voice, and all Joaquin can do is give you a sharp glare. 

After making sure he locked and deadbolted the door, Joaquin drops the duffles onto the couch with a dull thud. Huffing, he places his hands on his hips as he looks around. 

It’s nicer than the dump you’ve been holed up in the past week. Clean. Modern. A couch (his back is already thankful for it). Definitely a step up from the mildew and cigarette scented cardboard box you’ve been calling a room the past week. 

Although it’s only a place to rest for one night before you catch your flights back to Washington, Joaquin’s thankful for the rest stop nonetheless. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sam had someone stop by to clean up the place before the two of you stopped by. A smile graces his lips at the thought of his friend, looking forward to being back home already. He’s been on much longer missions, but God knows this one has taken the most out of him.

Joaquin’s eyebrow twitches in irritation, smile dropping the slightest bit. He can feel you looking at him again.

It’s been like this the entire ride over. 

He knows it’s wrong, knows that he should’ve been so much nicer to you considering the turn of events, but, simply, Joaquin is struggling. His usual optimism is locked in a chamber deep in his heart, unable to see the light of day, with the way his body is so busy aching over the reality that that mission could have gone a hell of a lot worse. 

He’s been counting your breaths in the long silence that stretches between you two as a way to remind himself that you’re there next to him, that you’re okay. But it’s little consolidation. It’s a sense of loyalty masked by the frustration of not being able to protect you, Sam had said, noting the way you lingered awkwardly in the background during Joaquin’s debrief with him. You make him not himself.

Joaquin thinks it’s bullshit. He’s mad himself, that much he can recognize on his own. But he’s also mad at you. 

You’re still looking at him, and it takes everything in him not to look back. Joaquin is sure that you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. Of course he does. All he does is notice you—how your hand kept ghosting over the center console towards him during the car ride, how you’ve been wincing and rotating your shoulder when you think no one’s looking, how you nervously picked at your fingers when the med tech cleared you hours ago despite wearing a stoic look on your face. 

The reminder makes his face tighten, resolve hardening as he recalls the words “it could’ve been worse.” Locke meant it reassuringly, but all it did was anger Joaquin. 

He’s being a dick. But he does it anyway, because what else is there for him to do? 

It’s safer, Joaquin reminds himself. Simpler, because if he keeps the space between the two of you wide, he won’t start unraveling everytime you so much as squirm in pain. It’s what he’s been working towards all this time. There’s so much space, truly, as you toe the line between coworkers and more. So much potential. But even with the distance and without ever crossing that thin thread, Joaquin is already so undone. 

He’s barely surviving you. 

And this accident—no matter how much everyone around him keeps saying that it was fine, nonfatal—has been stabbing at his already bleeding heart. Joaquin is shook in a way that he isn’t proud of, because he knows he should be stronger, but everytime he closes his eyes all he he’s is you on the ground, blood blooming dark through your gear, and everything inside him screams. 

He can’t be what you want, because caring about you like this? Risking feeling even more? It scares him in a way he can’t even begin to understand. If this is how hard he’s falling now, when nothing between you is even real…Joaquin doesn’t want to even imagine how much it might hurt one day if you might slip through his fingers. 

“I’m g’nna hit the showers,” he murmurs in your general direction, the heat of your stare burning at the side of his face. Joaquin manages to take only a few steps away when you call out after him. 

“What’s your problem?” Your voice is loud, echoing through the small living room. “Seriously, Joaquin, what is your issue?” 

“I don’t have a problem.” 

“Yes, you do!” you protest, voice getting louder. 

Joaquin clamps his mouth shut, confident that silence is the only solution here. But you come up behind him, taking him by surprise when you shove him in the back. It hardly does anything, Joaquin leaning forward in surprise more than anything, but it pisses him off nonetheless. Whipping around, he meets your furious eyes, but still, he’s silent, opting to simply glare. 

“Well?” you shout. “Joaquin, say something!” 

“You’re my problem!” The words burst out before he can stop them—sharp and heavy with everything he’s been holding back. As soon as the words come out, Joaquin regrets them. He recoils, shocked by the weight of his own anger and the volume of his voice. He’s never yelled at you, never so much as raised his voice, but he knows it’s too late to take it back now. 

“You don’t get it,” he shakes his head, hand running over his face. “You don’t—”

“Is this about Agent Locke?” your tone shrouded in disbelief. 

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Asshole!” Joaquin can’t help but shout, but he quickly turns around to take a deep breath. He’s never been this way with you before, but God does that name rub him in all the wrong places. 

Joaquin barrels forward, and though his voice grows quieter, it’s just as firm as he grits his teeth. He turns to you. “You getting hurt? That’s my problem. You bleeding out in some dark, crappy warehouse while I left, completely useless to you? That’s my fucking problem.” Heat crawls up Joaquin’s back, and his chest starts to rise and fall rapidly as he tries to rein his outrage back. Fists balled at his sides, his nails dig into his palm to remind himself to stay calm. “You were so reckless!” he accuses. 

“Hey! That was the only chance we had—” 

“I don’t care!” Joaquin cries, hands coming up to hold his head. He can’t believe the two of you are even having this conversation. Why don’t you understand? Why were you being so stubborn? His voice is cracking, exasperation seeping through every word. “The only thing that matters to me is that you got hurt.” He steps forward, forcing you closer to him as if somehow that would make you understand him better. His heart is pounding in his chest, louder than his thoughts. 

“Before we ran in there, we weren’t even—” Joaquin pauses, jaw clenching as he forces himself to look away from you. He sniffles, once, to compose himself. “You wouldn’t even look at me in the van.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Joaquin continues. “I was still mad. And then next thing I know, I’m holding you and you’re on the floor bleeding—” 

Before he can finish, your hand grabs the front of his t-shirt and yanks him forward. He barely has the time to register what’s happening before he feels your lips on his. It’s urgent and fierce, and instinctively, he kisses back. His hand finds your waist, gripping them tightly because it’s the first time he’s touched you in days. Starving for it, he pulls you flush against him. His other hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck as he kisses you with everything he’s been holding in. 

Frustration, fear, guilt—it all drains into the kiss, making it messy and hot. 

You finally pull back, but Joaquin can’t just yet. He’s desperate, he needs more. So he trails his lips down the side of your throat, leaving sloppy kisses down the curve of your neck. His breath is hot against your throat, and it’s less finesse than he usually has, but there’s not much he can do about that. Not when it’s driven from grief more than lust. 

Your moan makes his pants start to tighten, but hesitation starts to swirl in his mind. But then you throw your head further back, your hand coming up to grip the back of his head, pushing his head further downward. He takes the encouragement greedily, lips finding your clavicle as he bites down gently, licking the skin soothingly when you let out a small his. 

Joaquin’s hands don’t stop moving, brushing up and down your body and squeezing in various places. He needs to feel you, a physical reminder that you’re here and you’re okay. 

He’s busy pressing kisses against the column of your throat again when he hears you whisper. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” you say quietly, even though your fingers are scratching at the back of his head, twirling his curls. 

The words burn him, snapping him away from his hungry daze momentarily. Though your voice is low, the words are louder than everything around him—the sting of your nails, your ragged breaths. It echoes past everything. His lips still against your throat, and for a second Joaquin hates that you’ve said it out loud. Hates even more the fact that he knows he needs to hear it. 

This isn’t forgiveness or peace. 

The realization makes Joaquin’s hand grip your waist tighter, but his kiss against your neck is soft as he whispers back, “I know.” 

He ignores the way your hand soothes the back of his head, twisted in his curls in a shameful act of comfort. It makes his stomach sink in the worst of ways. 

So Joaquin does the only thing he knows how to do with you. 

His hands move quick, finding purchase at the junction between the bottom of your ass and the top of your thigh as he presses hurried, wet kisses to any surface his lips can reach. Joaquin squeezes the flesh there, letting out a satisfied groan before pulling you up. Ignoring your squeal of surprise, Joaquin forces your legs around his waist as he carries you through the townhouse. 

Blindly, he carries you around, occasionally peeking around you to watch his step but his focus rarely strays from you for more than a few seconds at a time. Your body is warm against his, and your legs around his waist has your core pressing against his hard cock in a way that is growing increasingly distracting by the second. 

Every part of him was trembling with urgency, and the way your breath is hot against his ear makes his knees buckle. Joaquin presses a kiss to your jaw, biting again, before finding the corner of your mouth in a feverish tenacity. 

“I need—” he groans, words getting tangled in his throat when you press yourself closer to him, grinding against him over the denim of his jeans. He doesn’t bother to finish his sentence, instead, he rushes you further down the hall until he reaches a random door. Everything in him prays that it’s the bedroom door as he fumbles with the knob, letting out a curse as you gently nip at the lobe of his ear. 

Joaquin pinches your ass in warning, and he marvels in the way you let out a surprised squeak. But his satisfaction is short lived, turning into annoyance as his shaky hands struggle to get the door open. 

The second it swings inward, Joaquin all but stumbles in. Though his instinct is to press you against the wall and strip you of your clothes with you dangling on him, he’s hyper aware of your shoulder and slows his movements. Instead, Joaquin walks the two of you further into the room, feet searching for the bed frame before laying you gently on the mattress. 

The movement makes your shirt ride up, and when you look up at him with plump, glossy lips, eyes hazy with lust, Joaquin feels his dick throb. He lets out a shaky exhale before climbing on top of you, palms reaching for your exposed skin like a man desperate for water. 

“Take it off,” you demand from him, tugging at his shirt. Joaquin obliges with no complaints, peeling off the tee that was growing increasingly unbearable with his rising temperature before undoing his pants as well. He reaches towards you, nimble fingers grasping the bottom of your shirt before his eyes flicker upwards with permission. 

You nod, and despite his previously ferocious movement, Joaquin works slowly, dragging the fabric upwards and pressing kisses along as he did. When he gets to your shoulder, Joaquin frowns at the white bandages. The sight punches the air out of his lungs. They’re so stark against your skin, so out of place beneath his hands. 

His breath hitches, lips hovering just above the wounded area but not close enough to touch. It’s too much. Another reason to not cross that line. 

So Joaquin swallows it. 

Ripping your shirt off, his mouth is on you again. Harder, deeper this time. His tongue parts your lips like he’s pushing away the foul memory on his tongue, and Joaquin’s hands start to palm at your breast. They slide away to reach down your thighs, peeling off your pants in one swift movement that only has Joaquin parting from you for a second before he’s back. 

This time, his lips trail down your chest. Undoing your bra with an expertise that typically would have him making an annoying comment, Joaquin throws it onto the floor into the pile with the rest of your clothes. 

This is familiar. This he can do. 

It’s not love, he denies to himself, just pure need. And right now, Joaquin needs you a lot more than he needs to feel okay. 

His mouth finds your erect nipple, drawing it into his mouth with a pleased groan. Joaquin’s tongue moves in precision, licking in smooth circular motions around the nub while you moan underneath him. His free hand comes up to grab your right tit, pinching the nipple while his mouth works on the left. 

Joaquin’s being greedy with the way he’s touching you; sucking on your tits brings him more pleasure than it does you, he believes, and he grinds his leaking cock against the sheets of the bed. But he knows that you feel good, wouldn’t do it if you didn’t, from the way you moan his name. It drives him insane. When he lets go, a thin strand of saliva connects his lips to your nipple, and it makes him lick his lips, effectively breaking it. 

Bites to your chest ensued until he was satisfied, the splotches of red blossoming on your chest the only red he’s comfortable with on your skin. For every nip his teeth imprint, several wet kisses follow. Then he’s dragging downward, following your smooth skin until he’s settled between your thighs. 

Any other time, he would have teased you, love feeling you squirm beneath him as breathy complaints fall past your lips. But this time, Joaquin wastes no time. In one flat, long motion Joaquin’s tongue licks you from your hole to your clit. The taste of you splashes against his taste buds in a way that has him groaning into you and the vibration has you mewling. 

Joaquin moves fast, heeded with motivation, but his movements are precise no less. Two fingers prod at your hole, working you open as his tongue sucks gently on your clit. You’re so wet, he preps you easily. It soaks his hand, your arousal pooling into his palm as he fingers you. 

Once Joaquin thinks you’re ready, he’s lifting himself up to line his aching cock against you. Licking your slick off the palm of his hand, he uses the moisture to stroke himself. The mixture of his spit and your wetness was more than enough to act as lube, but the precum dribbling from the head of his cock provided additional help as well. 

When he first breaches past your hole, Joaquin groans. The feeling never gets old, and the way you cling to him makes it all the better. The tension that’s been coiling in his chest for days finally snaps, unraveling in one sharp gasping exhale. You’re warm and tight, so impossibly wet around him, and it makes his eyes flutter shut. His forehead drops against yours, shaking as he struggles to keep himself up. It’s too much. 

But Joaquin knows it’s not just the feeling of you clenching around him as he pushes deeper and deeper into you, your body pulling him in. It’s the feeling of being able to hold you, feel that you’re there beneath him, because here, he can protect you. 

He tries to hold still and memorize the feeling of being inside you, the way your body curves around him. 

“This doesn’t change anything,” Joaquin whispers. It’s a reminder for himself, the words falling in a quiet cadence as his hips meet yours. He forces them out like acid burning his throat, heart clenched painfully in his chest.  

But you don’t know that, and you respond all the same, gasping out, “I know.” 

The admission makes him groan out your name, and he shakes his head in denial. Joaquin starts to move with urgency, not from lust, but from fear. He starts thrusting into you, gripping your thighs like they were the only thing anchoring him in the moment. Joaquin feels the sting of your nails in his back, the slick from both your bodies molding the two of you together. 

Joaquin’s hips stutter when you clench tightly around him, and he bends down to grasp one of your bouncing tits in his mouth again. His movements are fast-paced, and the way you’re a babbling mess beneath him only spurs Joaquin further. 

Broken groan falling past his lips, Joaquin’s teeth grazes over your nipple before pulling back just enough to look at you. You’re flushed—lips parted, eyes rolling back with his marks all over your skin. Fuck, you’re so beautiful it hurts. 

He can feel you getting close, your moans turning breathy and uneven. Your thighs begin to tremble where they’re wrapped around his waist and Joaquin slips one hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles quickly, messily, focus divided on keeping his hips moving at the same pace while pressing the right amount of pressure against your sensitive bud. 

His free hand comes up to your throat, holding either side in a soft grip. Not a tight one. But equally possessive nonetheless. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he pants, eyes drinking you in without a blink as your moans grow higher in pitch. “Yeah? Just needed me to fuck you?” He’s being so mean, Joaquin realizes this, but the words are the only shield he has against you. Your moans in agreement have him concentrating harder on getting you to reach your orgasm. His teeth bite down on his lower lip, fighting to keep himself from cumming, but your wet grip was slowly dragging him under. 

“Come on, cum for me,” he urges you, before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours. 

And you do. Your whole body aches into him as you let out a shattered cry against his lips, muscles clenching around him so hard that it knocks the air from his lungs. 

“Shit,” he curses, speeding up his pace. He’s working through your orgasm, but he can’t help the way he chokes out your name. Joaquin buries himself deep, hips shuttering as he spills inside of you in long, shuddering waves. His fingers tremble against your hip, his jaw going slack as his strokes turn into small, gentle ones. 

Waves of aftershock tremble throughout Joaquin’s body, and he feels you shake in a similar way. He’s heaving, trying to catch his breath with his forehead pressed against yours. Even when your spasms subside, Joaquin doesn’t move. Instead, he stays buried in you, chest pressed against yours. 

You make no move to push him off either. 

Not even when Joaquin shifts your position, hands bracing themselves against your back and your thigh to flip the two of you over so that you lay on his chest. Despite the readjustment, Joaquin keeps his cock inside of you. Silently, the two of you lay together, slicked with sweat as heavy breaths fill the air. 

You won’t talk. Not tonight. 

Afterall, you both promised each other: this changes nothing.

-

hellur this fic took me forever to finish </3 pls show some love and lmk what u think :) and don't worry, situationship!joaquin will be back..

[kiwi]

“you’re so polite!” thank you i have anxiety

[erwinsvow]

𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: the inside of your mind has always been an anxious place. you once thought no one could understand exactly how you feel. but when you start working the night shift, your attending makes it look easy.

pairing: anxious, intern!reader x jack abbot

word count: 24.1k

warnings/tags: anxious/night shift/intern reader, attending jack, descriptions of ptsd/anxiety from pittfest, as much medical jargon/scenarios as i could fit in, power imbalance relationship (and the associated guilt!), yellow mug mentions galore! descriptions of being creeped out by an uncomfortable patient, as much slowburn as i could try, smut - oral (f receiving), cute first time with jack things. unprotected sex, jack likes overstimulating you, lots of gratuitous praise kink, they really are a couple of idiots in love. one (1) emma x joy mention because i adore them. robby would not behave like this towards anxious reader, but for the sake of fiction, i suppose...

ao3 link

based off of the night shift reader blurbs

thank you to my amazing beta reader @attheheartofmylove without whom i'm certain this would have never been finished ♡

though you didn’t really understand it at first, you now know clearly, that the attendings have their own favorites.

they’re all cut from the same cloth—high achieving, independent, confident. they rattle off the answers to complex questions and are caught up on the latest literature and they’re the ideal resident, each in their own way.

you are not one of them. you think robby tolerates your slowness and your occasional confusion and profoundly apparent lack of confidence because it’s been a couple months since the pittfest shooting, and he feels bad. 

it makes sense from the outside, you suppose. you are just an intern. you thought the whole point of this year was to adapt and understand and try to figure out where you fit in within the food chain that is the hospital hierarchy. 

day to day it depends on the senior resident you’re assigned to. you try, really hard, to stay caught up, to not let your mind wander, to have the right answer and make diagnoses as quickly as you can.

you think maybe there’s just something wrong with you. it hadn’t always been like this. you were getting better. 

and then everything happened and its felt like one step forward, two steps backward ever since.

robby is the one that finally caves and approaches you. he must have gotten enough complaints, or he must be fed up with your zoning out and freezing up, because he pulls you aside for a chat at eight in the morning.

“how do you feel about switching to the night shift for a little?” 

his idea, as he’d explained it to you, was that maybe being on the night shift would help your skills to grow. that the pace and the little extra time in between patients and dr. abbot’s tutelage might help you get more adjusted to the environment. 

i am adjusting, you want to argue, i’m trying my best. but your best is not enough when it comes to life and death. 

you know where your faults lie. slow to get to the answer, slow to move without thinking. even your muscle memory is slow—you feel like you’re always waiting for someone to tell you what to do, before you start doing it, just to make sure you’re not doing the wrong thing. 

it hurts your chest to think about it. you’d matched emergency medicine wide-eyed and excited. it’s hard to think about when you enjoyed the hustle and bustle, thought it was exhilarating to be in trauma rooms instead of terrifying, when you were excited to help people with their bad days and stopping them from getting any worse.

it’s you now that has the perpetual bad day. coated in embarrassment and anxiety, worried sick that you’re not doing good enough, that you’re going to be on the chopping block if you don’t get it together.

and then the rush of gurneys and yelling brings you back to the chaos of pittfest in an instant, and you think dealing with the triage patients’ burns and sutures is all the commotion you can handle for now. 

on your last day shift for the foreseeable future, you tell dana that you’ll see her at sign-offs tomorrow night. 

“you sure you’re doing okay, kid?” she asks, and you feel her concern like it’s something visible hanging in the air. 

you’re not doing okay. you don’t know the last time you felt okay. 

but you’re also not a nutcase. you don’t need any rumors at work that you’re not cut out for this—you don’t need to feel that burden weighing down on you, not on top of the others that are already there. you don’t think you could handle it, don’t think your own brain would let you process it. you might be close to giving up if that happens.

you snap out of it when dana repeats your name.

“i’m okay,” you lie, “just not sure about this sleep schedule. i need to set up my black-out curtains,” you say with a forced laugh, hoping she can’t see right through you. 

dana looks back at you a little quizzically, like she’s trying to figure out the real meaning behind your words, but she gets called away before she can finish her assessment.

“just let me know if you need something, okay?” 

“i will,” you lie again. it sucks—you don’t like lying to dana. she’s everyone’s work-mom and you know she actually cares.

maybe you don’t fully understand it yourself. you want to tell someone how you feel, but you don’t want to put your burden on her shoulders either, not when she already has so much going on, so much to worry about. 

it’d be unfair, you conclude as you head out for your walk to the bus-stop. 

it’d be unfair to put the task of helping you and listening to you and fixing you to someone else’s already long to-do list. 

and as you go to sleep that night, trying to stay up as late as you can to sleep in as much as you can, you think—and maybe hope a little bit too—that robby is right. maybe night shift is what you need.

𝜗ৎ

“she’s not doing that good,” robby admits, his eyes following you as you handle your triage sign-offs with parker. he turns back to jack. “she’s anxious. a little slow, but i’m not saying that-”

whatever robby is saying to him briefly fades into background noise. jack’s eyes go to where robby was looking—watching you for a moment.

he knows who you are. he knows your name, knows you’re an intern. he knows robby is mildly concerned about you, knows that he set you up in triage and chairs because you were having trouble with the trauma cases. 

jack knows that it’s not right—an intern needs to experience what it feels like to be in the thick of it. there’s no short-cuts when you become a second year and third year and beyond—you have to know how to conduct yourself. it’s a non-negotiable part of the residency program, it’s how their program creates competent residents and good doctors.

he follows you with his eyes again. you blink fast and play with your necklace while explaining the last of your cases. 

he knows you’re going through the pertinent history, the acute presentation, your assessment and treatment plans and what’s left to monitor for continuity of care.

it’s not what you’re saying. it’s how you say it. you look like your heart is racing, like someone’s about to cut your tether to the hospital if you say the wrong thing. like you’re waiting for someone to stop you and tell you that you’ve messed up.

even from the across the room he can tell something’s wrong. he feels something strange move around his brain and make its way into his chest. he dismisses it immediately—maybe it’s because he hadn’t noticed the issues you’ve been having himself. jack thinks he’s usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

when parker moves on to the next patient and cassie takes over, jack is still looking at you. your shoulders, which seem to be perpetually up by your ears, relax a little. you let go of your necklace and take a deep breath.

“jack?” robby’s voice says, and he doesn’t hear it until robby repeats himself.

“yeah?” jack answers, turning back to face robby. 

“so, what d’you think? does it sound like a good plan?”

“what plan?”

“have her come to night shift for a little while. show her the ropes. work her way back up. sounds good?”

honestly, jack can’t tell if it does sound good or not. on one hand, there’s less residents working on the night shift. there’s not as much cherry-picking, and everyone has to lend their hand equally. you would get to see everything you’ve been missing out on during the day shift. 

he’s sure that parker could guide you well. jack thinks for a moment that taking on another responsibility wouldn’t be a good idea, but watching your sullen expression as you finish sign outs, like you’re counting down the seconds until you can leave, he thinks it’d be better to get you help now, rather than delaying the inevitable.

jack almost snorts. he’s one to talk. 

he concludes that maybe this might be a good idea given that you’re only an intern and you still have so much to learn and you’re much too young to be stuck in this feeling forever. your sad expression lingers in his head even after you’ve walked back to the lockers.

maybe, just maybe, jack could help with that.

when he looks up at robby to respond, he’s half way across the room.

“thanks a lot, brother,” robby half-shouts, and this time, jack does groan. 

well after the day shift has left, he tries to think about the best plan of approach. he has to tell parker, obviously, since some of the responsibility will fall on her too. he’ll tell john the next time he sees him. 

he could start you slow. a step-up from chairs triage, starting with some urgent cases and working your way up. 

if too many people is the problem, you’ll be good as gold after a few shifts. he thinks about the rest of the plan, how he can get you started on incoming traumas and maybe if there’s something you can read to work on a step-by-step approach, if that’s where the issue lies—he doesn’t know since robby didn’t tell him anything else—but he gets distracted all at once.

your sad, pretty face hasn’t left his mind since robby pointed you out. jack can’t tell exactly why, but it feels unfair, almost. unfair to you that this is what you’re going through during your first year as a doctor. 

jack understands the nerves. he would expect you to be nervous, everyone is. it’s the fact that it’s not followed by excited. nervous and excited. 

nervous and excited and gaining confidence, all things you should be feeling. 

it’s the combination you have instead that worries him. nervous and anxious and sad and pensive. 

and well, if that’s what you’re going through, maybe he can help you after all.

𝜗ৎ

jack doesn’t know how much robby’s told you. he keeps it simple on your first shift of nights—tells you that you’ll be working on the remainder of the patients from the morning and then jumping on the most urgent of the chairs alongside parker until you feel (or he decides) that you’re ready to handle it solo. 

jack doesn’t know what he expects from you, if anything. 

it’s a colder night than usual, and you wear a cream-colored underscrub with the sleeves pulled over your hands. he notices a jacket on the chair behind you, baby pink. and just before he approached you, you set down a yellow water bottle.

but when he meets your eyes, the words go out the window. 

sad and pretty. you look at him with your full attention, like looking away would get you in trouble. you nod to everything he says, even though he knows you must be getting anxious at his words. you try to hide it well, but your hands—chewed nails, he notices—go to your necklace right away.

huh, jack thinks. so that’s your tell. 

and just before he leaves, heading out to finish up with robby’s patients from sign-outs, you speak to jack abbot for the first time.

“i’m sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry you have to do all this for me.” 

jack swallows. you’re incredibly beautiful, and almost devastatingly sad. how can he respond to that—he hasn’t done anything, not yet at least. he showed up for work like any other day. he gives you an assignment like he would any other resident. there’s nothing to be sorry about, but you still are, and he thinks that he really needs to understand why. 

jack dwells on it for half a heartbeat, trying to figure out what to say, but you smile—half heartedly—and turn around to go find your next patient.

oh no. 

𝜗ৎ

the night shift is, like robby had told you, a little better for you. it hasn’t even really slowed down yet, but there’s something about the environment that just feels a little more digestible to you.

maybe it’s those things that you were trying so hard to bury—how your feelings of incompetence increase even further when the 4th years on their rotations seem to move faster than you, seem to have the answer quicker than you. 

maybe it’s extra worse because when you were doing your audition here—you had been that student. ever-eager, trying to prove your worth to whichever resident you’d been assigned to that day. you went home and studied rosen’s emergency medicine textbook and listened to case-report podcasts on your commute to the hospital. you answered questions quickly and you didn’t let it show when you got tired and you did everything right, just to end up worse than when you started.

you can’t wrap your head around it. there’s something deeper going on with you—bubbling beneath the surface of your skin, trying hard to rip through and make its way out. you’ve been suppressing it ever since that night, watching how everyone around you made their way back to normal, wondering why you’re the only one that’s lagging behind. 

or maybe they’re not back to normal. but it’s obvious to you that everyone is better at hiding it than you are. 

case in point—you’re the only one that robby shipped off to the night shift. 

you guess you need to earn your stripes back. the first mission towards that goal is convincing jack abbot that you’re not a complete dud. 

maybe the thing that’s been setting you off so much lately is that you have no idea what’s going to come in from those two doors. you can distinctly remember a few short months ago where that feeling was exciting, almost exhilarating. you were seeing something new every single day, the pages of your textbooks coming alive in patients that you finally got to treat, instead of waiting and watching and observing. 

that’s why working out of chairs feels so much safer. the list is endless—sprains and allergic reactions and lots of sutures. it was, at the very least, predictable. 

you smile at your patient—a little girl who was playing with scissors instead of finishing a school project, despite, you’re sure, the many times her mom told her to not do that. mom is heavily pregnant and watches you suture her hand, near tears herself even though the little girl is taking it like a champ. 

“all done,” you hum, wondering if you can go find a lollipop somewhere for her. “you did great.” 

you look up at mom, offering her a tissue for her tears before explaining the rest of the steps. you’re about to find the written suture care instructions just incase, when parker pokes her head in.

“incoming, five minutes. we’re up. meet you out there.” she’s gone before you can even say anything. you spend two of those five minutes making sure the mom gets the instruction paper she needs, and then you walk towards the ambulance bay.

parker is already gowned and gloved up, and dr. abbot is pulling the yellow material on, and you can even faintly make out the outline of his arms under it. 

standing there, it hits you all at once. your feet feel frozen to the ground. the ambulance is maybe sixty seconds away, and you can hear the sirens, and in the craziness of the day shift, the noise didn’t stand out as much as it does now. 

it almost sounds multiplied. like there’s a dozen sirens going off. you can’t fathom that your brain is making it up, so there must be some sort of crazy trauma with tons of patients and absolutely no time for you to shut down. you can almost hear it—the noise will fill the space soon. screaming and crying and that sound that tires make when the person driving slams the brakes too fast.

you are not ready for that. you thought dr. abbot said something about working your way up, slowly, that you’d deal with the lower tier cases before jumping back into incoming traumas. maybe you’d misheard him—you’d felt so embarrassed that he even had to have this conversation with you to begin with, and he was looking at you so earnestly.

he was probably wondering what was wrong with you. you’re asking yourself that question every day.

dr. abbot takes a few steps towards you, and for some reason, you take a step backwards. as if the extra foot of space would protect you from what’s about to happen. 

the part of your brain that’s always reminding you about how you need to get it together has momentarily gone silent. where is it, when you really need it, like right now? the part that reminds you that you’ve done this before and that this used to be something that excited you and that the person coming in that ambulance is counting on you to help save their life? where did it go?

you don’t know how you must look to him. a mess, probably. appearing like way more work than he signed up for. you should apologize again, maybe, like that might help your situation. you are on his night-shift for the foreseeable future. 

“um, dr. abbot, i-” your heart is pounding in your chest.

“that’s okay,” he says, taking a step closer, shrinking the space between the two of you. the sound of the siren gets louder and louder—

but he’s not very far from you. looking up at him, you see hazel eyes that are focused on you. his hair is actually curly—you hadn’t noticed before.

“i-i thought that-”

“you’re fine, kid. you’re not jumping on any traumas until you’re ready. why don’t you go find bridget and get started on something to present to dr. ellis?” 

your relief must be visible to him—your shoulders sink down, your heart slows down a little, and you blink like you’ve just been rebooted. 

“okay,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-”

“stop apologizing,” jack says, walking towards parker, towards the trauma, snapping gloves over his hands. he stops for a moment. “take a deep breath. come find me if you need me.” 

“okay. i will.” 

it’s like your feet need a minute to thaw before you can move. you stand there, processing what dr. abbot just said and your own feelings and why you locked up at the very sound of an incoming trauma for a little longer, as if you won’t spend the rest of your shift and all night and all day tomorrow thinking about it.

and you don’t catch it—but jack looks back at you before he steps outside. stuck for a moment, your fingers going to your necklace, before you turn around. and he turns around too.

𝜗ৎ

your next patient is a man who just flew back from england earlier today. his calf aches and his chest hurts. he tells you how he’s been worried sick since he got back home, and he’s never usually like that.

must be nice, you think, scrambling to find parker once her and dr. abbot leave the trauma room. their patient is going up to surgery and you see dr. walsh in the room.

you feel better once parker’s in the room with you, and then you think about how messed up that is. you should feel perfectly confident with or without someone beside you. you shouldn’t require a babysitter, and maybe you need to make your next goal figuring out how to gain some of that confidence back, but—

“so, walk me through it. what’s next?” parker asks, her gaze going towards the monitor to evaluate his stats.

“dopper ultrasound of the lower extremity. uh, CTPA, order a d-dimer. monitor stats to see if we need supplemental oxygen.”

“good. and?” she asks, and you blank for a moment.

“and?” you repeat. you don’t know why your brain does this. hurry up, you think, he could die while you’re waiting to figure out what else he needs. “and, um-” 

through the glass, you see dr. abbot walking by. he glances in, locking eyes with you for a second, and then he walks away, like he’s not worried about what’s happening in the room. 

“and we start him on anticoagulants after the imaging.”

“good,” parker says, nodding. she explains the next steps to the patient, and one of the night-shift nurses whose name you don’t know yet gets the bedside ultrasound ready. “hm.. let’s see. how about virchow’s triad?”

you shake the ultrasound gel bottle and warn the patient that it’s a little cold. 

“venous stasis, hypercoagulability, and endothelial injury.” 

“good job,” she states, and you appreciate the comment, just because it’s been a while since you’ve heard it. while you work the probe up, she monitors the screen with you. “now, what are we looking for?”

“a darkened area, where the veins don’t compress. no flow on the doppler.”

“uh-huh. bingo. see that?” 

“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”

it’s a small thing, but handling the case with parker feels good. you’d already been taught times to never assume what the diagnosis is, even if everything is pointing in that direction. coming up with the answer—the correct answer—feels good. 

there’s nothing wrong with wrapping up ankles and stitching up lacs. but you feel a step closer to whatever goal it is that you’re trying to achieve.

the patient heads off to get a ct scan and you and parker go back out to find the next case. 

while you walk back to central, she brings it up. it’s inevitable, and you should have thought ahead.

“so…” she starts, and you swallow. “i didn’t know about the thing with the incoming traumas.”

“i, um,” you blink, heart rate increasing again. you feel your hand going to your pendant, moving it around your fingers. “i’m working on it.”

“that’s okay,” parker says, reassuringly. “well, you did great in there.”

“thank you,” you breathe. “i’m not sure what they told you-”

“don’t worry. abbot told me afterwards. no traumas until you’re ready, i got it.”

“he said that?” 

“you can ask him yourself,” parker says, her eyes going to somewhere behind you. you turn around to see dr. abbot walking towards the two of you. 

“how’s the patient?” he asks, though he’s looking at you. 

“good. um, he’s up in ct right now. we’ll start anticoagulants once we get the results. he was stable, though.” 

“good, good. who’s next?” 

“working on that right now,” parker replies. she turns to you next. “i’ll come find you.”

you nod, turning back to face dr. abbot. your eyes go to his badge for a moment, clipped to the pocket on his scrub top. jack. it’s hard to think of him like that when he’s only ever been dr. abbot to you, the shoulders you see from behind swaying as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, talking to robby at seven pm or the camo backpack walking out at seven am. 

you zone out for a moment, but dr. abbot snaps you back into it.

“you doin’ okay so far, kid?” 

you wish you weren’t the person that everyone had to ask that question to. the embarrassment alone is enough to make you want to work even harder to get back to day shift, to get back to the level you were at before.

“i’m okay,” you respond after a pause. your heart rate hasn’t slowed down. “i, i-i’m sorry about earlier. i don’t know why-”

“i told you to stop apologizing,” jack repeats, and it comes out a little sterner than he wanted. but it gets your attention. you look up at him, blinking quickly. 

“dr. abbot-”

“these things don't change overnight. you…you can’t expect yourself to get back to normal in a day.”

you go quiet, contemplating his words. without even meaning to, you feel your waterline brim with hot tears. 

“i feel like everyone else did,” you admit quietly. “i’m so behind. i feel like i’ll never catch up.”

you take a deep breath, and then you widen your eyes. these are things that you’ve never even admitted to yourself, never given your brain enough time to mull and mope on. and now they’re pouring out in front of your attending, a man you’ve had maybe three conversations with, most of which were today. 

“i’m so-”

“stop,” dr. abbot says firmly. “no apologies. you’re not behind in anything. thinking like that is only going to make you feel worse. you don’t have to say anything, just nod if you understand.” 

you feel your head nodding before you even realize you’re doing it.

“before you leave night shift, you’ll be caught up in whatever you feel like you’re behind in. okay?” you nod again. “good. i’m sure dr. ellis has a case for you, if you’re ready.” 

you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. your hands fall to your side. your heart slows down a little. you start walking towards parker but then you pause, turning back again.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.” 

you smile at him again—that quick half-smile, and you’re gone before he can even try to stare. 

𝜗ৎ

your first night shift is, overall, a success. you don’t jump on any crazy incoming traumas, though you help treat a man who took a spill down some stairs around midnight that came in via ambulance. you mostly attend to the rest of the people in chairs, switching off between the lacs and dislocations to the more urgent cases as they come in. 

it’s almost four before you know it—and during one of the lulls, you go to the empty break room and make yourself a cup of tea. you try to get as much of your charting done before you see the next person and before your tea gets cold—the longer it takes you, the longer dr. abbot has to wait before he can review them, and the longer he has to stay after the shift ends.

you started yawning because you don’t think your body has adjusted yet, or even will adjust for the next few weeks. mid-yawn, stretching your arms, you had looked around and saw that dr. abbot was already looking in your direction. 

you turned quickly and went back to the charts. god knows you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of him enough today.

despite whatever you think and assume, it seems like he can almost read your mind. you start feeling anxious when you notice everyone coming in for the day shift, going to the lockers and preparing to come back out. 

it’s your first time doing sign-offs for night shift. it’s clear to you that everyone knows there’s something wrong with you, and that’s why you made the switch. even if they don’t know, they’re about to find out. 

but before you can think too much about it, dr. abbot comes up to you. it’s quick, just in passing before he goes to robby, no doubt to tell him how you did. 

you feel doubly embarrassed that you’re even a topic of conversation for your two attendings.

jack abbot tells you you did great, kid. see you tonight, and walks towards robby. and the hand that was coming to play with your necklace falls to your side. when you do sign-offs, you forget to be nervous. 

for once, you think you had a some-what decent shift. and you know what, or rather who, is responsible for that.

but this is just one shift. you have a lifetime of them ahead of you. you need to take it day by day, hope for progress with each passing one. 

(when you go home and shower and then crawl into bed, with your gray curtains completely shut, despite the fact that light pours through regardless, and a sleep mask that you bought during medical school, you think, for the first time in ages, that you’re not dreading going to work tomorrow. it’s not dread. it’s not excitement either. it’s something in between, something that makes you want to get up in the afternoon because you know what’s waiting for you in the evening. or rather—who is waiting for you in the evening. someone kind and patient and who understands you without needing to say anything at all. and then, you fall asleep.)

𝜗ৎ

you’re back under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital before you know it. you elected to leave your house early today—you couldn’t sleep past two and you had time to do everything you wanted and then some. 

you made yourself a big lunch. you tidied up your apartment, put in a load of laundry. you paid bills and scheduled a dentist appointment that you can actually go to now. even with all of that, you still had enough time to leave early and buy yourself an iced chai before your shift.

you take sips of it while working on your charts once you find a moment to sit down. it’s mostly melted ice and milk now, but still, you’ll take any caffeine you can get. 

you’re mid-yawn, covering your mouth when he walks over and stands behind the computer screen. 

“oh,” you say, putting your hand down. “sorry, dr. abbot.”

“what did i say about apologizing to me?” his voice is gruff, but he has a teasing lilt to it. 

you wonder if he talks to all his residents like this.

“sorry,” you say inadvertently, and then you freeze, realizing what you did. “you know what i mean.”

and then dr. abbot laughs.

you can’t help the smile that takes over your face. his laugh seems contagious to you, and you start laughing before you can help it.

staring at his smile, you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had laughed in the hospital. it always felt like there just wasn’t any time during the day, with so many people to take care of, with so many conversations happening that you didn’t realize where you could even fit in.

it doesn’t really feel that way now.

“so,” dr. abbot starts, and you focus all your attention on him. 

you wonder if he’s going to want to talk about it—your freeze-ups and whatever blanks robby didn’t fill in for him. he must be curious, at least, why you needed the change so quickly, so out of nowhere. at least, that’s what you think, because surely, you’d be curious too if someone—

“-how’d you sleep last night?” 

you stare at him. the thoughts circling your brain shut up mid-sentence. 

“um, good?” you answer, tentative. as if you could possibly be giving him the wrong answer. “how about you?” you ask, brightening up a little, pleased that you can have a real conversation not only about a patient with someone at work.

“uh, fine,” he answers, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s a little confused. “i just meant, i know the first shift on nights is hard. hard to fall asleep during the day.”

“oh.” you want to smack your ipad against your forehead. “oh, yeah, definitely. i mean it was hard, but it was fine. i fell asleep eventually. and then i-i woke up and i couldn’t go back to sleep. so i left early to-” 

your eyes flick down towards your melty chai. the plastic cup’s left a ring of condensation on the station where you were typing up your notes. dana would have your ass if she saw water on the counter—

jeez. your mind is bouncing around at a mile a minute. what were you even talking about?

you look at dr. abbot blankly, and he looks like he’s suppressing a laugh, like your behavior is entirely amusing to him. 

“-i’m gonna… stop talking now.” stupid. stupid stupid stupid. you have one coworker who kind of gets you and he happens to be your new attending and you can’t stop looking like a fool in front of him and he’s staring at you with these hazel eyes—

“don’t stop on my account,” he laughs with a quiet laugh, and you feel your face burn. but you can tell he’s not laughing at you, something you’ve forced yourself be able to discern quickly. he’s laughing with you, or rather because of you. “i’ll, uh, let you finish your charts.”

“thank you,” you reply, a little too quickly. you just need a moment alone, maybe, like that could fix the things that are wrong with you. “sor-” you close your mouth before the word can come out. 

the look that dr. abbot gives you is a new one. you’ve seen a couple so far, notably the one by the ambulance bay and the one at sign-offs this morning.

this one is almost approving. like he’s pleased you’re listening to what he says. pleased that you’re doing what he tells you.

“try the black-out shades. those are really helpful.”

“oh, really? i-i will,” you lie between your teeth. the black-out curtains you ordered are sitting in a discombobulated mess by your window. you had tried putting them up for all of fifteen minutes before giving up and going to bed with your quilt pulled over your head. 

“yeah. i can’t sleep without ‘em.” 

“good. that’s good. i will,” you get out before he walks away. you release a breath and finish the rest of your chai before throwing it away.

𝜗ৎ

your shift is going just like the one from yesterday. maybe even slightly better—now that your apparent inabilities have already been broadcasted to the team, you don’t have to explain yourself or try to work up some twisted excuse as to why you can’t assist on traumas.

you take care of three fractures—two scaphoids and one pinky toe. you suture up a few different lacs and correctly diagnose a hot appy which gets sent up to surgery.

and right now you’re with a mrs. wilson, a sweet older woman who fell at her house. her daughter drove her in and you take her back almost immediately, getting her a ct and waiting for her bloodwork.

she’s got a small cut on her forehead from the spill that you’re using dermabond to repair when parker stops by.

“what’d we got here?” she asks you, and you rattle off the case information. “do you use a blood thinner, ma’am?”

“i never forget to take my eliquis,” she responds, and you smile brightly at her.

“that’s great, mrs. wilson.” you turn to parker. “her daughter just ran to get a coffee. uh, history checks out, head ct’s negative. labs are all normal. she’s on an anti-hypertensive. i think it was orthostatic.”

“agreed. what’s next?”

“-what’s next is that you need to get me that gentleman’s phone number,” mrs. wilson interjects. she’s staring past the open curtain towards central, and you move your eyes almost involuntarily to see what—or rather who—she’s looking at. 

you blink quickly. your mouth feels a little dry.

parker turns to look too, turning back with a laugh. 

“that’s our attending,” she says. “i’m sure he’ll be around to check on you shortly.”

“no, dear, i need his phone number-” she starts again, locking eyes with you. “unless, of course, he’s married-” 

you blink faster.

oh my god. mrs. wilson has just made you realize that you’re a complete idiot. 

you turn your head again to stare at him, waiting five seconds before he picks up an ipad with his left hand. dr. abbot has a black wedding ring that he’s been wearing this entire time. and here you are, staring at him and falling asleep thinking about him and looking forward to the night shift because he’s making your life somewhat easier, easier than it’s felt in months and months, and—

“i-i’m so sorry, mrs. wilson,” you stammer, a little too quickly. you can feel parker’s eyes move to you. “i think is he married.” 

the news seems like a hit to the both of you.

“aw,” she starts. “my daughter. she’s divorced. i’ve been trying to set her up for months, but, well, all the good ones are always taken, y’know, i told her—”

“actually,” parker says quietly. “he’s not. but, mrs. wilson, right now, we need to focus on your-”

your eyes go a little wide. it takes all your strength and willpower not to zone out again while parker discusses the next steps in patient care with mrs. wilson. 

her daughter comes back with that cup of coffee while you explain how to take care of the wound at home. and you hate yourself—hate—because you find yourself looking at her, groaning internally because she’s very pretty and very nice to you. 

and you file away the new information you’ve learned to a small, hidden part of your brain. dr. abbot is not married, but he wears a wedding band anyways. and then you go see your next patient.

𝜗ৎ

you think you’re beginning to find a rhythm. it’s hard, but with each passing day, it feels like it’s getting easier. 

(you bury thoughts of your attending deep inside your head and then you close the door and lock it up with chains, placing a mental do not open sign in front of it. it might be working.)

your focus should be on your medical education. you’re almost positive that’s the only thing dr. abbot is concerned with, anyways. 

at least, you think that’s the only thing he’s concerned with.

you groan as bridget hands you the ipad detailing the information of the next case. fifty-three year old man, chief complaint of priapism. 

“really?” you sigh, and she shoots you a sympathetic look. 

you think you’ve been doing better. you haven’t worked up to the level of severe incoming traumas just yet, and you know you’d be useless if there was a few back to back, but you’re trying your best for now. the night shift doesn’t have as many of those incidents as the day shift, so you’ve begun collecting back your confidence in bits and pieces.

this doesn’t phase you. you celebrate the small victory, that you can handle the urgent chairs cases alone, that you’re not stuck in that familiar pattern you had been only a short week ago. 

(you try not to dwell on the reason why you’ve escaped the pattern.)

your only concern for the patient you’re about to see is what he’s taken and how much he took. you know the procedure, having assisted once with cassie, what seems like forever ago. the order is nerve block, aspiration, irrigation, and then injection.

you’re thinking about where you saw john last. you’ll have to report to him and then both of you will have to do the procedure. you’re going to have to track him down—it’s getting to that part of the night where he’s on the hunt for a snack, once his coffee runs out.

you pull back the curtain and smile politely at your patient.

that might have been your first mistake. you introduce yourself, and while you confirm his name and date of birth, the only thing you can think is sleazy. this guy looks sleazy.

there’s a reason why he’s in the emergency room with priapism at two in the morning, and you don’t think you want to know why, though you’re about to find out.

and a little while later, across the room, jack is looking for you. it’s become his latest bad habit—he likes to have eyes on you, like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he’s not careful enough. 

(he does need to be careful, he thinks. it’s been a week of watching you get more and more comfortable around him. a week of watching you take on new, different cases and do your sign-offs without seeming frightened of the task. it’s been a good feeling. maybe, too much of a good feeling—)

“bridget?” he asks, approaching central. “have you seen my intern?”

his intern. the word comes out like a freudian slip. it’s supposed to be the intern. 

if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. though, jack thinks she’s looking at him a bit more oddly than usual. 

“priapism in bed ten,” bridget says. “i think she’s getting the history before—oh, speak of the devil.” 

he turns around and you’re approaching him.

whatever part of jack abbot understands you, whatever’s inside of him that always seem to know what’s going on with you and how to fix it, and whatever compels him to care so much about you even though you’ve only been here for a short while, gets triggered on high alert when he sees your expression.

he doesn’t even say thanks to bridget before walking up to you, meeting you half-way. 

you look uncomfortable. and jack has never seen you look like this before. it’s written all over your face and your body language. you don’t touch your necklace like when you’re anxious. no, you’re wringing your hands, rubbing your arms like you’re reminding yourself they’re still there.

“what’s the matter, kid?” he asks, and you look incredibly apologetic. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. it makes him want to take care of you forever. 

whatever precautions he was thinking about taking because maybe he’s getting a little too worried about you and a little too pleased with your progress goes out the window.

“um, i need help with my patient,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-i-”

jack is too much in his head about you. his hand hovers over your back, leading you to an empty corner against a wall. it doesn’t look all that professional, though there’s barely any eyes that are paying attention to the two of you. 

he’s got a patient up in ct he’s waiting on for results. two people to discharge. and john is out there manning the front lines by himself for a few minutes.

but nothing else seems to matter when you need his help. 

“what’s wrong?” he repeats, and something in his chest starts to churn uncomfortably. like a hand squeezing his heart at the speed that yours must be going right now, undoubtedly. 

he wishes he could pick up your hand and feel your pulse, but he can’t. he knows he can’t. his fingers still twitch at the thought, though.

“um, my priapism patient is being really creepy. i-i don’t feel uncomfortable going back unless you come with me, maybe? or-or john. i know you’re busy, i-”

“what did he say?”

“um, dr. abbot-”

“what did he say?” 

your eyes go a little big. 

“he said something about… he’ll stay awake for the procedure if it’s me doing it, and…”

“and?” jack is beginning to see red.

“-and he won’t need the procedure if i would just help him out-”  

jack has always been pretty decent at handling his temper, especially in the hospital. people are scared, people are frightened, people are worried about their life and limb and say things they don’t always mean. he keeps it under check because he knows better.

most of the time. 

his hand turns into a fist while he’s talking to you. your eyes flick towards it before you go back to meeting his gaze. 

“dr. abbot?” you say quietly, blinking fast. 

“why don’t you go find bridget and find a new case to work on?” jack sounds surprisingly calm. 

you should have expected it—of course, he’s calm. he’s your attending, after all, all-knowing and knows how to keep his cool in a situation like this much better than you do.

you couldn’t even handle it yourself. you ran to get help as soon as you felt uncomfortable. a different intern might have been able to handle it. you’re not sure how exactly, but you know someone else could have figured it out, someone smarter than you. a different intern might not have needed help—

“are you sure, i-”

“i’m sure, kid. go ahead.” dr. abbot pauses for a moment, like he’s assessing you too. you want to shirk under his gaze. “if you need a break you can go sit down for a little-”

“no,” you interrupt, fiddling with your necklace, “i don’t need a break.”

you do need a break. that guy was so, so creepy. you need to go sit down and watch videos of cats playing with yarn and eat something before you can go see someone else. but that’s not how this job works, you don’t just get a break because—

“why don’t you go find a protein bar and i’ll come get you?”

“no, dr. abbot, i-”

“find something to eat. break room,” he says, and you want to protest, feel the words almost coming out, but before you can, “-now.” 

he walks away, leaving you in the corner, blinking stupidly at his back as you watch him go. you don’t know what it is—it seems like he can just read your mind, like your thoughts are out on display for him all the time. 

you don’t think you like it. 

you decide to be a good intern and listen to your attending. 

you head to the break room and nibble on a granola bar that’s been in your jacket pocket for god knows how long. you pick up your yellow mug with the intention of making a cup of coffee, but you can’t stop pacing.

you just need to work on getting faster. thinking quicker on your feet. if you could figure out what to say, instead of freezing up and running away, you could probably solve half of your problems yourself, without needing help.

and you can’t stop thinking about what dr. abbot said.

not even exactly what he said, but more of how he said it. like he wants you to listen to him, like he’s not going to let up until you do. like you deserve snack breaks and time to sit down and recollect your thoughts after a bad encounter. 

you don’t deserve that. a better intern wouldn’t need those things. a better intern would be out running head first into traumas, coming up with miraculous saves and not being too scared to answer questions and not feel their heart rate spiking every time they’re too close to the ambulance bay.

because on the night of the pittfest shooting, that had been where you—

“hey,” bridget says, and you look up quickly, snapped out of your thoughts. “i got a midnight fall two minutes away, and i can’t find anyone. are you—?” 

“yes,” you reply, setting your empty mug down onto the table a little too hard. “i’ll be right there.”

you leave it as it is, shoving the granola bar back into your pocket. you forget for a moment that dr. abbot told you to stay put, but you certainly can’t ignore the patient to follow his instructions.

(something inside of you feels uncomfortable at the idea of not complying, though.)

you walk by the closed curtain where the creepy patient was currently residing. you can make out two pairs of shoes, one being dr. abbot and the other being john, you assume, and the sounds coming from behind the curtain almost make you stop in your tracks. 

your mind wants to dwell on it for a little longer, but luckily, this time you don’t have a choice but to focus on your new patient, who is also fifty-three and tripped on a dog toy, courtesy of his new puppy, while trying to open the door to let her out. 

you’re pleased with yourself at being able to run through the entire thing with a few watchful eyes. bridget leaves to find parker while you order your head ct and x-rays, though you don’t think there’s anything serious going on. 

the thoughts are momentarily subsided—like each achievement can temporarily ease the burden they leave on your brain. the constant voice echoing that reminds you of how you should be doing better stays quiet while the patient smiles at you and thanks you for your help. 

and you even end up eating the other half of your granola bar a little later, sitting at your station and working on notes until you’re needed next. you drink water to distract yourself from your tiredness, being thrown off your usual routine today. 

john ends up finding you first. 

“well,” he says, leaning on the other side of the counter. he buries his head in his hands for a moment and then stretches. “that was fun.”

“i heard,” you reply, pausing and taking a breath. “i, um, i’m sorry that i didn’t-”

“no biggie,” he interrupts, before you can finish the entire apology. “that guy was a weirdo. better me than you.”

you swallow uncomfortably. 

“thank you.”

“i only have abbot to thank. he said we’re going to conveniently lower his pain meds and i said i was extremely in-”

you laugh, and then feel bad for doing so. while you try to come to terms with what john just told you, your head feels like it’s ringing a little bit. he didn’t have to do that, you think, feeling guilty about the patient’s pain. and then you remember the slimy way he’d spoken to you and suddenly you want to find jack abbot and give him a—

“so, you hold down the fort for us?” john asks, rustling through one of the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for—a packet of poptarts. 

“uh, i tried,” you say with a small smile. “incoming who tripped over his dog’s toy. i think it’s a broken tailbone. dr. ellis is waiting on the ct, and then i thought i’d catch up on my charts, so..”

“yeah, good idea. don’t wanna leave those until seven. abbot will-”

“i will, what?” you turn your head to look at where his voice came from, but you falter as  soon as you see it.

your yellow mug. in your attending’s hands.

if john’s confused, he doesn’t say anything. they keep talking and you hear laughter, see dr. abbot’s smile as he jokes around with john. your head feels like it’s ringing even louder, if possible. 

well, it’s not like you’d announced it was your mug, or anything. people in the hospital share stuff like that all the time. there’s other communal mugs too, you’ve seen them. you just usually keep it tucked away, but you left it on that table, and maybe he thought—

dr. abbot turns towards you and he puts the mug down next to your keyboard. you stare at his freckled forearm for a moment too long.

“i thought i told you to take a break,” he says, and your mind goes empty.

your gaze flicks between the cup of coffee, that somehow looks exactly like the cup you make every night, and your attending, who is staring at you.

“i…i did take a break,” you finally get out, quietly. you finally tear your eyes away from your mug to look at him.

dr. abbot has incredibly pretty hazel eyes.

“it’s okay if you need a moment. that would have been a lot for anyone.”

“i… yeah, i guess so.” 

he shakes his head, blinking at you. 

“not a guess. i know it was. did you eat something, at least?”

“yes,” you answer, suddenly breathless. “but there was just a patient, so i-”

“yeah,” john pipes up, and the two of you break the seemingly endless, prolonged eye contact. oh my god, you think. john’s been there the whole time, watching as you gape like an idiot. “parker’s with the slip and fall now. and young padawan here handled it all by herself.”

you feel like your chest is going to explode from the emotions swarming around inside. dr. abbot smiles at you, meeting your eyes again—

“good job, kid. drink your coffee.” 

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

he walks away, towards the trauma room where parker is. you have to force yourself to remember that he’s your attending, not just some guy who’s been sweet to you for the hell of it. his whole job is making you better at this. your chest still feels warm and fuzzy and you have to ground yourself, worried you’d float away with your thoughts if you don’t.

his job is to check on you, all of you. you’re not special just because—

“huh,” john says, peering over the counter and at the yellow mug resting by your hands. “he’s never made me coffee before.”

the coffee becomes a regular occurrence. each shift, around a quarter past one, your mug is delivered to you by your attending, no matter where you might be at the moment.

he leaves it at the desk where you type your notes. he hands it to you when you’re coming out from behind a curtain, telling you to sit down and drink it before it gets cold.

and before you can reply, almost as soon as thank you leaves your mouth, he’s off, walking in the other direction and going to help someone else.

parker and john have noticed. they’d be idiots not to. (one thing you know for certain is that you are the only idiot on the night shift.)

you try to brush it off mentally, almost like if you admitted it, if you said it out loud or even thought about it for too long, the walls would come crashing in around you. 

you have so much on your plate as it is. you’ve just started getting better at this, having a better grip on your emotions, not spiraling every time you don’t know the answer to a question or getting nervous when someone looks at you for instructions.

you push it aside and decide it’s because you feel comfortable with your coworkers. not that you hadn’t before—but the fear of failure was so much more jarring with the day shift. the night shift seems decidedly more calm. there’s less people, so less opportunities to embarrass yourself. everyone’s been nothing but kind so far. 

you feel supported and encouraged. and when dr. abbot tells you that you’ve done a good job you feel every nerve in your body tingle with joy. and when you drink the coffee he made you, it tastes better than any cup you’ve ever made yourself. 

you used to have a countdown until your next day off, mentally ticking off the shifts, waiting for minutes and seconds to pass until you had a day of freedom, but now—

whatever jack abbot has done to you, it makes you want to work every day of the week. 

and much to your displeasure, that’s not how the schedule works.

𝜗ৎ

when jack comes in at six forty-five, he thinks it’s a little weird. something feels off. parker shows up at six-fifty. shen at seven on the dot with his iced coffee.

and you are usually here at six-forty, five minutes before him. you’ve usually put your jacket on that chair you always sit at and have your ridiculously bright water bottle perched under the counter, waiting to be pulled out when you start your midnight charting session. 

his eyes linger on your empty seat during sign-offs. he thinks he’s not being very obvious, until—

“even interns have days off, you know,” parker says, and john nods in agreement. jack hears the familiar noise of ice moving as john shakes his drink.

“actually, two. tonight and tomorrow night. golden weekend for the intern,” he replies, shaking his head. “where was mine when-”

parker and john continue chatting, but it fades into background noise. he doesn’t even realize they’re poking fun at him, that it must be obvious that he’s searching for you, even on your day off.

he’s your attending. he should really know about things like that. but you hadn’t brought it up last night, not even when he’d brought you your usual cup at two in the morning, right when he goes to get another cup of coffee—a little behind schedule this time. 

you had smiled at him. sleepy. tired. thanked him sweetly like you always do.

you’d made sure all your notes were submitted and reviewed before seven, regardless of how much you yawn while finishing them. 

and you are currently out celebrating your first few days off since you’ve started the night shift. you must be happy, he thinks, with two nights off in a row, and that too on a weekend. you must be celebrating all the small victories you’ve achieved, all the patients you’ve saved. he’d make you celebrate double for every patient you helped that came in on an ambulance, because even though the two of you haven’t talked about, it’s clear as day to him that—

you’re celebrating right now. and he feels oddly unhappy about it, because he’s not there with you. 

and a few hours later, his head perks up at bridget, telling him to get ready for an incoming. female, twenties, alcohol poisoning. not very far from here, that bar just a few blocks away.

and by the time jack walks up with parker, the ambulance is already there, unloading the patient. he’s just pulling on his gloves, about to ask what do we got? when he hears it—

your voice.

his stomach drops. his feet move even faster, and then he braces himself, getting ready to see you on the gurney.

“you can’t escape this place, can you?” parker shouts, over the blare of the sirens. you take the paramedic’s hand to help you get off the rig. 

“i guess not. gcs nine, i think. sorry, i had a couple drinks too,” you say apologetically, like you should be chastised for drinking on your day off, as if you should have been aware this would happen. 

for a moment, you look back at the ambulance, blinking fast, chewing on your cheek, rubbing your arms. jack almost misses your expression—but he’s relieved you didn’t catch him staring at you again. all your attention focuses onto your friend once you walk into the hospital.

the girl on the gurney looks delirious and tired. her head is rolled to the side and jack’s almost positive her eyes are closed. 

“so this is where you work?” another voice pipes up from behind you. another girl, someone your age, he assumes, walks behind you, staring around. when her eyes go towards the fluorescent lights, she winces and looks down. “jeez. that’s bright.”

jack’s first question in these cases is always how much did she have? and he looks up at you to get the answer—you’re still saying something to parker, filling her in on whatever happened on the rig—and then he locks eyes with you.

parker’s placing orders and setting up fluids when jack realizes he shouldn’t have done that. it’s the first time he’s ever seen you out of scrubs, and he can’t stop staring.

your hair is done up all pretty, a little mussed up from all the commotion. your eyelids are glittery and your lips are shiny. you’re wearing a short skirt and he realizes he’s never seen the skin of your thighs before—

his eyes go up, following your exposed thighs to the skirt that’s going to plague him, all the way up past your shirt, to your fingers that are playing with your necklace. and then you two lock eyes again. 

“i don’t know how much she took,” you say, chewing your cheek, like you want to say i’m sorry, but you know better. “we turned around for five minutes and she was downing shots-”

“that’s okay, kid-”

“well, i didn’t think she’d take all of the shots,” your other friend interjects, covering the light with her hand to protect her eyes. “we were supposed to be celebrating you, not her-”

“it’s okay-”

“it is so not okay,” your friend argues, and he feels an overwhelming amount of gratitude for her. 

because it’s not okay. 

it’s one of your two days off during the chaos of your intern year. you work the night shift now, which means you can’t just go out for drinks with friends anymore, because your schedule doesn’t work like that. 

and from everything he knows about you, he knows you don’t do things like this very much anyways, even when you were on days. he shouldn’t be annoyed, but he is, annoyed that your golden weekend was ruined. annoyed that you somehow ended up back in the hospital. annoyed that—

well, he’s not annoyed about that part. the fact that he gets to see you after he spent most of the last four hours grumbling internally about how you weren’t there certainly doesn’t hurt. 

the outfit you’re wearing—he can’t dream of being annoyed by that. the way you squeeze your friend’s hand and keep checking her vitals even though she ruined your night out. the way your other hand doesn’t leave your necklace.

all things he can’t be annoyed about.

bridget pokes her head in. 

“thought that was you,” she says, and you look towards her, turning your worried expression into a smile quickly. 

“what can i say? can’t go a night without my favorite charge nurse.” you stay smiling but shift on your feet, on what he assumes are uncomfortable, pretty shoes. 

“oh, i’m gonna tell dana you said that.” bridget’s eyes glances towards your friend, and then towards jack. he’s still staring. “you want me to bring you some scrubs?” she asks, facing you again.

“oh, no, that’s okay. we’ll just wait in here until she wakes up. thank you, though.” you turn towards your friend again.

and jack doesn’t need anyone to tell him that you’re nervous. that you feel bad. that you’re embarrassed that you’re here, that you couldn’t take care of your friend. 

“sure,” bridget replies, and then she looks at jack again. there’s something in her expression he can’t quite understand. “got another one pulling up in three minutes. let me know if you need anything.”

“sure. i’m coming,” jack says, though he wishes, momentarily, that he didn’t have to leave the room. he walks around the bed, next to where you are, and your eyes stay on him. “she’ll be fine, kid. you did everything right. and i’m not sure how much closer you can get to handling an incoming trauma than that, so-”

you interrupt him with a laugh and a smile. a winning combination in his eyes.

“thank you,” you say quietly. 

“we’ll be back after to check on her. you should get some rest if you can.”

“yeah,” you reply. “i’ll try.”

your eyes turn back to your friend, and he slides the door to step out, and just as he’s about to close it, he hears it—

“so,” your friend starts quietly, still shielding her eyes. “which one is jack?”

“oh my god, shh-”

he smiles the entire way to the ambulance bay.

by the time he makes his way back to the curtain where they’ve moved your friend for monitoring, he’s seen three and a half extra patients, not including the incoming he originally got called away for. 

it’s well past two, and jack feels a certain… displeasure bubbling inside of him. it started the moment he’d realized you would be stuck here all night on your day off, and hasn’t subsided since john had made a joke about giving you some scrubs and giving you a few of the overflowing patients.

the displeasure rears its ugly head, and turns into something worse, something he can’t describe, when he pulls back the curtain.

(yes, he’s supposed to be checking in on your friend—the patient—but it was really an excuse to see you. he tries to deny it, tries to reason with his subconscious that he spends every other shift making sure you’re okay, so tonight doesn’t feel any different. he’s not sure if he’s winning that argument.)

your other friend is asleep in the chair. the patient is still knocked out, snoring now, with stable vitals.

and you’re standing, looking between the monitor and your friend while you yawn and rub your eyes. 

you turn at the noise and smile instinctively, fingers going to your necklace right away.

“hey kid,” he says quietly. he gestures with his hand, motioning for you to follow him, and you do, quietly closing the curtain behind you.

“how’s it goin’ in there?”

“oh, uh, good. they both fell asleep, but, i guess it is late for them.”

“but not for us. congrats, you’re a real night shifter now.”

you smile and laugh. you are tired, he knows, because he can tell. you’re supposed to be asleep now too, back in your own bed, without any alarms to wake you tomorrow morning.

you should be doing whatever it is people your age do on their days off. he wouldn’t have any idea about any of that. you’ve mentioned some stuff and he’s overheard others in passing—something about the public library and a coffee shop and those heated workout classes that sound like a nightmare—

“dr. abbot?” you question, saying his name quietly like you feel bad for interrupting his train of thought.

“yeah. sorry, uh, just wanted to come check on you-” you smile again, a little wider, before he realizes what he just said. “uh, you and the patient. but it seems all good, for now.” 

“yes. yeah, it’s fine. i can monitor, too. i’m basically sober now.” your eyes travel—darting from him to your shoes quickly.

“don’t let shen hear you. an hour ago he wanted you on the floor.”

you laugh—which jack has come to realize is his new favorite sound.

“no, he just hates suturing. i’ll be back before he knows it.” 

“sorry this happened on your day off,” jack says, and without meaning to, he moves his head, trying to catch your eyes. you look up slowly, locking gazes.

“that’s okay,” you say, sounding much too close to a default, rehearsed answer. 

he’s positive that you won’t give your friend a hard time about this tomorrow. that you’ll neglect to mention how you paced for two hours and didn’t sleep or sit down until you were sure she’s okay.

displeasure turns into anger at the very idea that someone might take advantage of all of your sweetness, all of your caring and your anxious nature that doesn’t let you admit that it’s not okay.

it’s not okay, certainly not when he’s seen you freeze up when you take one step too close to the ambulance bay. how you try to hide how you really feel when you hear the sirens pulling up. why, even a few weeks in, he’s still easing you in to the noise and the chaos as much as he can.

“it’s not okay,” he says firmly, eyes latched onto yours. 

you blink fast, tears suddenly welling up at his words. that’s silly, you think, crying over your attending’s words. he’s just trying to make you feel better, like he always does. in that moment, standing in front of jack abbot, you realize that he doesn’t really have to try. 

he does make you feel better.

“it’s just that sound,” you admit quietly. you feel embarrassed but you can’t find the energy to care, not in your tired, barely-tipsy state. “the sirens. every time i get too close i feel like it’s that night all over again. it’s stupid, i know-”

“it’s not stupid.”

“no one else that works here feels like that. no one else lets it interfere with their work. it’s just me that-”

“it’s not just you. i promise it’s not. and there’s nothing wrong with needing to talk to somebody about it.” 

something in his chest burns and shifts, like lava seeping through his veins. you’re so young to be feeling this way—like you’re all alone in the world, with no one who can understand what you’re going through.

how can he show you that he knows? that he understands, probably better than anyone else in this hospital? that you should talk to him, not here, not even today, not in scrubs under bright lights too close to the source of your worry. 

somewhere else, somewhere quiet, where he could explain to you all the reasons why it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. talk to you about how great you’ve been doing. show you that you won’t feel like this forever—and that he knows because he didn’t either. 

it’s an entirely unprofessional thought that lingers for much too long. in a few months, you’ll be back on the day shift and this will all be a distant, faded memory. a few months after that you’ll be a second year resident and maybe he’ll see you on nights again.

but right now you’re an intern that he has no business thinking so much about. yet, still—

“how do you always know?” you ask, blinking at him. your wet eyes gnaw at him. he knows he’ll be thinking about them long after you’ve finally gone home.

“know what?”

“what i’m thinking. how i feel. before i say anything.”

“i know a little something about how you’re feeling, kid.”

“really?” you breathe.

“yeah. that, and you have a tell.”

“i do?”

“your necklace. it’s a wonder that thing hasn’t fallen off yet.”  

you smile and he smiles too, and he’s thinking about what he could say next, when your friend says your name from behind the curtain. 

“go ahead,” jack says, before you can think about apologizing for cutting the conversation short. you step towards the curtain and he turns to walk away, when he hears you.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.”

“you’re welcome.”

𝜗ৎ

just like you said, you’re back at work before you know it. monday evening at seven pm, you’re greeted by parker and john, who ask you how your friend is doing and joke about your brief interlude at the hospital this weekend.

and you tell them the truth—that she’s doing fine now, and has mostly learned her lesson about back to back shots past a certain age. 

what you don’t fess up to is how thoughts of your last conversation with jack have kept you completely preoccupied through the rest of the weekend. they don’t need the details of that, though you feel like you’re suddenly hiding something. 

you don’t like that feeling, either. hiding something usually means you’re doing something wrong, which can have brutal consequences if you’re not careful. and you don’t know if what you’re doing is wrong or not, though your moral guide is usually much sharper than this. 

the truth is that jack abbot makes your head spin. 

you feel suddenly breathless when he turns towards you to quietly ask you a question—usually revealing that he already knows something about you that you’ve been trying so hard to keep hidden. you’re close to lightheaded when he brings you your daily coffee. you get dizzy when you think about someone seeing, someone noticing what’s going on between you and the attending.

because that is wrong. you can’t justify that. attending-intern relationships are strictly frowned upon—you know this because they made you sit through a seminar at orientation with all the other first-years.

you also know this because you’re not that much of an idiot. you’ve watched the steamy doctor tv-shows. you’ve even lived it these last few months, when you overhear nurses gossiping about some resident upstairs who fell for the married attending.

john and ellis are still talking about something you can’t pay attention to when your heart starts racing. you think of how it might feel to be the intern that everyone’s talking about, for everyone to know that you have feelings for jack—

shit, you think. his name is dr. abbot. dr. abbot, your attending, not jack, the guy who seems to know you better than you know yourself. 

dr. abbot, dr. abbot, dr. abbot—

you conclude that you’d have to find a new job. you remember how overwhelming and scary the process had been to find this job, but you think there could be nothing worse than leaving right now.

you’d just began making progress again—the good kind, that makes you excited over small victories, and has you less and less nervous with each shift that you complete. co-residents that you feel comfortable with, that you can approach with questions easily. nurses that you can make silly jokes with. 

you feel like more and more of yourself is coming back with each night shift.

(you have to ignore why exactly that is, just to stomach the thought.)

you can’t possibly mess it up now, you decide, taking the ipad from parker and visiting your first patient of the evening for an evaluation of a burn. 

you repeat it to yourself while you debride the wound—you can’t mess this up when you finally have something to lose. you remind yourself of it when you finish up with the patient, trying to find john instead of dr. abbot to report back to. 

you almost zone out to your thoughts while bridget asks you about your friend from this weekend when she comes to help you with the discharge papers.

and you keep it going for as long as you can, doubling down even more when you hear gossipy chatter coming from somewhere behind you as you try to type up your charts during a brief lull.

you can barely deal with everyone knowing that you couldn’t handle the day shift anymore, much less the fact that you’re falling in love with your—

“hey, kid,” he says, and you look up so quickly that you feel your head rush. “you okay?”

the strength that was holding what little resolve you had melts down like ice cream in the sun. jack abbot, six hours into a busy shift, checking in on you during what’s likely his first opportunity all night to sit down.

“i’m okay,” you reply quietly, trying to move your eyes back to your computer. “just working on these notes. do you have a patient for me?” 

you try to change the topic, hoping he’ll do that thing he always does, read your mind before you’ve even fully spelled out the thought yourself. 

we can’t be something that people gossip about at two am, we can’t, we can’t, i can’t—

“not yet.” 

jack leans against the counter, forearms set up right near the edge of your monitor. your eyes move between the screen and his arms quickly. if you look for too long you’ll start staring at his freckles, and you definitely don’t want that.

“i just wanted to ask, uh, how-”

“oh,” you breathe, interrupting him, even though you know you shouldn’t. you know what he’s about to ask. “she’s fine now. feeling a lot better. i talked to her this morning, so…” you drift off and blink at him, trying to regain your focus.

it’s just so hard when he’s around you.

“oh. that’s good,” jack says, with a small smile that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. “but i was going to ask how you’re doing?” 

you think that you must look like a confused fish right now—your mouth parts, your eyes widen, and you keep staring at him until you snap out of it. jack smiles like something’s funny about this, like it’s amusing that he turns your brain into a puddle of nothing with a few simple words.

you keep blinking, while a million thoughts run through your head. you’re so hardwired to worry about other people that you didn’t, for a moment, assume that jack was going to ask about you. 

and you’re so afraid of your own anxiety and the thought that you might be doing something to make your own life harder, that you spent a whole half-shift away from the one person that seems to have a knack for finding your off-switch.

“uh… kid?” jack questions, tilting his head in a mix of confusion and concern. 

“yeah?” you reply, the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. it’s getting louder with each passing second.

“how are you doing?” 

you breathe out and the sounds of the emergency department return all at once. monitors and the ceaseless chatter and even your foot tapping against the floor.

“i’m okay,” you answer, and for once, you’re being truthful. “really.”

“good,” jack replies, and for a moment, you stare up at him, wondering if he’ll say anything else.

the truth is that jack doesn’t need so many words to understand you. he stays like that for a moment, watching your shy smile and deciding that this time, he does believe you.

why you thought he’d be asking about your friend is beyond him. jack knows you took care of her even after you’d left the hospital that night. he has no doubts about that, not with the way you care and worry so deeply.

for a moment he lets his mind drift off and wonder how it might feel to be on the receiving side of it. 

“uh… dr. abbot?” you question hesitantly.

“yes?”

“i just wanted to say-”

“hey, abbot, just got a call about a multi-car pile up on the bridge. three incomings, five minutes out-” the shout comes from half way across the room. both of your heads turn immediately towards the nurse. you watch as john and parker move quickly on their feet towards the ambulance bay, and you even steady your hand on the counter, rising on your feet instinctively. 

jack says something back and turns to look at you. he takes a step closer.

“you don’t have to help if you’re not ready,” he says, locking eyes with yours again. 

the truth is you don’t know if you’ll ever be completely ready.

but you feel compelled to follow him, to help him for once, help the others, instead of being the one relying on help and strategic timing and praying for one less ambulance. 

“i-i’m ready,” you say, and once your feet start moving, they don’t stop. you follow jack to the ambulance bay, pulling out a yellow gown and blue gloves for yourself. 

if parker and john are surprised, they don’t say anything. they head outside first and while you quickly tug on the gown, you feel him standing behind you. jack ties the strings behind your neck and waist. warmth radiates from his touch and would make you a little feverish if you weren’t so anxiously awaiting the incoming.

you half expect him to say something about it being okay if you need to leave or tap out, because you know, even now, what he must think of you. you’re still figuring out your trauma skills and this is the equivalent of being thrown into the deep end, and still—

every time you think you know what jack abbot is going to say to you, you end up surprised.

“if you need something, just let me know, okay?” jack says quietly, and you find yourself nodding. 

he doesn’t seem like he’s doubting your abilities. he doesn’t seem like he’s worried that you’ll run out in the middle of the trauma or freeze up to the point that you’re politely asked to leave, like you had during the day shift.

it seems like, to the best of your discernment, that jack believes in you. he thinks you can do this and you don’t want to prove him wrong. 

you and jack follow parker and john outside, and as the sound of the ambulance sirens gets nearer, your hand creeps towards your neck. but when jack meets your eyes again, you feel it fall somewhere by your side. 

it must be silly, the way it feels around him. the noise of the sirens is dimmed. the voice in your head quiets down enough for you to hear and process your own thoughts. 

that’s exactly what happens. you end up on opposite sides of the patient, a woman who looks only a few years older than you. so far she’s got broken ribs from the airbag and a fractured leg. your job is on the e-fast, and you go through the views, glancing up at jack and parker for confirmation while you state your findings. 

you shift over to the other lung when you see it on the monitor, a black area that makes you stop in your tracks.

“there’s a huge hemothorax on the left-” you start, adjusting your probe to get a clearer view. 

“she can thank the airbag for that,” john comments. someone had read the vitals out just a few minutes ago, and you find yourself wondering how she’s still stable with this much fluid in her chest. a nurse pokes her head into the room, telling them that parker needs help, and john leaves, telling jack he’s got it. 

the thought comes up and around your head quickly—you don’t know everything. another one, more quietly—leave it to the real adults, you’re just an intern. 

but today is not the day to listen. 

because you’re not afraid of being wrong around him. because there’s no punishment for you if you say the wrong thing. there’s no one coming to drag you away. just the soft hazel of jack’s reassuring gaze on you.

“i think we need to intubate, because-” you’re interrupted by the blare of the monitor. another nurse reads off the vitals, her oxygen tanking quickly, and you watch as they bring the ambu bag to her face.

“good call,” jack says to you. “c’mon, kid. you up for it?”

you nod. 

you’ve intubated before—a few trauma patients and the dummy in the skills lab pop into your mind immediately—but this seems a little different. you position the scope into the patient’s mouth while the nurse pulls the et tube from a drawer for you.

and it’s almost like muscle memory. the patient’s head is tilted back, you move the tongue, and just as you’re holding the tube in your hand, scope heavy in your other one, getting ready to insert it, you freeze.

it seems like an eternity. the tube in your hand is moving in slow-motion, but your mind locks up. there’s a million thoughts in a second—starting and ending with the last time you intubated someone. 

it was a young girl from pittfest and though you’d thought she was stable, she wasn’t. you’d also thought you could do it, but just like then, you’d frozen up for a moment. that day, luckily, mel had been walking by and helped you. luckily, they got her up to surgery in time.

but it wasn’t because of you. you had almost failed her.

and you’d thought that some other day you’d be alone, without anyone to help, and you’d have to figure it out by yourself, and you’d fail. 

you’d fail yourself. fail your patient. let that poor girl die or get irreparable brain damage from hypoxia because you weren’t fast enough. 

they tell you that in emergency medicine, the difference between life and death is a matter of seconds. 

and this does take a second—one, maybe two—to think and process. to debate—flight or fight? which one will you step up to today?

and then one glance at jack standing next to you, looking at you intently, but not with concern, not with fear or worry, but rather something closer to trust. waiting for you to keep going. the safety net that he provides feels like a catch-all that could protect you through anything and everything.

you extend the neck further until you’ve got a straight shot down to the vocal cords. the tube glides in and by the time you secure the bag and check the end-tidal, the surgery team in rolling in to pick up where you and jack left off. 

another head pokes in—bridget, telling jack that john and parker need him, and he looks back at you quickly.

he says good job, kid, and leaves, and you stay there, a little stunned at yourself, filling in the gaps for the surgeons, answering questions and watching as they work quickly, seeing where you can help.

in that moment, there’s no time to overanalyze everything. you work as quickly as you can to do the best you can for your patient. you don’t stop to think that you’re doing the wrong thing, that judgemental eyes will cast down on you if you take an extra second to think about your answer.

it comes back like a soreness, the good kind, like a muscle you’ve been neglecting to train. 

by the time she’s been wheeled up to surgery, you take a breath and slump your shoulders. one of the nurses is on the phone, calling the patient’s emergency contact number, but you ask if you can do it instead. 

you call her parents, leaning against the wall while you tell them that she was in an accident and was brought to ptmc, and that she has a few broken bones, one of which punctured her lung. you tell them that the team was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery, and the relief in their voice, and the feeling that you helped contribute to saving her, gives you a rush unequal to anything you’ve ever felt.

it’s almost strange, feeling adrenaline rush through you and causing this sort of reaction. usually it’s coated in anxiety, sticking to every thought inside of you, resulting in thoughts that you try to shove down and away.

today it’s a high. one that will likely only last a little while longer—there’s head lacs and chest pains waiting to be seen, and they don’t care that you were saving that girl’s life, just that you took so long to see them, and you’ll have to calm your beating heart when you start stitching people up, but for now—

for now, you want to find jack and thank him for believing in you. 

there were three gurneys that came from the accident on the bridge. your patient is wheeled upstairs, another gurney is parked by the nearest curtain, with the night shift nurse practitioner whose name you still don’t know suturing their wound. 

and the last gurney is in the other trauma room, parallel to the one you’d been in. you peak in, but whatever excitement had been in your body dissipates as quickly as it had seeped in. 

jack is doing compressions, covered in a sheen of sweat you can see from the window. but from the way john and parker look at each other, there was no reason to keep going. 

you step away from the glass, wanting to give them privacy. it’s entirely unfair—you get to feel good about your save, only for the universe to take that feeling away from jack and john and parker. 

it’s almost an hour later that you see him. parker had come by and you’d given her the update on your next two patients.

“so, how was it? back on traumas?” she asks, and you smile, but wish you hadn’t.

“reminded me why i’m doing this,” you answer sincerely. “i’m sorry about your patient, though. can i do anything?”

“no, but thanks. his family should be here soon.”

“do you want me to-”

“nah, don’t worry. we’ll work on these discharges. abbot will want to speak to them himself.” 

you swallow uncomfortably.

“yeah, of course.” you pause, tiptoeing the line between professional and self-serving. “do you know where he is?”

“if i had to guess, the roof.”

“w-why would he be on the roof?”

“uh,” parker starts, trailing off. you look at her with a quizzical expression, but before she can meet your eye, she’s looking somewhere in the distance behind you. her face changes too—into an expression of surprise. “to get some air. but forget i said that. he’s over there. and i think he’s looking for you.” 

“me? uh-” parker doesn’t wait for your answer, taking off towards the curtains.

when you turn around, jack is walking towards you with your yellow mug in his hand.

“oh. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say, as he sets down the cup. 

jack is mostly a mystery to you. you know him through bits and pieces, you think, through how he treats you and how he is with the others. he makes silly, stupid jokes and always reminds the residents to eat when they can. he’ll take over any trauma if it’s getting to be too much for one of you. 

and he never fails to make you the perfect cup of coffee. sweet and much too delicious for regular hospital brew, though he has managed to perfect it. it can’t even compare to the cups you used to make hurriedly in between one and two during the day shift. 

you’re sure that this cup will prove to be no different. you take a sip, feeling the warmth rush all over you, and when you meet jack’s eyes, you know it’ll turn from warm to hot, like always. his stare is as intense as they come, right now during the lull between patients and in the trauma rooms like you were earlier. 

intense. in a way that you have gotten way too familiar with.

but when you look up to meet his eyes, they don’t seem that way. 

jack looks, maybe for the first time, the closest you’ve ever seen to sad. 

and it’s heartbreaking. for someone that you know through bits and pieces, it pulls at your heartstrings immediately. there’s no smirking smile, no reminder for you to sit and drink your coffee and work on your notes or take a break. 

you don’t actually remember when or where you’d heard it. something about your attendings—robby and abbot—and the roof and getting some air after a bad patient. you hadn’t understood it at the time, mostly confused, thinking if they needed air, they should go out to the ambulance bay. there’s a tiny bench by the side of the wall, hidden from plain sight, and when you used to go and sit there and cover your ears, you should have understood what they meant about the roof.

but he didn’t go to the roof today. he went to make you a cup of coffee instead.

something hot and smoldering burns inside your chest at the thought. you want to say something, say the perfect thing, the thing that makes him feel better and makes him laugh and makes the horrible, aching feeling of losing a patient go away, even if it’s just for a few heartbeats.

but you’ve never been good at that sort of thing. that’s jack’s job.

“you’re not okay, are you?” 

the words come out softly. too soft to be spoken to your battle-hardened attending. there’s just the two of you by the desks at central, everyone else running around or looking for a caffeine fix. but suddenly, it feels like the entire hospital is empty.

“don’t worry about me, kid,” jack replies quietly, and you feel your heart sink. “i’ll be fine.” 

he won’t be fine. this is the sort of pain that gnaws at you for a while, keeps working until it’s through the skin and down to the bone. jack will move on and treat fifteen other patients before sunrise but when he goes home, he’ll think about the one he couldn’t save.

that’s always how it is. you know it firsthand. 

and maybe for the first time, you think there’s not that many differences between you and jack abbot.

and he—well, he always takes care of you. always. in the room with the trauma. with the patient who harassed you. with your own emotions that are always battling against you. 

maybe it’s your turn to prove to him, show him that you can take care of him too—

jack turns to leave, about to pick up his hand from where it rests near your cup, but you move faster than he does, putting your hand over his. he turns back around slowly.

“kid, i-”

“i know,” you say quickly, not wanting him to finish his sentence. “i know. but i can’t just let you be sad all by yourself. you never let me be sad by myself.”

“i’m not sad,” jack starts, taking a step back towards you. your hand burns where you touch his rough, warm skin. “i’m… i don’t have a word for what i am.”

how silly, you think to yourself, that a few hours ago you were worried about you and jack abbot becoming hospital gossip. it seems so small and inconsequential now, when you look into his pensive, pretty hazel eyes. 

you’re holding your attending’s hands while you talk about the patient he lost. this isn’t just hospital gossip, it’d be front page news if one of the blabbermouths saw the two of you. but it’s so hard to care.

so hard to even think about that when you know what he’s feeling. hard to process that your all-knowing, all-seeing attending, who can discern your feelings from across the room, might be going through something just like you right now. 

that you might be the only person here today that could help him through this. that you might be the reason he didn’t go to the roof.

“it’s okay,” you say, supplying words that he’s told you before. “you don’t have to know what it is. i don’t either, sometimes. but, you’re not alone. whatever you’re feeling. i feel it too.” 

“you don’t have to,” he says, with a sad, quiet laugh. “you did great tonight. you saved your patient.”

“but i want to.” the words slip out before you can stop them. 

“kid, i-” you interrupt him before he can finish.

“it’s not about being happy or sad. you’ve helped me every single time i needed it. why can’t i help you when you need it?”

jack pauses, his intense gaze boring into your eyes. then he looks down at your yellow mug, and looks back at where your hands are touching each other.

“you already did.” 

“because you didn’t go to the roof?” you ask, biting your cheek. 

it might be too bold, but you feel like you have to know, feel like there’s an answer that’ll make your head spin. 

and jack thinks it too, keeping the thought in his grip tightly. 

something about how when jack feels like this, he doesn’t want to go to the roof for air. 

he goes and does the one thing that gives him an excuse to see you. 

you, with the uncanny ability to make him think twice about his feelings. you, that he’s looked at for weeks, and wondered why you doubt yourself, why you feel like this, like he used to, when he’s there to help you through it. and so caught up in those emotions, he forgot that at the core of all of this, is the way you think about everyone and everything in this hospital.

think about what others are feeling, what others are thinking. what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. the overthinking intern that he wanted to coax into trusting your gut and calming your fears, while almost forgetting that it’s also your biggest strength.

you can see through jack in an instant. you see the worry and the pain underneath—the urge to take care of everyone stemming from a need to fix what he can, to make sure that the things he does have control over are taken care of. how uncertain it can feel when the things you thought you had control over fail you. when a patient doesn’t come back even though you did everything you could.

“because i didn’t go to the roof,” jack replies. 

“if it’s worth anything,” you start quietly, eyes fixed on your overlapping hands, “i’m glad you didn’t. i… i don’t know what i’d do if you went to the roof.” 

“you’d figure it out, kid.”

“maybe,” you reply, reflecting his sad smile back at him. your hand feels like it’s holding his a little tighter. “but i sure don’t want to find out.”

you use your other hand to take another drink, setting the cup closer to him. jack picks it up and takes a sip.

and he turns and leaves, going towards the viewing room and waiting for the family—a wife and two young kids. you stay there and finish your notes. 

and until seven am, the two of you don’t stop thinking about each other.

𝜗ৎ

robby finds jack at six-fifty am on a wednesday morning. the shift was no different than any other, though he has a harder time remembering the patients and the traumas now than he ever has before.

jack skims through his memories and picks up a few easily—the cup of coffee he made you at midnight. the way you took a sip and then offered him one. he drank it, even though it’s insanely sweet compared to the way he takes his—just plain black. he remembers bringing you a protein bar at three, your sweet smile followed by a yawn, and the faded purple of your underscrub today.

“jack?” robby asks, and he blinks. 

“uh, yeah? sorry. lost my train of thought.”

“no problem,” robby says, more confused than suspicious. “was your shift okay?”

it’s a harmless question which also carries the weight of a freight train. okay is relative these days, jack thinks, because there’s a bias forcing him to think he’s okay, even when he’s not.

or rather—making him think he will be okay, even if he’s not right now. you sit next to him for thirty seconds and talk to him in a soft, gentle voice like no one else should be allowed to hear what the two of you are saying.

and then you smile at him with reassurance, something you’ve had to work on since he got you here. it’ll be okay. we’ll be okay. 

“it was okay,” jack answers. “what’s up?” he stretches his neck, trying to see where you’ve gone off to. you had helped him with the last incoming car accident at six, who is currently stable and waiting in trauma two for surgery. you had done the e-fast, intubated, found a pouch of free fluid and two broken ribs.

and he found himself smiling on the way out, telling you good job, teasing you without meaning to. you feel warm and don’t say anything but you don’t stop smiling either.

you’re smiling now, talking to king and kwon about your sign-offs. 

it wasn’t even that long ago, he thinks, maybe yesterday or the day before. joy had come up to him around seven, groaning as she handed him the tablet he was searching for.

“get me out of here,” joy had said, and jack had looked at her with his usual, confused expression. her gaze is focused somewhere across the room, and when he looks to see what she’s looking at, jack finds himself smiling.

you. you’re talking to the new nurse—emma, he thinks—smiling and laughing with her. the two of you were wearing the same flower-patterned underscrub.

“what?” jack asks, and joy tears her eyes away from the two of you (mostly emma, he surmises), before groaning again.

“dr. bambi and nurse thumper. i didn’t realize i was working at the woodland animal clinic.” 

he turns back to look at you, finding himself agreeing with that assessment. dr. bambi can’t be the worst nickname he’s thought secretly in his head before. the others aren’t nearly work-appropriate.

“be nice,” jack says, though he knows joy doesn’t mean it like that. he beats around the bush—the two of them are two idiots in a pod, staring at that coworker they’re not supposed to be staring at.

“now those two could have saved bambi’s mother, i’m sure.”

jack snorts. even looking at you now, the memory feels fresh. dr. bambi—

robby clears his throat.

“uh, well, i’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to bring her back to days. what’d you say?”

jack whips his head back.

“what? she just got here-”

“it’s been almost a month. and it seems like she’s doing great. i mean, i’m noticing a big change. haven’t you?”

fuck. 

something in jack stirs, a sad, ugly thing that rears its head. he wants to lie, instantly, for purely selfish reasons. to keep you by his side a little longer, to protect the little bubble the two of you work inside of. a bubble made of late night coffee and early morning smiles and taking care of each other without really trying that hard. 

it’s always been easy for him, he thinks, to try and take care of you. he’s only just begun to realize that it might be easy for you too, to take care of him. 

and he’s selfish, he wants to keep you there forever. if not just for him—

he wants you where he can see you, can reassure you, can make sure you don’t go back to that place he just snuck you out of—full of doubt and fear and anxiety. 

but it is for him, at the same time. you push away thoughts that he once felt he could never escape from. teaching you a new procedure or complimenting your work gives him a rush unequal to anything else—your grateful smile is just one part of it.

he has been beating around the bush with it, taking his time, trying to protect you, protect this, whatever this is, not rushing things and regretting anything.

but now—

he can’t lie. 

lying would mean… saying that you’re not ready to leave. that you haven’t improved, that there hasn’t been any changes. that you’re not incredibly smart and competent, that you just needed a little push and a little encouragement and the safe space that jack abbot’s night shift team seems to provide you.

lying would hurt you. impact your education. if you found out that he said those things, things that he didn’t even believe, well, he might not be able to forgive himself.

he stares at robby, head swirling between the two ideas, wondering how, if at all, he can get out of this conversation. he briefly considers telling robby he’ll tell him later but right now he’s going upstairs, but robby’ll just follow him.

and you—well, you’ll follow him too.

“yeah. big change,” jack says, the words feeling painful to get out. 

get it together. she’s your intern. this is a good thing. 

right? 

“al-right, then. maybe starting up at the end of the week? friday morning? i can go talk to her before-”

“no, uh, i’ll talk to her. i got it,” jack says, and robby’s expression is more suspicion than confusion now, but he doesn’t notice.

and you feel it before you hear it—the noise of thunder outside, the strike of lightning. you’ve already had one car accident today because of the wet, slippery roads and heavy rain, and you’re sure it’ll only be worse as the day goes on.

you’re grateful again for the night shift, because now you get to go home and fall asleep to the rain.

(fall asleep and dream, because all you’ve been doing recently is dreaming. about your attending, about his kind words and actions and big hands that make your yellow mug look so incredibly small.)

you say goodbye to parker and john, watching as they disappear with their umbrellas to the parking garage. you usually walk to the bus stop, but you stand by the door, waiting for him.

for jack. it’s something of an unspoken routine—you wait for the other. he walks towards his car, and you walk towards the street, and you don’t say anything besides get some rest, dr. abbot, and he replies with, you too, kid. 

and that’s it—but it’s after every single night. and you’ve always been a creature of habit, so you wait, thinking he’s running a bit late. 

you stare at the rain—too heavy to brave it without any backup. you look through your bag for your umbrella, but it’s nowhere to be found. it would be obvious—it’s yellow, like your mug.

you must have left it at home. 

you unlock your phone, trying to find the rideshare app, scrolling when—

“hey, kid.”

“oh,” you breathe, your heart thudding in your chest, turning to face him. “hi.”

“i need to talk to you about something. it’s-” jack’s eyes flick towards your screen for a moment. “what’s that?”

“i, uh… forgot my umbrella,” you admit sheepishly. “and i didn’t want to get soaked walking to the bus stop, so-”

“you forgot your umbrella?” he questions, raising an eyebrow. 

you think a few weeks ago your face would burn at the line of questioning. silly mistake from a silly intern. now you know that everything jack says to you has an automatic layer of concern on top of it. 

it still makes your face burn a little bit, though.

“well, i-i didn’t realize it would be raining when we left.”

we. you shouldn’t have said that—it’s not even really the truth. you and jack leaving together every shift is not a promised thing. 

it’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself. 

you hope he doesn’t notice, and you start chewing on your cheek at the idea that may he does—of course he does—your hand coming to toy with your necklace when he responds.

“i can bring you home, kid,” he says, his hazel eyes staring at you with a different kind of intensity than you’re used to. 

he looks almost… wistful. 

you try to dismiss the thought—why would jack be wistful about driving you home? you’d be a filthy liar if you hadn’t imagined what it might be like to sit in the passenger seat of his truck, to listen to the music he likes, to watch his arms and hands while he—

“that’s okay, dr. abbot,” you respond before you completely give yourself away. “i can just call the-”

jack sighs, smiling a little, like he’s trying to hide it from you. but it’s not what his smile is usually like—sweet and amused like he’s watching a fawn walk on legs for the first time and resisting the urge to swoop in and help. 

it’s something you can’t quite place.

“c’mon. truck’s over here,” he says, and you drop the challenge immediately. you follow him out, through the door that you never go through, the one that you watch him disappear past every day when you leave for the bus stop. 

and stupid as it is, when you walk towards the passenger side of his truck, you notice that he’s following you instead of going to the driver’s side.

“oh. um, do you-?” you get out, a little confused. 

jack steps in front of you, opening the door. 

“oh. thank you.”

“you’re welcome, kid,” he says. you take a seat and he shuts the door, pausing for a moment outside the window while you put your seatbelt on. you meet his eyes through the glass for half of a heartbeat before he walks away.

when he takes his seat and puts on his seatbelt, you realize you’re terrible at this.

“are you okay?” you ask, staring at him.

it’s gloomy outside and the sky is painted in gray and white, the heavy rain making everything a little damp and slow. including your brain. 

but you can’t help it. something seems off about jack today and you need to know what before it drives you crazy. 

normally, you imagine you’d be beside yourself at the idea of sitting in his truck and soaking in the feeling of knowing that he’d drive you home even when it’s out of his way, but you can’t think of that when there’s something he’s not telling you.

“i’m fine, kid,” he says, and you don’t believe him for one second.

you decide to be bold.

you take your hand and put it over his, and he turns to look at you. you think this is what it feels like to melt. jack’s eyes reveal whatever he doesn’t want to tell you, and you feel your heart start to beat faster.

“what is it? it’s okay. you can tell me,” you say, starting to get nervous. 

his skin feels warm where you’re touching it, realizing this is twice in a week that you’ve held jack abbot’s hands in your own. 

the thought is… grounding. like there’s nothing that could be so bad as long as you have him with you to help you get through it. you think stupidly that you could do anything if you had him with you. 

you had already done everything with him beside you. 

“kid, i…” jack trails off, and your fingers twitch, rising for a moment, as though perhaps you’ve done the wrong thing.

oh god. had you completely misread this—was this something else entirely? 

you thought being in his car meant you were a step closer to whatever it is that you want to be, whatever it is that the two of you won’t put into words or even coherent thoughts. it’s just the semblance of hope that hangs in the air, that maybe, somehow, someday, this might be more than just an attending and his intern. 

had you misjudged him this badly? the thought lingers for a second, and you pick up your hand, bringing it back to your lap like a child who just got scolded for doing something wrong.

“i’m so sorry, i-”

“no, no, it’s not that,” jack starts, staring at you with those eyes again. he looks away, running a hand through his messy curls, and you watch, your heart dropping into your stomach. the light catches on his wedding ring.

“it’s okay. i-i can just walk home. we, um, we shouldn’t, if you don’t want to-”

“no, kid, it’s not that.” jack keeps his eyes focused on the dashboard, his hand tightening around the wheel. you watch the veins of his arms tense up. “robby, uh… robby wants you back on the day shift. i was trying to figure out how to tell you inside.”

oh. 

you swallow uncomfortably, not sure if this is better or worse. your mind starts to spin, creating two alternating scenarios that start to fight with each other. robby wants you back on the day shift. you’ve finally done what you set out to do in the first place, earned your way back, gotten better at this job the way you’ve always wanted to—

but it’s only because of jack. his gentle guiding. the way he doesn’t stop believing in you even when you’re having a severe deficiency in that area. the way he makes you coffee that tastes perfect every time. the way he knows when you’re feeling anxious before you can even process—

“hey,” he says, and you blink, looking up at him. “what’re you thinking?”

“i… do you think i should go back?”

“i-,” he pauses, taking a breath. “i think you’re ready to. you’ve been doing great these last couple of shifts. it’s not about what i think though. it’s about how you feel.”

and the way jack says it, with so much sincerity that it’s practically dripping from him, makes your heart thud around in your chest. the blood rushes to your ears at the thought—no more night shift.

no more sleeping in until the afternoon. scheduling appointments during the day and not missing them when the day shift runs over. actually having time to finish your charting instead of staying behind until eight pm to catch up.

no more jack abbot.

the realization hits you squarely in the chest, getting hard to breathe like walls are closing in around you. it’s not that serious but it is that serious. you even try to justify it internally while jack looks at you with what can only be described as pure concern in his eyes.

you’re just scared—no more jack means having to face your shifts alone. the safety net would be gone, and it’s just as well—it’s not like you could have relied on him forever. robby’s a different type of mentor. he’s not going to walk you through your freeze-ups or notice when you’re playing with your necklace that it means you need a break. 

no, robby couldn’t do any of that. nor, you think, is it his responsibility. his job is to run the emergency department and make sure that everyone inside is running too.

everything that has happened in the last month has been something special—something born of jack’s desire to take care of you, for whatever reason he had decided on. 

you hadn’t asked and he hadn’t pushed, it had just come together the way it did. and it was nothing short of perfect.

and now, it’s over.

“yeah, of course,” you reply, hoping your face doesn’t completely give you away. 

you take a deep breath and then release it, holding your hands firmly to your side. you don’t want to make it any easier for him to see through your lie.

“kid, you can take some time to think about it. it’s not an easy decision,” he says, and you turn your head to look at him, tearing your gaze away from your lap.

he’s got his elbow angled, leaning against the steering wheel. the tight, dark shirt he wears looks like it’s a size too small in the dim light of his car. or maybe you just feel that way because his arms look ready to tear right out of the fabric. his curls are mussed up where he ran his fingers through them, but the silver still reflects brightly.

and worst of all—his stupid eyes and his stupid smile. looking at you like they always do—filled with concern, like there’s nothing more important than making sure you’re okay. 

you’ve denied it long enough, but now, with the very real possibility that this—whatever this is—is coming to an end, the thought doesn’t seem to leave you as easily as it has on other days. 

“well i had to go back eventually, right?” you finally say, locking eyes with him again. 

“yeah, kid. i guess so.” jack looks like he’s about to say something else, but you suppose he decides not to. he puts on his seatbelt instead, his hand moving to the gear stick. “c’mon kid. let’s get you home.”

𝜗ৎ

you tell jack your address, and just like you expected, he already knows where it is. you have to remind yourself that he’s been living in pittsburgh for most of your life, that the street signs and neighborhood names aren’t just words you throw around. 

he’s probably got a memory in every street corner. a memory, you think sadly and a little selfishly, with his wife who isn’t here anymore. 

you’re not the person who’s supposed to be seated in this passenger seat. you’re just the intern he’s a little too nice to at work.

and soon, you’ll be known as that girl who went back to the day shift.

you watch the black of his ring on his hand as he grips the steering wheel. he puts his arm around the headrest of your seat while he backs up, and he’s on the road after. you stare out the window, listening to the harsh, loud raindrops as they hit the roof of his truck. 

his car is just what you expected. clean, though not in the way that would scare you off if he was a stranger. it feels weird to think, but his truck is almost… homey. there’s pieces of mail laying the console between the two of you. receipts tucked into the sun visor. dog tags, maybe intertwined with a necklace, hang from his rearview mirror.

and it smells like him. 

you close your eyes for a moment, trying to soak it in. it’s your first and last time being in this car, being with him, if you’re really going to start the day shift again. 

his truck has a cd player, something you might have commented on if it wasn’t for your current state of mind. 

you’re too sad to think of something funny to say, so instead you lean against the headrest, listen to his beatles album, and watch the city waking up for the day. 

it’s four, maybe five songs before jack says something.

“we’re almost there, kid. are you-” he stops himself, trailing off. “are you okay?”

“i’m okay,” you lie. “just thinking about it, i guess. it’ll be a big change. i was just getting used to the night shift, i think.”

it goes unsaid—i was just getting used to you.

“you’ve already seen it during the day. a lot longer than you did nights. it won’t take that long.”

“yeah. you’re right.”

“i think, uh…” your head perks up at his words, wondering if he’ll say what you think he’s about to say. “i think you’ll be just fine.”

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

when the car slows down, the rain sounds louder. jack pulls into the lot of your apartment complex, putting his truck into park. 

you’re about to turn towards him, thinking of what you can say to make this feel different. to make it easier, but nothing comes to mind.

you’ll settle for whatever half-assed goodbye leaves your lips, when the heavy rain turns into a torrential downpour. 

“oh god,” you say, without even realizing it. the rain is hitting his windshield so quickly that you can’t even see the brick of your building in front of you. “can you drive home in this?” 

you turn towards jack, expecting him to be concerned about the shift in the weather. an annoying drizzle into the pittsburgh version of a monsoon. but when you look, he’s not looking outside. his eyes are on you.

“i’ll be fine.”

“maybe-” you start, a sudden surge of boldness overcoming your anxiety, for once, “you should wait it out. t-to be safe.”

“uh, kid, i-”

“you live across town, don’t you? i don’t think that’s safe. last thing you wanna do is end up back in the pitt at eight am.” 

he chuckles at that, and you feel satisfaction bloom inside of you.

“um, i can make us tea, if you want?”

“oh,” jack says. “i was just going to wait it out in here.”

“oh,” you echo, feeling your entire face burn with heat. “sorry, sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize,” he interrupts. “i could… go for tea.”

“really?” you question, not sure if he’s trying to play into it to protect your embarrassed feelings from entering into utter humiliation. 

“yeah, kid. i… love tea.”

(jack abbot does not love tea. he doesn’t even drink tea. the only thing he knows about tea is from when he makes you a cup of hot water on days where you’re too wired to have a cup of coffee. you keep little packets of the stuff with you and it’s always a new, odd color when he glances into your yellow mug.)

you end up on either side of your kitchen counter with jack abbot, tea lover. you’re both soaked, despite running to the door of your complex. his curls drip water onto the granite of the countertop, his shirt clinging to him as though it’s a second skin.

you feel cold. you’re in your damp underscrub, your scrub top thrown into your hamper. you bring him a towel for his hair and try to dry yours, before giving up entirely. 

the only thing that might make you feel better is a long, hot shower once jack abbot leaves your apartment. 

whenever that might be. in fifteen minutes, the rain hasn’t let up even once. you can hear it hitting the windows, the gusts of wind that sound scary, even from a few floors up.

you rub your arms as the kettle begins to whistle quietly. mugs, you tell yourself, opening your cupboard. you glance back to see jack drying his hair, his arms flexed as he stretches, and you look back to your significantly less interesting dishware with a dry mouth.

you put two mugs on the countertop, opening the drawer of your tea packet options.

“um, do you know what kind you want? i have a bunch,” you say, and he looks at you blankly.

fuck. maybe he shouldn’t have lied about the tea. he’s about to get caught red-handed, when you interject again.

“i have chamomile. it’s caffeine free, if that’s okay?” you ask politely, and he swallows hard, nodding.

“sounds good.” 

you put the packets into the mug and pour hot water over them. jack glances around your apartment. the entire place is a testimony to you. it’s organized but comfortable, filled with clean clutter and warm colors. there’s a candle you’ve almost completely burned through on the countertop next to him, and enough books to fill a library on different shelves in your living room.

you hand him the mug and he can’t help but smile—

it’s yellow, a carbon copy of the one at the hospital. in your hands is a third duplicate, as you swish around the tea bag. he copies your motions.

“so,” he starts, a little stupidly, because he’s unsure of where the sentence is leading. “chamomile.”

“yeah,” you breathe. “they say chamomile is good for anxiety, so…”

there’s something else, a suppressed thought that you won’t let out hiding beneath the surface. jack’s determined to get it out before he leaves. 

when you take a small sip, he does too. the drink isn’t half bad—he prefers the taste of black coffee, even if it’s decaf, but jack supposes he could get used to this too.

the second thought fills him quickly—there is no getting used to this. 

this is about to end. this is the final act, the goodbye.

“kid, i-”

“no,” you interrupt, a little out of character. “don’t. i, um… this is hard enough for me as it is. i don’t do good with change. in fact, the only reason i even did good with this change is because of-”

you don’t finish your sentence.

“i just wanted to tell you that-” jack starts, but you don’t let him.

“i don’t think i wanna leave night shift,” you blurt out.

oh. 

“that’s okay,” jack says, his voice trying to stay calm and steady. something burns inside of him though, smolders at your confession. it echoes his—i don’t want you to leave night shift. 

“is it?” you ask, picking up your mug to take another drink. “because i’m pretty sure i’m not allowed to make calls like that. i mean, if robby wants me back, i have to go back, right?” your voice sounds pained, something he really, really doesn’t like. 

jack takes his cup into his hand and moves a little closer to your side of the island. your mug looks comically small in his hands here too.

“if you’re not ready, then i’ll talk to robby. he’ll understand,” jack says. the liquid is still too hot to drink, but he does anyways, just to give him something to focus on besides your pretty, sad expression and wistful eyes.

“that’s the thing,” you finally confess, tears building up before you can stop them. “i am ready to go back. i just don’t want to.”

“kid,” jack breathes. “don’t cry. please, don’t cry-”

“i-i was trying to not think about it. about you. but it’s so hard,” you say, those tears that are much too familiar to him streaming down your cheeks. it’s no fair—you’re even pretty when you cry. “i’ve never felt like this before. it-it can’t be that wrong, can it?”

“it’s not wrong,” he says, taking a step to bridge the distance between the two of you. he puts his hand over yours, and your skin feels like it’s burning where the two of you touch.

jack swallows when your big, teary eyes turn to look at him again. 

“i… i haven’t felt like this in a long, long time,” he admits, and you watch him with careful anticipation. “i just… it’s wrong but it’s not. when he asked me if you’re ready to come back, i almost lied. just so i could keep you with me a little longer-”

you don’t wait for jack to finish this time. you lean up to find his lips before your fear can stop you. 

jack’s lips are soft, and his grown out scruff is scratchy against your soft skin. it’s hard to care, though, when he’s kissing you.

jack abbot is kissing you. 

“oh my god,” you breathe against jack’s mouth, and he pulls away for a moment, his hands coming to cup the side of your face gently.

“what’s wrong?” he asks in that light, calm tone that drives you crazy. it’s barely above a whisper, his hazel eyes shining down on you. you’re so close that you can even make out the specks of brown—

you answer with another kiss, pressing your lips together again. your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands leave your face, wandering down to hold you firmly by your waist. his fingers sneak underneath the wet fabric of your shirt until he grips the bare skin of your hips. 

you moan into the kiss. the feeling of jack’s hands on you is close to unreal. it’s everything you thought it would be and more, feeling how hot his mouth is, how deeply he kisses you. you don’t think you’re breathing but it’s hard to care, exactly.

you yelp into his mouth when you feel his hands on the globes of your ass. he hoists you up, placing you onto the countertop, your legs wrapping around his while he keeps kissing you. 

your hands pull eagerly wherever you can—namely, his stupidly tight shirt. the two of you detach for a second, just to get the stupid thing off, which takes a moment since it’s melded onto his chest.

but once it’s off, you feel your body go a little weak and limp. jack’s shoulders seem even broader like this, his chest somehow wider, his arms somehow bigger. you can make out the veins that you’re always admiring in the shitty hospital fluorescents, where they start all the way to where they end. 

it takes all of your power to not start tracing them.

you’re snapped out of the thought when you hear jack’s low, rumbling laugh and the way his chest vibrates with it.

“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, a little dumbly. 

“you’re cute like this,” he says, leaning in close again, his shirt discarded on the ground. you bring the palm of your hand flat against his bare chest, soaking in how his skin feels against yours.

“cute like what?” you ask, but you don’t get an answer. jack leans in for another burning kiss, and your mind goes empty.

you grip his shoulder, finally feeling the muscles under your hand. they tense and flex as he keeps kissing you, and as he moves his mouth down to your neck, your nails leave little crescent shaped indents on his frecked skin.

that’s the other thing—he has so many freckles. they’re all over, hundreds more than you had expected. he must have spent all of his life shirtless in the sun, or something, you think, before it dissipates. 

jack works his way to your collarbone, pressing a warm kiss there, over the metal of your necklace, and then another right on top of the pendant. 

you sigh, your fingers tangling themselves in his wet hair. you don’t pull, rather enjoying the sensation of the strands while you follow his head wherever it leads. 

he doesn’t go any further. you hold back a whine, letting go to lift your shirt off, when jack stops your hands from moving.

“what is it?” you ask impatiently. your lips are swollen and your eyes are blinking quickly at him. jack brings his fingers to your jaw, holding you in place gently.

“are you sure about this, kid?” you nod eagerly. “we can stop whenever you want. we don’t have to rush this-”

“stop talking,” you breathe, crashing your lips against his again. you’ve waited so long to do this—to kiss your attending, to be left breathless and flushed by him, that stopping it to talk seems so stupid.

jack’s hands go back to your hips as he keeps kissing you, swallowing your soft moans and whimpers as he explores your skin. finally he holds you in his grip, lifting you off the countertop while your legs tighten around his waist.

he carries you, leading into the open door of your bedroom, a yellow-walled room with gray curtains. he sets you gently on the bed, hovering over you, still not pulling away.

jack’s mouth is hot on yours, and you sigh into him, your hands resting on his chest again.

“jack,” you whimper, as you feel his hands tease around the hem of your shirt. 

“easy, sweetheart. lift up for me,” he instructs quietly, and you comply. he peels off your underscrub and then your bra, working down until your scrub bottoms are the next thing to go. 

you’re bare in front of him, just in your panties that you had no idea he would be seeing. you would have made a wiser choice, maybe, if you knew this was even your last shift with him, just in case, but—

“jesus christ, kid,” jack breathes, and you feel your stomach flip into a jumping jack over and over again. “you’re perfect.”

“stop talking,” you repeat, leaning up to catch jack’s mouth again. this time, his hands wander everywhere, exploring the miles of smooth skin he’s revealed, feeling as your body trembles under his touch. 

you’re sensitive everywhere, he can tell, and he wonders how to explain to you that he needs to take his time with you. you don’t seem particularly patient right now.

he pulls away again.

“jack,” you whine, but he doesn’t pay attention this time. he starts kissing down the soft skin of your chest, working down until he’s at your stomach. he wants to take his time—tease your perfect, peaked nipples until you’re crying, kiss you all over until he’s memorized the taste of your damp skin. 

you won’t let him right now, he knows, but the thought still lingers. he’ll have to choose his battles with you, and this is not one he wants to fight right now.

instead, he moves your hands into place for you, just like he knew you’d like. he arranges you until you’re squeezing your tits, fingers playing with your nipples while he stares at you.

open mouthed, gasping from pleasure, while he watches. and then, once he’s finally ready to look away, he rubs his nose against your clothed clit.

“jack—!” you cry out, thrashing up against him. he keeps one hand on your stomach to hold you down, his eyes glancing up to tell you not to stop, to keep going, like he told you. 

you comply, going back to teasing your sensitive nipples while he thinks about what he’s going to do to you. 

he places an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, lapping at the wet spot that’s already formed there. you’ll cringe with heated shame, he knows, but he inhales deeply, soaking in the scent of your wetness. 

there’s a thin piece of cotton separating him from what he really wants. he should really just slide it off, but it seems like too much work now, right when he’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

you look down to see jack ripping your panties, tearing the fabric into two pieces, letting it fall somewhere on the floor of your bedroom.

“you’re doing so good, sweetheart.” 

your head thuds against your pillow while you moan into the air.

“jack,” you beg, your legs beginning to shake. “please, jack, i-”

he doesn’t let you finish. jack dives in to lap against your leaking cunt, licking his way up and down until your moans fill the room. 

your entire body spasms when you feel his mouth tighten around your clit. 

“oh my god,” you cry out, fingers leaving your nipples to weave into jack’s hair. you keep them there, pulling his hair while you buck up against his tongue, feeling his nose nudge against your most sensitive parts—

until he stops.

“jack?” you breathe, your throat dry and scratchy. “what-”

he moves up slightly, just to take your hands out of his hair, and put them back on your chest, covering your tits again.

“oh,” you whisper. “i’m sorry, jack, i-”

“keep teasing your nipples for me,” he says, and your entire body feels like you’ve been lit on fire. 

your attending is saying those words to you, an hour after the night shift got out.

it’s something out of your wildest dreams, jack’s head between your legs, licking at your cunt like a starved man, his thick fingers—the very ones that you’ve watched insert chest tubes and plug bullet holes and save lives—are prodding at your cunt.

it’s hard to think about when he plunges two wide fingers into your leaking hole. you moan so loud that you’re sure your neighbor can hear you, before your exhausted, horny brain supplies you with the fact that no one’s home right now.

everyone’s at work. another perk of the night shift.

you listen to jack, teasing your nipples until sparks of electricity are coursing through your entire body. jack thrusts his fingers in and out, timing it with the way he laps the flat of his tongue over your clit, teasing you and giving you everything you want at the same time. that familiar hot, burning coil tightens in your belly, feeling even stronger when you feel jack’s brute strength keeping your legs pried open.

no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to overcome him and the thought is enough to make you cum instantly, though you resist.

it’s not until you feel it—feel him talking to you, or rather to your cunt, that you begin to truly lose control.

his lips vibrate around your clit, the words coming out low and soft. the obscene squelch of his fingers fucking you fills the room, and you think this is the wettest you’ve ever been—and he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

“c’mon, kid. be a good girl for me. like you always are,” jack says, repeating the words until you feel the ground beneath to slip out from under you.

“oh god, jack, please, please can i come, please-”

“come on, sweetheart. come for me, come on,” jack encourages you, and everything goes white. 

that tense feeling in your stomach tightens, and then gives out completely, snapping until the white-hot sensation rushes through your whole body. 

and all you can think the entire time is that it’s jack abbot making you feel like this. the thought makes you sink into your bed, eyes fluttering shut, fingers going lax against his hair.

you feel boneless and tired when jack greets you with another soft kiss.

“hi,” you whisper.

“hi, kid,” he breathes. you smile before you can help it.

your eyes dip lower, looking at the waist of his scrubs. you can see the tent where he’s hard underneath, and your hands start to wander there, but jack stops you. he catches your wrist.

“what happened?” you ask, staring back at his pretty eyes.

“it’s okay. we don’t have to do anything-”

“but i want to,” you whine, looking determined. “don’t tell me after all of that you’re going to leave me hanging-”

he shuts you up this time, pressing a searing kiss to your swollen mouth. whatever you were saying turns into a sweet moan, one that he gladly swallows.

he listens intently, keen on remembering these noises forever. your hands stay pressed against his chest, your fingertips digging in around his pec.

when he pulls away to let you breathe, you sigh with contentment. 

jack sits up, smiling at your wide, eager eyes as you stare at his every movement. he sets his feet against the rug of your bedroom floor, his hands moving down to pull on the hard shell of his prosthesis, tugging until it’s fully removed.

you slide closer to him, leaning against his back, your arms resting against his as you watch intensely.

“can i help?” you ask, your eyes moving to meet his, and jack releases a rush of air—a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“no, kid, i got it,” he says, turning back once he takes off the liner. his pants are next, his hands fiddling with the belt and the zipper.

you smile eagerly, excitedly, but he notices it again—your fingers playing with that necklace again.

now he knows what that necklace feels like against his lips.

“are you sure about this?” he asks again.

in another world, maybe you’d think it’s because jack’s having doubts. but in this one, you know he doesn’t. he’s trying to make sure that you don’t. 

“are you sure?” you repeat, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth and biting. jack hovers carefully over you, and you slink down into your sheets, until the two of you are lined up, bodies melting into each other.

“i haven’t done this in a while, kid,” he says, and you bite your cheek to hold back a laugh.

“that’s okay,” you whisper. “i’ll be gentle.”

you and jack both laugh, the quiet sound filling the space of your apartment. it feels unreal—jack hovering over you, his skin against yours, feeling the soft breath of his laugh against your neck.

you lean up, pressing a kiss to his nose. 

“you don’t know how long i’ve thought about this,” you admit in the form of a whisper. the confession feels bold, especially for you, but it seems like there’s no better time for him to know.

maybe, you think selfishly, if you tell him he’ll move. do something, anything, than tease you like this, without even trying to.

the thought is striking. jack abbot is too good at taking care of you.

“yeah, kid?” jack says gruffly, and you feel your body shudder under him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking gently, and then roughly, and it’s all you can do not to moan out loud—

“yeah,” you breathe, continuing on. “i couldn’t decide how it would be. gentle or-”

“always gentle,” he interjects. the words are in the form of a moan. that feeling returns to your stomach, hot and tight and winding up again. “always gentle with you—”

jack prods the thick head of his dick to the entrance of your cunt, moving it slightly up and down to collect your wetness. your eyes snap shut, mouth falling open at the sensation—unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

of course it is, you think dumbly. how could anything, any stupid toy or your own fingers compare to this? 

you suck in a breath and it turns into a cry, one that comes out as jack’s name, as he pushes in just barely. even the tip stretches you open, a delicious, gentle burn that washes over your entire body. you feel it all over, your toes curling—

“jack, please, please-” you moan, not realizing that you had started begging. 

he thrusts the full length of his dick into you, and your moan turns into a scream. you hold onto his arms like they’re a lifeline, your eyes snapping shut.

your ears are still ringing from when he made you cum all over his tongue. this doesn’t help matters. jack is speaking to you, saying quiet things that you’re sure would make you lose your mind, but you can’t hear it right now.

all you can think about is the stretch of him. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, and stupidly, you wonder how you were ever satisfied by his thick fingers. 

he thrusts in and out, his hips brushing against yours with every turn. it’s all too much—the fullness and the way you feel him in your stomach and your chest and all over, your skin burning as his pace increases. 

jack leans down to give you another kiss, hot and wet, and you finally hear whatever he’s been saying—

“you’re perfect,” he says, the words a stuttered, pleasured grunt. “you’re perfect for me-”

your eyes shut tightly, soaking in the words. you didn’t even have to tell him, you think dumbly, he just knew. 

isn’t that what he’s always like? somehow, he always knows. whether in the hospital or your apartment or inside your very mind, at the core of your being—jack abbot knows.

you meet his mouth halfway, lips colliding as hot tears stream down your face. it’s all too much—the emotions that are lingering behind every word, how jack stretches you out, how he’s ruined you for anyone or anything else.

you don’t let him pull away from the kiss, demanding more while the pace of his hips gets faster and faster. the noise is just as obscene as you imagined—filling your room, the sound of your wetness and the scent of you and him combined in the air. 

you pulse around him when he pulls away—murmuring more words of praise for you, making your stomach tighten and your cunt clench around him. 

jack moves a little and you whine—he’s suddenly too far away for a kiss. but you can only linger on the thought for half a second, before you feel his rough fingers tracing circles on your overly sensitive clit again.

your legs jerk up, trying to kick against him, thrashing as much as you can from the position. jack’s body weight still holds you down, while he fucks in and out of you, his eyes singularly focused on where the two of you are combined.

“oh, jack—!” you cry out, the sensation of his fingers and his thickness suddenly too much. 

“come on, sweetheart. be good for me,” jack says, and that’s all it seems to take.

he doesn’t stop even for a moment, working you through it while your entire body tries to jolt up.

it explodes through you, a match lighting a flame that leads to a brilliant, hot blaze that burns through you. it’s almost painful, how sensitive your entire body feels, your cries and moans reduced to a throaty breath, panting while you try to regain your senses.

the senses remind you that jack’s still fucking you, your sensitive cunt spasming around him, clamping down in a way that you didn’t know was possible. 

“jack,” you repeat, the noise coming out as hiccup and a moan in one. he leans over you, bringing your lips together again. “jack, please-”

you beg, though you don’t know what you’re begging for. but just like always, you don’t have to say it for jack to know what you’re thinking.

your nails dig into flesh of his back and you feel it—jack’s hips start to stutter, and he buries his face in your neck. he says your name and over and over again, until it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, and then—

“please, jack,” you beg. “i want to feel it-”

jack moans into your ear, his hips finally snapping almost painfully against yours, until you feel his body tremble. he finishes, hot spurts of cum filling you, making your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation. 

you can’t help but giggle when you feel jack’s body weight sink on top of you. it’s only a moment before he moves, but you think you could have stayed like that forever. 

he shifts the both of you until you’re nestled comfortably next to him, his thick arm wrapped around you, your eyes shutting again as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever.

“i think it stopped raining,” jack says, and you sigh against him.

“can you stay?” you look up to meet his eyes. he doesn’t give you an answer just yet, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to your lips instead. you smile at him and he smiles back.

you lean your head against his chest.

“of course i can.”

“jack?” you ask quietly a few moments later, from your place in his arms. 

“yeah, kid?”

“do i still have to go back to the day shift?”

“no, kid. don’t worry about it right now.”

“okay,” you agree quietly. “jack?”

“yeah, sweetheart?”

“can you help me put up the black-out curtains?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[redwinelewis]

MY MAN ON WILLPOWER | R. GRACE

type one shot (no part 2 requests please!)

pairing ryland grace x pilot!reader

summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust

word count 8K

content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.

a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language

masterlist | read on ao3

you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.

you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.

what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.

you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.

it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.

“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”

ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”

“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”

he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.

“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”

“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”

you sighed.

“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.

ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.

“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”

you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”

“so.... none of it?”

“exactly.”

pause.

just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.

“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”

“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”

you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”

he ignored you.

of course he ignored you.

the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.

for a second, nothing happened.

you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.

“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”

poof!

a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.

“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”

“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”

“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”

the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.

you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”

he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”

“define normal.”

“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”

you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”

“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”

you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”

“fair.”

then there was a beat.

“so.... that’s it?” you asked.

he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.

“that’s it.” he confirmed.

“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”

“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”

“great,” you muttered.

“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”

only for a while.

only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.

you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.

it should have been reassuring.

it wasn’t.

because about an hour in, you noticed something off.

not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.

you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.

“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”

ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”

“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”

“maybe you’re just stressed.”

you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”

you tried to ignore it.

it didn’t work.

because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.

you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.

“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.

except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.

this, whatever this was however, was far from it.

“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.

“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.

he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.

“....ryland?”

he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.

“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.

you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”

“fine. totally fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”

“you’re flushed.”

“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”

“....that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

you crossed your arms, studying him.

“you’re acting weird.”

ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.

“nothing. nothing. um—”

you frowned. “are you okay?”

“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.

“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.

by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.

“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.

ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.

he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.

your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.

you didn’t know why but it just happened.

you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.

you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—

you flinched.

jesus, what the fuck?

since when the fuck did you notice that?

nope. absolutely not.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.

it didn't.

you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.

that was a mistake.

because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.

your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.

and yet—

“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.

“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.

“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.

he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.

“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.

you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”

“you absolutely were.”

“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”

you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”

you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.

and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.

“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”

“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.

“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.

he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”

“obviously.”

“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.

he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.

“ryland.”

“....also very aware of you,” he finished.

pause.

“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”

“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”

you crossed your arms. “why?”

“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”

“i’m always here!”

“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”

you stared at him.

“more noticeable.” you repeated.

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”

“it sounded very weird.”

“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”

“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”

“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.

you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.

then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.

“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”

“all of the above, probably.”

you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—

“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.

he went still. “what?”

you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”

you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”

“i don’t have a better word!”

“well, find one!”

“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”

you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”

“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”

“yep.”

“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”

“yep.”

“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”

he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”

you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”

“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.

“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”

you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.

you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.

“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”

“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”

“we observe.”

“we hypothesize.”

“we do not panic.”

“we are absolutely not panicking.”

you were both very clearly panicking.

“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”

“no judgment,” you agreed.

“elevated body temperature.” he started.

“check.”

“heightened sensory awareness.”

“check.”

“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”

you folded your arms tighter. “check.”

“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.

“check.”

he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”

“attraction?” you said bluntly.

he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”

the word hung there, heavy but accurate.

you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.

not just the symptoms.

the pattern.

your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.

you frowned, thinking harder.

“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”

“toxins,” he said automatically.

“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.

“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”

“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”

“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”

“so it’s not attacking us.”

“it’s affecting us.”

you both went quiet again, thinking.

he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”

he stopped.

you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.

his entire posture went rigid.

“....no,” he said.

your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”

“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”

he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”

“okay....?”

“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”

“ryland.”

he stopped and looked at you.

you held his gaze.

“say it.”

he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.

“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”

your chest tightened.

“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”

your breath caught.

he exhaled, defeated.

“....pollen,” he finished.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”

“so it’s not pollen.”

“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.

you both paused.

“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.

“yeah.”

another silence. longer this time.

he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”

he stopped himself.

you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”

he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.

you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.

to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.

you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.

“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.

he nodded, equally quiet.

“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”

“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”

“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”

you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”

“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.

“oh, jesus.”

another pause.

longer this time.

he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”

“wait it out,” you repeated.

“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”

“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.

“not even in a funny anecdote way.”

“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”

he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”

you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.

really looked.

the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—

“ryland,” you said slowly.

“yeah.” he did not look at you.

“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”

he let out a short, strained laugh.

“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”

your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”

his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.

“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”

pause.

you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.

the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.

you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.

“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”

you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”

he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”

“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.

“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.

you both paused.

“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.

“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”

another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.

another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.

you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.

it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.

and yet.

both of you looked away at the same time.

he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”

you perked up. “yeah?”

“isolation.”

silence.

“what?” your voice came out small.

“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”

you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding.”

“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”

“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”

you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”

“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”

“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.

he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”

you stared at him. really stared this time.

“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”

“yes.”

“yao and ilyukhina are—”

“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.

“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”

“we’ll adjust.”

“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”

his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”

“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”

“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.

you took a step closer without thinking.

his entire body reacted.

it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.

that alone made your point for you.

you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”

he didn’t answer.

you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”

“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.

“or it could be days,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.

“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.

you stilled. “what alternative?”

he didn’t say anything.

which, unfortunately, was an answer.

you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”

“we really don’t,” he said quickly.

“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”

he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”

“ryland—”

“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”

you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”

“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”

“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”

“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”

“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”

“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”

he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.

“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”

“we might not have a choice,” you said.

“we always have a choice.”

“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”

he flinched. barely, but enough.

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”

your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.

“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”

“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”

“you don’t believe that.”

he didn’t answer.

you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.

“look at me,” you said.

he did.

“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”

his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”

“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”

“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”

“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.

“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”

you followed without realizing.

“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”

“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.

the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”

“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”

“is it?” he asked quietly.

that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.

“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”

you stared at him.

he looked away again, jaw tight.

“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”

“it is for me,” he said.

there was a beat.

“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”

“i know,” he said. “i know that.”

“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”

“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”

pause.

you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”

“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”

you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.

“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”

“at what cost?”

a beat.

he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.

his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.

“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”

you didn’t answer right away.

he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”

there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.

“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”

you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.

“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”

“maybe not,” he admitted.

“then—”

“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.

you blinked. “ryland—”

“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”

“even if it makes things harder?”

“yeah,” he said. “even then.”

you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.

“you’re really that set on this,” you said.

“yeah,” he said quietly.

another pause.

“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”

he nodded once.

“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”

“we reassess,” he said immediately.

neither of you moved.

just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.

like it could disappear in a second.

like he might cross it.

like you might let him.

his jaw tightened.

his shoulders went rigid again.

and for a split second, he looked like he might—

but then he turned away.

“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”

you swallowed. “okay.”

“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”

“right.”

—

you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.

you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.

“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”

another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.

your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.

ryland’s voice.

ryland’s face.

ryland's arms.

ryland's hair.

just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.

with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.

“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”

you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.

“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”

you closed your eyes and tried to focus.

in.

out.

in—

“mhmmph—”

pause.

you blinked an eye open.

what—

“mhmphhh— fuckk—”

—the hell was that?

you tilted your head slightly, listening.

at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.

but then—

“oh, please— please—”

it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.

and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.

you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall

unmistakenably ryland.

he was in the room next to yours.

awake.

and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.

he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.

heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.

is he—

no.

no way.

no fucking way.

another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.

you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.

dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.

option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.

option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.

you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.

“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”

you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.

“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”

you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.

you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.

your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.

“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”

a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.

you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”

a beat.

“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.

before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.

no turning back now.

inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.

ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.

you didn’t give him time to speak.

you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.

he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.

for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.

then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.

the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.

after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.

“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”

“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”

you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”

“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”

“current events,” you repeated.

“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”

“and that data is?”

“i need you.”

a beat.

“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.

“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”

“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.

you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”

“yeah?” he laughed too.

“yeah.”

“can i kiss you again then?”

you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”

this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.

you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.

naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.

you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”

“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.

“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.

you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.

only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.

then you started to move.

slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.

gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.

“ryland— fuck, just like that—”

“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”

it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.

“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”

you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.

for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.

ryland was staring at the ceiling.

very intently.

like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.

“....so,” you said eventually.

“so,” he echoed.

another pause.

you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”

he didn’t look at you.

“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”

you snorted. “wow. rude.”

“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”

“mostly,” you repeated.

“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”

you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”

“for the record, i did not consent to that.”

fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”

“unfortunately, yes.”

“and then to me.”

he hesitated.

“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”

you stared at him for a second.

then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”

“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”

“i could tell.”

another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.

“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”

he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”

“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”

“you did not hear everything.”

“ryland.”

he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”

“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”

“please, just kill me already.”

“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”

“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.

“just making sure.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”

“oh, constantly.”

“i walked into that one.”

“you really did.”

another quiet moment passed.

you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.

“....hey,” he said after a while.

“yeah?”

there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”

it caught you off guard.

not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.

you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”

he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.

“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”

you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”

he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”

another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.

eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.

you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.

he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.

“…me neither,” you murmured.

that was the last coherent thing either of you said.

because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.

[love-quinn]

— FOUND OUT.

summary — as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.

warnings — implied age gap (you're late 20s, i believe pope is at least late 30s but that's not even really mentioned at all), mentions of armed robbery, aggravated assault, etc all the stuff they do in the show, i switch between calling him pope and andrew, reader exclusively refers to him as andrew, this isn't a slow burn but the first half is build up, reader’s boyfriend is verbally, financially and physically abusive (physical isn’t shown graphically), smurf cody, slut shaming, pope gets stabbed (also not graphic), kidnapping, murder (and like lowkey torture? he’s trying to make him feel the most pain while he dies),

18+ mdni mild exhibitionism (they want the neighbours to hear), dry humping, pope almost cums in his pants lol, mentions of m!masturbation, fingering, spitting, unprotected piv (bad), sliiiight sub!pope i think? breeding kink if u squint

word count — 11.2k

note — okay listen. i've never written for pope, i've also never written smut before. i had this stupid idea and i texted two of my friends about it and they hyped me up and now i'm here. if this sucks, that's on them, alright. i sat down to write this and figured it would be like 2/3k at most, and suddenly it had been a week and this is by far the longest single chapter fic i've ever written. i have never written smut and it is honestly much harder than it looks, the things i do for shawn hatosy </3

Pope had been waiting almost forty-five minutes.

A long wait wasn’t rare at Doc’s—the service wasn’t why he came after leaving Smurf’s. The diner, wedged by the overpass, sat forty minutes from his house without traffic. Pope didn’t care for the service, the sticky tables, the flickering lights, or even the food. The eggs were too wet, the bacon too dry, the coffee bitter. The sandwiches were both soggy and stale.

Sometimes they had pie, and that was something. Not forty-minutes-out-of-your-way something. But something.

No, there was one reason that Pope found himself in the corner booth at least twice a week, and she was currently being yelled at in the kitchen.

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”

You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”

Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.

He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.

You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.

You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.

“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”

Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.

Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.

“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.

The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.

He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.

You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”

His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.

“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.

He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”

You nodded emphatically.

Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.

Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”

It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”

He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.

You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”

You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.

“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed  back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.

“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”

You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.

He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.

“Andrew,” you mewled.  “Need… fuck… need you-”

“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.

Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”

Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.

“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.

“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.

“What do you need?”

You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”

You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.

You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”

“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”

He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”

He stuttered. “In-”

“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”

He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.

He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.

You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”

His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”

You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”

He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”

Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.

Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.

When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.

Your beaming smile at the sight of him had helped calm his nerves somewhat, though. The soft kiss you planted on him calmed the rest.

[sluttylittlewaistenthusiast]

╰┈➤ 18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all the fanfics i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some will have summaries if provided <3

ᡣ𐭩 fic recs m.list

@cursedheartsclub

Almost Wasn't

You and Joaquin have been best friends since the Air Force—shoulders pressed side by side through deployments, shitty rations, late-night confessions, and every almost that never became something more. You’ve seen him fall in and out of love. He’s seen you pretend you don’t need more than friendship. You date other people. You go on double dates. But every time, you end up right back next to each other—too close, too familiar, too full of everything you won’t say.

Until one night, everything breaks open.

And it turns out, the only thing worse than wanting him all this time… is realizing he’s always wanted you too.

Mi Amor, Mi Guerra

enemies to lovers au

Already Best Friends

roommates au

The Boy Next Door | part 2

neighbor au

No Promise Of Tomorrow | @love-chx

you and joaquin work together and have sex--two entirely separate parts of your lives. but when you suddenly as for more one day, joaquin falters. a week long mission where another man captures your attention makes joaquin regret the words he doesn't say. but does it really change anything?

@yourauthorjen

The Best Day

a dating couple, a bouquet toss, and a wedding. what could go wrong?

Yours

a family was something you never thought could be a possible, but after joaquin torres you seemed to think differently.

Come A Little Closer

if there's one thing that pisses you off, it's joaquin torres who cannot take anything seriously.

Laughing with Joaquin during sex | @everydaydreamer

Redemancy | @phantomspiderr

The aftermath of sleeping with your best friend is never good—feelings grow where they weren't supposed to, and it drives a wedge in your relationship. Then things change...

A Little Distraction | @blank-potato

It's been a while since you've gotten laid, and it's starting to affect your concentration. It especially doesn't help when the person you're training is Joaquin Torres.

Miss Possessive | @petertingle-yipyip

So what if you were a little possessive? No one got hurt.

Naptime With You | @pixiexdusts-world

Joaquin’s girlfriend can fall asleep anywhere, and instead of questioning it, he starts napping with her. Before long, it becomes their favorite routine.

Safehouse | @geminiwritten

you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

Woman In The Chair | @kikismultifics

after a scare from Joaquin on a mission, and you're forced to patch him up (because he's too stubborn to get properly looked at), you realize that maybe your feelings for the new Falcon goes beyond just caring for him like a friend. When he realizes that you are in much need of a carefree night full of alcohol, you're forced to confront your feelings—as well as his.

Picture This | @codenamefalcon

The 4 times Joaquin knew he could treat you better and the 1 time you were ready to let him.

Everywhere, Everything | @myladybelle

being long-distance best friends with joaquín isn’t easy now that you’re on different teams. the more you talk, tease, and lean on each other, the clearer it becomes that friendship might not be enough for you anymore.

Spaces Within Us | @of-apollo

You fear that you aren’t a good enough girlfriend for Joaquin when your studies start to take up most of your time. Joaquin is there to remind you that the opposite is true.

[docrobinavitch]

that was me blue

dr abbot x f!senior resident!reader | read on ao3

content: 18+ mdni, widow!jack abbot, fake dating, sexually explicit content, age gap, discussions of miscarriage, discussions of surgical miscarriage, discussions of infidelity, dysfunctional family, discussions of divorce, wedding, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, mild violence, some named family members and ex significant other words: 26.7k synopsis: when the wedding invitation arrives for your ex husband's marriage to your little sister, you're tempted to set fire to your entire life. your attending, jack abbot, has other ideas. a/n: i had a blast writing this all the drama all the love all the hurt all the pining!! it's been a while since i wrote something for jack and i'm really happy to be putting this out just in time for dr abbot to be back on our tv screens!! title is based on the song me before you by bleachers. i hope you love it <3 syd (also i know i did not edit this well so i apologize in advance for the typos)

The night had already started off badly enough before you checked the mail. You'd slept through three alarms, stubbed your toe on the dresser in your rush to get dressed, and burnt your coffee all before leaving your apartment. In hindsight, you should have left the overflowing mailbox alone on your way out. You wished you could have foreseen how yanking all the pieces of mail out of the small black box that hung by the door would ruin your whole shift. Would ruin your whole week, really.

Getting into your car, you had tossed the mail into the passenger seat. It wasn't until you were stopped at a light about five minutes away from the hospital that you caught sight of the envelope. Pastel pink bows and your name etched in cursive.

Your heart dropped, eyes glued to the envelope, the rest of your body locking up, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"

Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.

After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?

Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.

Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.

Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.

She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."

"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"

Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"

"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"

"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."

"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"

"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."

You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."

Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.

"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."

You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."

You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."

"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."

As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.

You sighed, "shit."

As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.

But that wouldn't stop you from trying.

"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"

"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"

She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.

You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.

"Yes."

You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.

"That's it?"

You shrugged, "Yes."

He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."

"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."

"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"

You sighed, "Yes."

He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."

"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."

"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"

You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."

"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.

"I won't," you called back.

Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"

Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."

He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"

"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."

He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."

Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."

Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.

"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.

"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."

Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.

"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"

"You got it."

***

You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.

Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.

"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"

"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."

"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"

Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."

It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.

"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.

You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."

"What is going on with you?"

"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"

"You're too good for triage?"

"I know you're doing it to punish me—"

"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"

"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"

He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."

You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.

But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.

Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.

"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."

"Not now, later."

You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."

"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."

His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"

"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."

You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."

He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.

"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."

You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."

You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."

"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."

You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.

You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.

How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.

He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.

In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.

And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.

"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."

You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."

You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."

"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."

You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."

At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."

You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"

You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."

He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"

He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.

"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."

His grin widened, "Atta girl."

And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.

***

The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.

After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."

Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."

He frowned, "What was that?"

"What?"

"Did you just apologize to me?"

The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."

"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."

The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"

You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"

"Your sister's wedding."

You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."

His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"

You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."

Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.

"If you don't go, they win."

You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."

He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."

"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"

You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"

He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."

Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"

Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."

You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"

He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."

You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"

He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."

You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."

"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"

You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."

After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.

"I left my car at the hospital."

He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."

As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"

Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."

His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"

You snorted, "Seriously?"

He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."

Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."

"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.

You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.

But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.

"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.

Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.

You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"

"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."

"Mom—"

"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"

"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."

"He seemed nice. Handsome."

You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."

Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."

Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.

Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.

You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.

***

You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.

When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"

You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"

"You think I didn't already think of all this?"

He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.

You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"

He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."

You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.

He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.

You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"

"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.

"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."

He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"

You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."

The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."

You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."

He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."

You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.

***

As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.

You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.

"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."

It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.

"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.

"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."

Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.

But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.

Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.

You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.

When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"

You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."

"Yes you can and yes you are."

"Abbot—"

"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."

You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.

He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"

You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."

He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"

Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."

You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"

You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.

"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."

***

As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—

"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.

He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"

You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."

After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"

You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."

He frowned, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."

His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"

You nodded, "Yep."

"And they're… Fine with that?"

You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."

Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"

"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."

He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."

You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."

After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."

"What?"

"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."

You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?

So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.

***

A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.

You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.

What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.

He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.

And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.

He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."

You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"

"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."

He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."

Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."

"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.

He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."

"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."

"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.

He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.

"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.

"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?

"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.

"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."

He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.

But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."

Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.

"Mom, you remember Jack."

He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.

"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."

"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."

You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.

"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."

You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"

"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."

You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"

Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."

"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."

Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.

"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"

"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."

The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."

You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.

Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—

"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"

You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.

"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"

"Your cane or crutches or something—"

He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."

"But—"

"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"

You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.

Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.

He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."

"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."

Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."

"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.

"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."

"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"

Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"

You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"

"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."

You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"

Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."

You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."

Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."

You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."

He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.

"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.

***

Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.

A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.

No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.

Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.

There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.

So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.

Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.

So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.

That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.

You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.

You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?

You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.

***

"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.

"Do you need to sit down?"

You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.

Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.

"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."

You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."

"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"

"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."

Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"

Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.

Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"

Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."

"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"

You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.

"Could you kiss me, you think?"

Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"

Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.

Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.

It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.

"What do you think? Did it work?"

You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."

Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"

You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"

Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."

You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."

Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.

Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.

But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.

Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.

And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.

"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."

You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.

Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."

You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."

Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"

"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"

He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.

But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.

It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.

***

"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"

Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.

You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.

The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.

You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.

Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.

And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.

"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."

She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.

"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."

Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."

You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."

She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."

Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"

"You're lying!"

"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."

Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"

"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"

"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."

There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.

You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"

"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"

You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."

You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.

Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."

The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.

"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."

Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.

But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.

"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"

Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.

So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.

"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.

You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."

Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."

You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.

"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.

"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."

When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"

"That's not true—"

"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."

The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.

"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.

In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.

"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."

You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"

"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."

His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"

He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."

Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."

His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"

You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."

With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.

***

"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."

Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.

"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.

You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."

Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."

You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.

"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"

A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."

For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.

"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.

"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"

You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.

But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.

You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.

***

Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.

But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.

"So, when're you gonna tell her?"

Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.

"Sorry?"

"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"

Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."

Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."

Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."

"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."

He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."

Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."

Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.

He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.

He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.

You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.

***

After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.

Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.

You bit your lip, "Can I help?"

He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"

"I want to. Please."

He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.

You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.

He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"

"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"

He nodded, "Much."

You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.

You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."

He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."

You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."

"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."

You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.

"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."

"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."

He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"

He nodded slowly, "'Course."

As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.

When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.

He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.

***

Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.

When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.

"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.

Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.

You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.

In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.

As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.

The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.

You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.

"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.

"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."

He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.

"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."

"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."

He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."

You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"

He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."

"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."

As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.

"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."

For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.

You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.

"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"

You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."

That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."

You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.

***

Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.

But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.

He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.

You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.

But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.

When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.

You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.

He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."

David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."

Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."

For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."

When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.

"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.

"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.

You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."

"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"

He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."

"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"

Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."

He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."

You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.

"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"

Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.

"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."

You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."

Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.

"I don't need you picking me apart as well."

He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."

You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"

Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."

There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.

Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.

"Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."

His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."

He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."

It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.

Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.

But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?

Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"

Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.

You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."

***

Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.

His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.

It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.

He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.

The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.

But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.

When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.

You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.

Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.

When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—

"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.

Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"

You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.

Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.

There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.

But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.

And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.

He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.

"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—

"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"

Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.

Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.

"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"

"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."

He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.

This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.

At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.

Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?

But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.

After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"

When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.

"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.

"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."

You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"

He sighed, "That was out of line—"

You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."

Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."

When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.

He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.

You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.

"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think…Could you hold me?"

Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.

You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.

He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.

When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."

He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.

***

Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.

As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.

Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.

You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.

"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.

"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"

"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"

He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"

You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."

He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"

You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."

You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."

Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"

You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."

He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."

You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.

"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.

Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."

Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.

"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.

Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"

"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."

You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.

And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.

His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."

***

The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.

The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.

Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.

"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"

"Jack—"

"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"

Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"

You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"

He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"

You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."

He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."

You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."

"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"

You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.

After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.

Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."

You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"

His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.

As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.

"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."

Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?

***

You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.

"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.

You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."

And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.

You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.

"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.

You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."

Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."

You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."

You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.

"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."

You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.

Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."

"I'm just trying to help—"

"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.

She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."

You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"

"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"

"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"

"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"

You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"

"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"

"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"

"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"

It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.

"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.

Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.

"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.

"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.

"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.

"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.

Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"

"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.

David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"

You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.

"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"

"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."

David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"

Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"

"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"

"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."

"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."

You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."

"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"

Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."

"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.

You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.

And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.

You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.

You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.

You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.

"You can talk to me right here."

Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"

"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"

"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"

You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.

Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."

You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."

You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.

You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.

It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.

Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—

"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."

Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.

"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."

Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"

You frowned, "But I—"

"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."

You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."

***

Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.

When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."

David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."

Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"

Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."

Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."

With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.

There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.

"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"

She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."

Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"

God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."

Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."

She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."

Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."

***

You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.

You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.

It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.

It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.

And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.

So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.

For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"

"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."

You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.

It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.

"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.

"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"

He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"

You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."

His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"

"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"

"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."

Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"

"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."

You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.

"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"

"Yes."

He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"

You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"

He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"

"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."

His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"

He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.

"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.

Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.

"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."

Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.

You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.

The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.

Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.

So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.

***

Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.

On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.

"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."

Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"

"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."

Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."

She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."

Jack frowned, "I don't follow."

Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."

She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.

He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.

Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.

The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The third night, he snapped.

"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"

"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"

Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."

He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.

As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.

He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.

When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.

You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.

"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"

Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.

You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"

"I'm sick."

Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."

You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."

He tilted his head, "You don't?"

Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"

"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"

"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"

"Scared of what, honey?"

Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."

Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.

"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."

You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"

He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."

You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."

He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.

With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"

You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."

He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."

You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."

Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.

He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.

"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.

He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."

"Where are we going?"

"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.

He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.

Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.

"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.

"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."

"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"

You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."

He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"

"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"

He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."

***

It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.

You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.

Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.

"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.

His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"

You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."

His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.

Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.

Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.

When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.

His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.

"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."

Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.

"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"

"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."

There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."

As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"

"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."

"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"

Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"

"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."

You nodded, "Me too."

He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."

Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."

He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."

Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.

"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.

When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.

He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.

Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"

Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.

After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.

He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."

Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.

With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.

You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."

You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."

You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.

"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.

You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."

His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.

With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."

Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.

He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"

"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."

He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.

As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.

The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"

You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"

"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."

For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.

Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."

***

With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.

"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"

You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."

He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."

"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."

He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."

As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.

With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.

Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.

Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."

Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."

For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot was looking forward to the sun rising and a new day beginning.

[whytheylosttheirminds]

･:*:･ﾟpinky promise? ･:*:･ﾟ

childhood best friends to lovers w/ Steve Harrington

summary: growing up, steve was your favorite person, your best friend. but now that you're older, he's calling less and less, fading away slowly. will your hail mary attempt to draw him back to you end with you in his arms, or has he given up on you for good?

content: fluff, angst, smut. pinv, strictly 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon steve au (upside down-less hawkins)

wk: 8.9k

:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ.✧:･ﾟ.✧ *:･:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ

“Promise me you’ll always be my best friend?”

Steve holds out his pinky finger, and you know exactly what that means. You’re on adjacent swings, legs dangling over the thin layer of woodchips that wouldn’t really soften the blow if you fell. But you know that Steve would be right by your side, lifting you from the ground, making sure you were okay. 

You’d moved to Hawkins a year ago, starting school in the same third grade class as Steve. You were so scared your first day, you didn’t speak to anyone in your class. You could hear the cool girls in the corner of the classroom whispering about you. Arms crossed on the desk and head hung low, you fought hard not to cry. The first tear broke through at the same time a chair pulled up next to yours.

A boy with brownish greenish eyes, and a disproportionate amount of hair on his head for such a scrawny frame, smiled from the seat next to you.

“Hi I’m St-” 

The tear rolling down your cheek caused him to lose his train of thought.

“Uh oh, are you crying?”

“No,” you replied. But it was no use, the second tear was already falling and you could feel a third on deck.

Steve pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand, bringing the fabric to your cheeks to pat them dry.

“Yes you are,” he pointed out.

“Please, don’t tell anyone,” you begged him.

He eyed the girls in the corner, sending them an angry frown, then turned back to you, his small voice dead serious as he vowed, “your secret’s safe with me.”

“Promise?” You asked skeptically.

“Not just promise,” he raised his pinky finger out to you, “pinky promise.”

And from then on he got all of your secrets, and you got all of his.

So there on the swings, you dragged your feet along the ground to inch your swing closer to his, looping your pinky around his like you had been doing all year.

“Pinky promise.”

The years went by that way. Your best buddy Steve by your side, even through the awkward middle school years. Like the time a boy in your biology class said you looked like the frog he was dissecting and Steve punched him in the face and got suspended for a week. Or when his parents told him they were getting a divorce and you snuck into his bedroom window and stayed up with him all night listening to records until he fell asleep. He laid his head in your lap, his tears dripping onto your pajama pants while you pushed his hair back from his forehead and whispered, “everything’s going to be okay, because I’m not going anywhere.”

As you grew up together, almost everything changed, except that promise you’d made each other on the playground - you were still best friends. Even when you got your first period and realized there were going to be some things in life you just couldn’t talk to him about. Even when he shaved off all of his hair the Summer you were fourteen and you cried when he showed you, which made him cry and he didn’t speak to you until it had grown back. Even when you were in high school and his dad started coming around less and less and he entered what you now refer to as ‘The Mean Steve Years.’

Even the night before junior year, when you were swimming at the lake. Steve took his shirt off and you noticed he was starting to grow chest hair, your surprise slowly melting into a warm feeling in your belly you couldn’t quite understand. Even when your fits of laughter while watching Spinal Tap on your basement’s shag rug turned into a giggly wrestling match until Steve was pinning you down and you felt something hard and strong against your thigh. Even when he ran out of your basement blushing, making an excuse about being home for dinner and then didn’t talk to you for a week.

Eventually, of course, he spoke to you again, but something had shifted between you. Then began the years of glances across the room, sneaking peaks at his strong hand on the gear shift while he drove, his lower lip tucked between his teeth when, getting ready for prom, you asked “zip me up?” like it was the most innocent thing in the world, like the brush of his knuckles on your spine didn’t send heat through you all the way down to your toes.

Through it all, you repeated over and over how you were best friends, just best friends. The oldest lie in the book. It had certainly been for you. And the day you found out it had been for him too, all bets were off.

College had come and gone. You’d gone far for school, he’d stayed close. Your once weekly phone calls with Steve grew fewer and farther apart. Last you’d spoken, you were moving in with your Psychology 101 TA boyfriend and you thought you could hear Steve grinding his teeth on the other end of the line when you’d told him.

Then, after only a few months of coinhabitated bliss, you and James the TA started fighting. The two of you were fighting so often that one day, you just stood up from your shared sofa and walked out. He lost you, and you lost your security deposit. Aimless and yearning for home, you took a job covering sports for the Hawkins Post.

Now, single and speeding down the highway toward your hometown, your whole body tingles with excitement every mile you get closer to seeing your best friend. You haven’t told him you’re moving back yet, you can’t wait for the delicious look of surprise and joy he’ll give you when he sees you. 

Only, in the seventh inning, when he finally looks up and spots you in the stands cheering him on, he doesn’t seem excited at all.

Waiting until every last fan left and the away team boarded their bus home, you sneak down to the dugout. Steve is cleaning up empty water cups and brushing sunflower seeds off the bench. His team lost, and he’s angrily muttering to himself about something you can’t quite hear.

“You’ll get ‘em next time, coach,” you say.

He looks up, though he doesn’t seem as startled as you’d thought he’d be, like he had expected you to make your way down here.

“Welcome home,” he says, his body tense.

“You’re not even going to give me a hug?”

“Sorry, I’m just thinking about…the game.”

When you don’t reply, he crosses the dugout and pulls you in for a hug. You sink into him, reveling in his familiar scent as your fists clutch the back of his shirt.

“I missed you,” you mumble, your lips brushing the warm skin of his neck.

Steve pulls back too quickly, your arms fall to your sides lamely as he puts space between you.

“Yeah, uh, you too.” He scratches the back of his neck, staring just past you to avoid your eyes.

“Is everything okay?” You frown.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Steve runs his hands through his hair, making the stringy ends stick up before falling back over his forehead. “Just didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

“Oh. Well my grad school classes are over, so…I’m actually, uh, moving back.”

You’d practiced this little announcement the whole drive home, so why did this moment feel so anticlimactic?

“Right.” He nods. “Cool.

Oh, that’s why.

To avoid the sting of his indifference, you try to pivot.

“I sent you an invite to my graduation, but you weren’t there.” 

“Sorry, yeah, I just figured there’d be plenty of people there, I didn’t want to crowd you.”

“I mean, it was just my parents. I didn’t even use all of my tickets.”

“Really? What about Sigmund Freud?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname. “You mean James? We, uh…I left him.”

For the first time since you’d wandered into the dugout, Steve looks you in the eyes.

“Oh, well, good. Your head can only be shrunk so much, y’know, before the brain damage sets in.”

You crack a smile at his familiar sarcastic rambling.

“Why don’t you seem happy to see me?” You reroute the conversation away from James and back to the moment.

“I am. Of course I am, I just didn’t expect it.” He sets his hands on his hips, trying to come across as casual while acting anything but. “I’m in work mode I guess.”

“Okay, well don’t work too hard.” You smile softly. “Before you were Mr. Harrington, you were Steve. My Steve.”

Steve sighs, lips drawn tight.

“Yeah, well, I should get back to it. The custodians hate it when we leave this place a mess.”

Before you can respond, he turns and goes back to his cleaning duties.

“Hey?” You say, voice feeling small.

Steve turns back to you, “yeah?”

You step carefully toward him, your pinky extended.

“Promise you’re still my best friend?”

A thousand times in your fifteen years of friendship, Steve has wrapped his pinky around yours as you both swore to be friends forever. But this time, he just stares at your outstretched hand, forehead creased in…is it anger? No, something more like disappointment.

“Really?” You drop your hand as your voice rises. “What, have you outgrown me? You have a big grown up job now and no need for a best friend?”

“I don’t know.” Steve shakes his head and you feel your heart crack right down the middle.

“Okay. Okay, well that’s fine. I have other friends.” You try your hardest to sound unaffected, but you know he can see the way your chin is starting to wobble. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Steve huffs, muttering under his breath, “still dramatic as ever I see.”

Your hands ball up at your sides, shaking in fury. Steve knows there is nothing you hate being called more than ‘dramatic.’ Other than maybe when you’d been compared to that dead frog.

Too angry to speak, you just glare at him. He shies away from your anger by turning to throw away another cup.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” He sighs, ending the conversation. But you aren’t done.

It’s then that you notice the cooler of water on the dugout wall, lid thrown on the ground and dead gnats floating at the water’s surface.

Not giving yourself a second to overthink it, you grab the cooler and lift it over Steve’s head. Only, as you raise it up, the water sloshes over the edge and your grip slips, tipping the cooler so it covers you both in frigid water and bug guts.

“What the hell?” Steve turns on his heel and stares at you in shock, his locks of brown hair sticking to his forehead and coach’s uniform soaked through. “Why did you do that?!”

You blink the water out of your own eyes and gasp for air.

“Because! Coming back to this school has turned you back into Mean Steve!”

“I wasn’t being mean!”

“Yes, you were! And I didn’t do anything to deserve it. I want my best friend back, right now.”

“He’s standing right here! And now he’s cold, and wet, and probably going to catch a cold like this, so thanks a lot.”

“Oh my god, you’re being such a baby.”

“Oh I’m being a baby? You’re the one throwing a temper tantrum because I wouldn’t make you a pinky promise.”

Chin wobbling, your voice is small as you say, “that’s not why, and you know it.”

Before he gets the chance to distinguish the tears from the water still dripping down your face, you turn from him and run out of the dugout toward your car.

As you open the door of your old beat-up station wagon, a hand reaches around you and slams it shut. For a moment, there is just the quiet of the night, the sound of crickets, Steve’s breath behind you, and nothing else.

You turn and look at him, your makeup completely smeared from the water cooler, body shivering in the crisp night air. His hand stays on the door, head tilted down as he struggles for something to say.

He lands on, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You demand.

“For missing your graduation. And for tonight. I don’t know what my problem is.”

“Maybe you just outgrew me. It’s okay if you…” you swallow hard. “If you’re done with me.”

Steve’s eyes meet yours, a stunned expression on his face as if you just slapped him.

“Done with you? I’ll never be done with you. Never. I can’t. Not when I-”

“When you what?” Your hands are shaking again, this time for a completely different reason.

You can almost see the words forming on the tip of his tongue, but suddenly he drops them, stepping back and shutting down again. God, this is exhausting.

An exasperated growl leaves your throat as you throw your head back and look at the stars. You can feel the water drip from your hair down your legs to the backs of your ankles. You try to find the Big Dipper among the stars. Anything to keep your eyes off of him. But then he speaks.

“Why did you leave James?”

You thought he was going to say something to break your heart. You’d almost rather he do that than make you answer this question.

“Why does that matter right now?” You deflect.

Steve pulls his lips between his teeth. His hands go to his hips and then fly out in exasperation, finally landing with a slap against his thighs. He doesn’t need to speak, he just gives you that look. Eyes wide and a little frenzied. It’s the look he gives you when you’re annoying him, when he’s trying his best to love you but you’re pushing him to his limit. The familiarity of that look, of fighting like you used to fight when you were kids, makes you smile.

“What’s funny?” He asks.

“Just…you.” 

Steve laughs but there’s no humor in it. He runs his hands through his hair in the way that you love, the way that makes it fly in all directions until he looks like a mad man. It’s so endearing you take some pity on him and decide to answer. 

The anger from earlier has been drained out of you. Everything he’s doing, every expression, every mannerism is so familiar, so very him, that your inhibitions go up in flames.

“Can I tell you a secret?” You ask him.

“Always.” He responds, the quickness of his answer wrapping you in comfort like a warm blanket over your wet, shivering shoulders.

“And you won’t tell?”

“Have I ever?” 

“No, you haven’t.”

You step toward him and he almost seems like he’s going to step back. His defenses are up, confused by your sudden change in demeanor. 

Once you’re close enough, you reach out and rub a palm over his head to straighten his hair, like you’ve done a million times. Like you did the night of the snow ball in eighth grade, giving him a pep-talk to ask Mindy Tompkins if she wanted to dance. Like you did before he appeared in court to testify in his parent’s custody hearing. Like you did before he interviewed for his first job. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s thinking of all those times, too.

“I left James because we got in a big fight. I was yelling, he was yelling…” 

At the mention of James yelling at you, Steve’s jaw tightens. “He yelled at you?”

“Don’t worry, any hell he gave me I gave him right back,” you wink at him. He fights back a smile because he believes you.

With a deep breath you continue, “we were fighting all the time, and then one day he said something that just…something I think he’d probably been trying not to say for a long time. And I couldn’t even fight back, because I knew he was right. So, rather than try to lie, I just left.”

Steve waits a moment, giving you the chance to keep going, but then; sensing you’re having a hard time with the rest, asks, “what’d he say? If he was mean to you I swear to God-”

“No, no,” you chuckle. “He wasn’t mean. He was right.”

You shut your eyes and breathe in deep, steeling yourself, willing yourself not to chicken out.

“He said that I would never be able to give myself to him fully. Not when my heart belongs to somebody else.”

Steve’s jaw tightens then goes slack. “Who does it belong to?”

You tilt your head and smile a sad, knowing smile.

“...c’mon,” you whisper, begging him not to make you say it.

For a long moment, you just look at each other. 

The air is tight between you, threatening to snap, only you don’t know if you want to find out what will happen when it does. Will you be drawn to each other, that delicate space between you that’s held you back for so long finally giving way? Or will you be propelled apart, any chance or ‘maybe’ that lives in the back of your mind dying in the dirt under you.

“Y’know, the morning of my first day teaching here, I was so excited,” Steve confides. “I woke up early.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You woke up early?”

“I know, right?” His lips twist into a smirk. “I was up before the sun, I tried on like four different outfits. I was so excited. And the day went perfectly fine, the kids seemed to like me. Even the teachers whose classes I used to cut seemed happy to see me. But when I got home that night, I just sat in the dark in my living room, sipping room temperature beer and feeling like, I don’t know…empty, I guess.”

You frown, hating the thought of him alone like that, wishing he didn’t have to spend even one second of his life not being his carefree, easygoing self.

“It took me a long time to figure out why I wasn’t having fun. The life I worked for was right in front of me, I have a job that I got completely on my own, without my dad wielding his influence. I even bought a house, it’s tiny, nothing like the one I grew up in. But it’s mine.”

“I’m so proud of you, Steve,” you interject.

“But see it’s not right. None of it is right. My life will never be right...”

You hold your breath, somehow knowing in that inexplicable way you’ve always known him down to your core, exactly what he was going to say next.

“...unless you’re in it. But you were with him. And I knew after him there’d be someone else, and that person would never be me. So I stopped calling. Stopped thinking about you, hoping if I moved on from you I’d finally find a life that makes me happy.”

His eyes glass over just slightly. He steps back, just an inch, just enough to study your face with pinched eyebrows, like he’s bracing himself for a fatal blow.

“And did you?” You ask, almost too quiet for him to hear.

“Do I seem happy to you?”

You study him, your lungs aching with the breath you’ve been holding.

“So you don’t want me to be your best friend anymore?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, I want you to be my girl.”

“Steve.” You step closer, and this time, he doesn’t move away. “I’ve always been your girl.”

Then it happens, it finally happens, the invisible string between you, always pulled taught, fraying at the edges, breaks. Like magnets, your bodies snap together.

His hands fly to your hair, yours to his shoulders. Your lips hover for just a moment, just one excruciating, exhilarating, delicious moment. And then they meet.

Steve kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like he’s been slowly and carefully mapping it out for years. But a groan escapes him when you finally part your lips and invite him in, realizing it’s so much better than he’d imagined. 

It is everything it’s supposed to be. Drenched confessions of love lead to screeching tires and running stop signs until he finally gets you back to your new apartment. Doorway kisses lead to hands gripping each other desperately as he walks you toward the bed.

You’d been kissing like that for what felt like days, laying across your bed, tangling together, rolling in the sheets in your now mostly dry clothes. After forever like that, Steve pulls back, tentatively beginning to unbutton your top. His fingers are shaking.

Placing your hand softly over his you ask, “are you nervous?”

“What? Nervous? I’m not…I’m definitely not…” he hangs his head and sighs, “yeah, okay. Yeah I’m really nervous.”

His cheeks are scarlet as he avoids your gaze. When he finally looks back up at you, you cover your face in your hands, peeking at him through your fingers.

“I’m nervous, too,” you confess.

The shared relief breaks you both into a fit of laughter. There had been so much build up to this moment, years of it, that now that you’re here, it feels impossible.

“Is this real life?” You ask him through your giggles.

“I honestly don’t know,” he croaks out, making your belly shake with another round of laughter. You’ve both lost your minds.

When the hilarity finally dies down, you look over at Steve, the golden glow of a streetlamp washing over his face.

“Maybe for now you could just hold me?” You suggest.

With a rush of relief, Steve pulls you into him, your back to his chest, legs tangled together. 

“Yes, I’ll hold you,” he whispers in your hair, “you’ve got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hold you just like this.”

“Hmm, I think I might have some idea.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, and sleep more soundly than you have maybe ever.

The night comes and goes, the sun eventually rises. And though neither of you wants to, you eventually get out of bed. Steve’s team has an away game two towns over, and you have boxes to unpack. 

So he leaves, you shower, eat, spend the day distractedly unpacking books and clothes, only to rearrange them again and again, just killing the time until you see him again. Hours pass so slowly they feel like days, and as the clock ticks, reality hangs in the air outside your window, threatening to bring you back to earth. Just as you’re wondering if you’d really imagined it all, you hear a knock on your door.

You swing the mahogany open, standing flushed and expectant in the short blue satin dress you hope he’ll love, cheeks pink and not just from your rouge. Steve's eyes drift up and down like he hasn’t seen you in days, despite having his hands on you just this morning.

He leans against the door frame as he devours you with hazel eyes. He’s cleaned himself up, wearing a black sport coat over a black shirt, a single swirl of hair falling over his forehead despite his obvious attempt to hairspray it into place. It’s okay, you like him messy.

His gaze may be confident but his words come out in a clumsy stammer.

“You…it’s…just…aghhh.” He throws his head back, eyes shut tight as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“Yes, Mr. Harrington?” You tease, only flustering him more.

He just shakes his head, tongue poking into his cheek.

“It’s not fair.” He laughs.

Your smile finally breaks through, heart swelling. The arms that held you tight last night belonged to a man, but in front of you now he’s still the devilishly cute schoolboy you’ve been harboring a secret crush on since your playground days.

“Is that a compliment?” You ask.

“It’s a compliment.” He steps over the threshold and grabs you by the waist, finally finding his voice, “a compliment, a praise, a prayer-”

He cuts his own musings off with a kiss, arm looping around your back, crushing your body into his until you’re lifted to your tippytoes. You sigh into it, bunching his lapels in your hands as if you could possibly pull him in any closer. He kisses you so fiercely, his lips eventually slide off of yours, leaving a trail along the corner of your lips, your cheek, the sweet spot behind your ear. He sucks there, just slightly, until your knees turn to water and he has to hold you up for real.

“Speaking of things that aren’t fair,” you exhale.

Steve’s laugh is muffled against your ear and he pulls back to look at you. His lips are stained red from your lipstick. You grin wildly at him as you swipe your finger along each lip to clean him up. 

Seizing the opportunity, he holds your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles, then your palm, down to your wrist. If you don’t stop him, you know you’re seconds from ditching your dinner reservation. When his lips press to the pulse point inside your wrist, you consider never leaving the house again.

Then your stomach grumbles, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

“Hungry?” He jokes, letting your hand fall only to lace his fingers with yours.

“Mhm, probably because I skipped dinner last night…” you remind him.

“Let’s get you fed then.” He tips his head toward his waiting car in the driveway. “You’re gonna need your energy.”

“Oh will I?” Your eyebrows raise, daring him to elaborate further.

“Oh yes.” He nods earnestly, though you still catch that teasing glint in his eye. “You’re gonna want to enjoy your dinner, ‘cause I’ve got big plans for dessert.”

You scoff and slap his arm, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your heart skipped a beat at the thought. Apparently, he wasn’t nervous anymore.

The restaurant is nice. Nothing like the dive bars and diners you’ve spent most of your friendship terrorizing. Your Friday nights usually consist of digging through Steve’s car for coins so you can play the same song on the juke box twenty times. On those nights, you take bets on how many people you can annoy out of the bar while you throw back cheap beers and sing badly to the bartender. 

But tonight, Steve is a total gentleman to everyone you encounter - the valet, the hostess, the waiter, even the busboy gets a crisp five dollar bill slipped into his palm as Steve tells him, “thanks for taking care of us.”

You stare at him from across the table, head tilted and eyes studying him.

“What?” Steve asks, wiping his face as if maybe there was a glob of chocolate left over from the soufflé you’d shared.

“Nothing, it’s just…” your lips scrunch, considering how to say what you’re thinking without hurting his feelings.

He leans closer from across the table, “tell me, baby. You can tell me anything.”

You know it’s true. He’s been your number one secret keeper your entire life. But something shifted last night, and now it feels like you’re holding each other’s bare hearts in your hands, everything tinted with a vulnerability that wasn’t there until he’d kissed you.

“I’m just wondering,” you lay your hand over his, “when you became such a…man.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek, considering your words. You’re nervous you offended him until he turns his hand over to hold yours, giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“Do you not want me to be a man? Because I’ll be literally anything you want me to be. An animal, a vegetable, a mineral, you name it, and I’ll be it.”

Relief pours over you at his joking. It’s clear the same Steve you’ve spent your favorite days with is still the one who’s sitting in front of you tonight.

“I just want you to be you.” You squeeze his hand back.

“Yeah but maybe there’s parts of me you haven’t met yet,” he suggests.

You consider his words. They almost make you sad, like you’re jealous of anyone who's gotten to see any version of him you haven’t yet. Suddenly, you’re hungry again. Not for another five star meal, but for him. All of him. Last night you’d barely gotten a taste, but suddenly, sitting across from him, lights low and his eyes fixed on you, you’re not nervous anymore. Not at all.

You need to do it all again, to see if you can find the boy you love within the man. See if you can have both.

The toe of your shoes run up his calf, lifting the pleated fabric of his trousers as they go.

“Well then why don’t you introduce me?”

Without another word, Steve motions to the waiter to bring the check.

Once home, you stand at your vanity, removing your earrings and the gold necklace you’d worn to dinner - a locket Steve had given you for your birthday in the tenth grade. He had told you he found it on the school bus, but later, his mom had let it slip that he’d spent all of the money he’d made mowing lawns in the summer to buy it for you. Your heart squeezes as you trace your fingers over it now. The signs that he was in love with you had really been there all along, you just hadn’t been paying attention. You’re done missing things.

“Steve, can you help me with something?” You call out.

He stops halfway through pouring your coffee - the flimsy excuse you’d made to invite him inside after he drove you home - and makes his way to your bedroom.

When he appears in the doorway, your eyes find his in the mirror.

“Can you unzip my dress for me?”

Steve swallows, stepping toward you slowly. When he pulls the zipper down, you swear you can feel his fingers shaking a little. Maybe he too feels the importance of this moment, that what happened last night was inevitable, but what happens next will be far more important. He’s never been this quiet before. The thought makes you miss him, even though he’s standing right behind you.

Once the zipper is as low down your back as it’ll go, you turn, meeting his eyes. He’s blinking back at you, both of you breathing shakily, unsure of what comes next.

“Do you still want this?” You ask him.

Steve’s eyes sweep over your face, landing back on yours with an almost aching intensity.

“I’ve always wanted this,” he swears. And you believe him.

“Me too.”

You lift your hands to slide off the straps of your dress. Steve sucks in a breath and doesn’t release it for several seconds, the anticipation nearly killing him. 

You take your sweet time lowering the fabric, torturing him as you let the silky threads fall away slowly. The straps finally slip from your fingers, the dress pooling around your hips, leaving you half bare in front of him. He tries to keep his eyes on yours, to be respectful, but he’s only human. 

Losing the battle, his gaze drops down your body. It’s only then that he finally releases the breath he’s been holding, exhaling through his nose as his forehead scrunches. At first, you’re worried he’s upset somehow, until you realize he’s not in distress, he’s completely wrecked.

Steve’s forehead falls forward onto your collarbone. His hand finds the small of your back, clinging to you like you’re the only thing keeping him on Earth.

“I…I just…” He tries to speak, but nothing comes of it. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, soothing his worry.

“Steve?” You say, low and comforting.

“Hmm?” Is all he can manage.

“Take me to bed.”

He stands to his full height again, which forces you to look up into his face.

“If you insist,” he says, wrapping his other arm around you and pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist.

Steve lays you on the bed softly before standing to pull his suit jacket off.

“I think I promised you dessert?” He smirks. He’s trying to muster that bravado he’d shown at the restaurant, but that’s not what you want right now.

You pull the rest of your dress down over your hips, leaving you in just your bra and underwear, a matching lacy set you’d selected just for him. He looks down at you in awe, his whole body tight, from the tick of his jaw down to the firm grasp of his hands on your waist. 

“You too.” You nod to his clothes, the only thing standing in the way of getting what you so desperately want.

He stands at the end of your bed, and you rise on your elbows to watch. Slowly, he slides the suit jacket off his shoulders and lifts the black sweater underneath over his head. His trousers go next, pooling in a pile at his feet until he’s standing in only his socks, boxers, and white undershirt. He gives you a shy smile.

“All of it.” You insist.

With a deep, shaky breath, he pulls the shirt over his head, revealing his broad chest and that pillow of chest hair that’s been filling your dreams since you were seventeen. He’s bigger than the last time you saw him shirtless. His chest is solid, his stomach taut and chiselded. His biceps are defined, but not bulky, a pulsing vein running down them all the way to his forearms. He’s been working out, clearly, and selfishly you hope it was all for you.

Lip drawn between your teeth, your chest rises and falls with anxious breaths as he removes his socks one at a time and then finally hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. 

“Wait,” you say, and he freezes instantly.

You rise on your knees, shifting toward him on the bed until your fingertips find the goosebumped skin on his stomach, “let me.”

He watches with wide eyes as you gently push his hands out of the way and slip your own fingers under his waistband. Your eyes stay locked to his, looking up at him with a smirk as you lower the fabric over his hips and let it fall away down his legs. In your peripheral vision, you can see him, hard and ready, just inches from brushing against your belly. But you just keep your eyes trained on him as you slide your hand between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, your touch featherlight.

He twitches in your hand and you can’t contain your satisfied smirk. When you run the pad of your thumb over his slit - already leaking desperately - his head falls forward, hair hanging over his forehead and eyes screwed shut. 

“Th-that is…” He can’t find the words. You’ve got him speechless and it feels so damn good.

This is what you wanted. To watch all his efforts to seem cool and calm melt away and reveal his truest self. The self that’s desperate for you, the self that’s always been at your mercy, just like you are at his.

You run your hands over him a little firmer, and his whole body jerks forward. Laughing gently you rise higher on your knees, the hand that isn’t working up and down his shaft wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to yours. 

Steve kisses you hard and you squeeze around his base in gratitude. Then he whimpers into your mouth and every nerve ending in your body buzzes with pleasure.

Like a reward, you pull him down further, until you’re laying back on the bed, head resting on your pillow, and his body hovers over yours. One of his hands is on the mattress just next to your shoulder, and the other finds its rightful place on your hip.

He runs his fingers along the elastic of your panties, making to push them aside, but you stop him.

“No,” you command gently. “I get to go first.”

He obeys and pulls his hand back, though his eyes are squinting in confusion. Instead of explaining yourself, you lick your own palm before bringing it back to his cock. Twisting your wrist, you begin to stroke slowly, feeling his fist bunch up the sheets next to you.

“Oh, my god,” he breathes through gritted teeth. “Ah, shit, that feels incredible.”

You watch him in awe, your own mouth hanging open, adoring eyes sweeping over his features, taking mental pictures you know you’ll treasure for the rest of your life.

Steve groans, the growl in the back of his throat petering out into another whimper.

“Yes, keep making those sounds, baby,” you coo. “I love seeing you like this.”

With your encouraging words, you start to move your hand faster, twisting all the way to the tip and circling your thumb there until you drag your palm back to his base and squeeze gently. His eyes that have been squeezed shut fly open and he looks at you with pure panic.

“If you…I can’t…if you keep going I’m not gonna last,” he warns you with a breathy chuckle.

There he is. Your sweet boy. All pretenses dropped, telling you the truth without embarrassment. Your best friend, shaking above you, gasping against your skin when his forehead falls to the center of your chest.

“That’s okay,” you reassure him. “I want you to feel good. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”

“Can I…mmm - fuck - can-” he tries desperately to find his voice between needy moans, “I need to touch you.”

“Yeah?” You smile. “You want to feel me?”

“God yes,” he breathes. “I’ve wanted this for so long you have no idea.”

The hand not working him brushes his hair away from his eyes, palm caressing his cheek.

“Me too,” you admit. “I dream about this.”

“Do you?” He asks, and it melts you completely. 

Because it’s not cocky, not teasing. It’s a prayer, begging for your words to be true. Begging you to tell him he’s not alone, that you need him in the same way he needs you.

“Mhm,” you nod. “I dream about you coming undone for me. About the look on your face when you fall apart, about what sounds you’ll make when you give in.”

Steve’s eyes roll back at your words, shaking his head. 

“Okay, that’s it, I need to touch you. Now.” 

He drops his mouth to the crook of your neck, trailing down to your chest, sloppy kisses all the way down. You giggle as the last bit of his pride crumbles for you, fingers slotting in his hair to keep him anchored to you.

Once his mouth gets to the top of your breasts he pauses, tilting his face up to look at you as he pulls the straps of your bra down your shoulder. You lift off the mattress a bit to give him enough room to undo the clasp. When he pulls the lace away completely, his tongue runs over his lips, like he’s literally hungry for you.

“Are you kidding me? How are you even real?”

Steve tugs on your legs, dragging you down the bed, making you fall back onto the mattress until you’re underneath him again. You yelp in delight and his lips are on your neck again, mumbling between each kiss, “so beautiful…perfect…my dream girl…”

His words make you feel dizzy, completely drunk off this. 

“You’re so sweet to me,” you smile. He picks his head up to look at you, kissing the smile right off of your lips.

“‘Cause you deserve it, baby.”

He’s still kissing you when his fingers dance over the lace between your legs, feeling your wetness through the fabric.

“You’re also so fucking hot,” he whispers in your ear. 

Steve sits back on his knees to watch as he slides your panties down your legs. You shimmy to give him room, and then hold your breath as he runs his eyes over you, bare for him for the first time. It’s the first time you’ve ever been skittish around him, his stoic silence not relaxing you one bit.

“Listen, uh, this may sound lame but…I don’t know it’s like, sometimes I think I wouldn’t exist if you didn’t either. Does that make any sense? Like I was only put on this Earth because you were too. If I didn’t have this…I wouldn’t…I couldn’t-”

Two seconds ago you were laughing, and now he’s choking up. You sit up to bring your face close to his, making sure he hears you when you whisper, “we’ll always have this. You’ll always have me.”

You kiss his lips like it will somehow seal your words, make them permanent in his mind. He sighs into it, like he’s accepting them from you.

You try to keep him from noticing that your hand is drifting down between you again, reaching out for him, but it’s no use, he knows you well enough to know what you’re doing even when his eyes are closed.

“Yeah, no,” he scolds, pushing your hand back. “It’s still my turn.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“”We can argue about it later,” he tells you, “but right now…”

Steve grabs your shoulders, turning you so you’re on your knees in front of him, him on his knees behind you. He kisses along your shoulder and you tilt your head to give him more access, sighing in defeat. His tongue draws long stripes up your neck and up higher until they’re swirling over your ear, his tongue dipping in. You’ve never had someone do this before and you’re so surprised by how good it feels, warm and wet in the best way. You whine a little and he smiles against you.

“Your mouth is so good,” you say, not sure if you’re even making sense anymore.

“Mmh, later I’m going to taste you for real, but first…”

Without you realizing it, he’s snaked his arm down your front, his fingers finding the slickness between your thighs and sliding through it gently. The pads of his fingers drag achingly light over every sensitive nerve. Your body jolts in response, so worked up that even just this gentle touch overwhelms your senses. You’re shaking now, so much that he lays his other hand flat over your stomach to settle you. After exploring you for a few more seconds, he circles your clit, just once, and you gasp.

“There?” Steve asks in your ear when you shiver under his touch.

You nod and let your head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Yes, yes I love that.” You whimper.

“Love, huh? You love when I touch you?” 

You just nod again, knowing you look pathetic with your eyes shut so tight and your body quivering but you’re so far past caring. Steve picks up the pace, alternating between circling and tapping your clit until you’re so gone you start grinding down, riding his hand. 

Feeling that familiar tightness in your stomach, you realize you never want this feeling to end. You rise up on your knees, causing his hand to fall away. Just as he opens his mouth to protest, you reach back and wrap your fingers around his cock again. 

“Fuck.” The word comes out harsh and broken, like he’s just been punched.

Twitching in your hand again, Steve’s head falls forward to rest just between your shoulder blades. He looks down, mesmerized by the sight of your delicate fingers running over his thick length and the curve of your ass just inches away. He swears nothing could possibly be better than this, until you lean forward and guide the head of cock through your slick, dragging the tip through your folds and over your clit. 

“Jesus, fu -” Before he can get out another curse, you slide him down to your dripping hole, slipping him inside.

You both shiver in unison, frozen in place as you adjust. Steve grabs your hips but doesn’t pull you back, not wanting to force you to do anything. So you do it for him, rocking your hips back until he slides deeper inside.

“Ah…ah ah fuck, you’re so…” His breath is coming out in increasingly desperate gasps with every inch of access you give him. 

“Oh my god, Steve, can you feel how much you’re stretching me out? Feels so good,” you cry out. 

“Yeah, yes, baby, I feel it. I feel all of it.”

Once he’s fully buried inside of you, he pulls your upper body back against him. His hands are everywhere as you start to rock together - on your stomach, your tits, your neck, your hips - gripping and gliding like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear. 

You’re so full of him that your mind is hazy, almost slipping away into yourself until you remember you’re supposed to be paying attention.

“Talk to me,” you beg him. “Wanna hear you.”

He groans against your ear, the vibration running down your neck. You’re grinding back onto him as he rolls his hips to hit you as deep as possible, and your breath is completely stolen. He takes a second to groan again and nip at your jaw before he speaks.

“Yeah? What do you wanna hear? That I’ve never felt this fucking good in my entire life? That you’re so tight and hot around me I’m afraid I’m gonna come already?”

In response to his perfect words, you lift your arm, hand rubbing the back of his neck. He takes the opportunity to kiss your arm before he keeps crooning.

“I’m gonna go harder now, honey. Is that okay?”

“Mhm, please,” you moan.

Steve’s hands land on your hips, pushing you forward just enough to bring you back again, testing your response. You cry out, a sharp squeal that tells him exactly what he wants to know.

“There we go. Better like that, right?” He asks.

“So good, please keep going,” you whimper.

“Well if you insist…” he jokes before bringing you forward and back again, thrusting his hips forward to meet you each time. 

The room fills with the sound of your bodies coming together over and over, the soft smacks of your ass against his thighs. The pressure of his thrusts is so good that you fall forward, supporting yourself with your hands on the mattress as he takes over the rhythm. Your moans are uncontained now, nearly crying from the pleasure.

“Gonna keep you just like this.” He hasn’t forgotten your request for him to talk you through it. “Under me, full of me. You deserve it, baby, you deserve everything. So patient with me, so good to me.”

You cry out his name, almost unable to bear the affection you feel for him. The moment is so tender you’re afraid you’re going to shatter, break into a million pieces underneath him. You can’t help the small sniffle that escapes you.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he draws you back up by your shoulders to hug you from behind, one hand tilting your chin so he can look you in the eyes. “You okay? Was it something I said?”

“Yes, it’s everything, you’re everything.” You’re afraid you won’t be able to find the words to explain it. “It’s just, I don’t ever want this to end.”

Steve’s face floods with relief, and he presses his forehead against yours. 

“It’s never gonna end.” He kisses your cheek, right over the tear that’s streaking your skin. When he kisses your mouth gently, it tastes like salt water. 

“Believe me, now that I’ve gotten my hands on you, God himself couldn’t pull them off. Never letting you go now.”

“Promise?” You ask.

He laughs once before his face goes dead serious, “pinky promise.”

As he says it, his hand is sliding down your stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps until his fingers find your clit again.

“Steve!” You sob.

It's the loudest you’ve been all night and you can tell by the way his free arm tightens around your waist that he loves hearing you just as much as you love hearing him. So you don’t hold back, words incoherent as you let out a string of moans and babbled praises.

Steve’s fingers pick up the pace on your clit as he rocks his cock in and out of you, making you tremble each time he hits that perfect spot deep inside you. Of course he’s the first and only man who has ever found it. You clench around him hard each time he does.

“Oh, shit, so tight.” He can barely grunt the words out with his jaw clenched so tight. “Are you gonna come? Please tell me you’re gonna come. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, please don’t make me wait anymore.”

His voice is hoarse as he begs. Nobody has ever been this desperate for you before. Hell, no one has ever cared about your pleasure this much before either. The connection between you is so cosmic and intoxicating that the world is spinning around you, stars sparking behind your eyes when you squeeze them shut. You gulp down one sharp breath, and then you’re gone.

“Oh!” 

You’re shaking, body absolutely convulsing as you reach the peak, and then fall over the edge. You can’t speak, can’t even breathe, mouth wide in a silent scream as you’re hit with wave after wave of the sweetest ecstasy you’ve ever felt.

It’s almost too much, your hand grabs Steve’s, pausing his work on your clit as you pant desperately, “come with me. Please, need you here with me.”

It doesn’t take much convincing at all. It’s clear Steve has been right at the edge of it this whole time, because as soon as the words leave your mouth he’s breaking. A sound from so deep inside him, you swear its primal, rips out of his chest. The warmth of him fills you, beginning to drip down your legs where he’s buried to the hilt. Steve’s groan fades into a breathy whisper.

“I….oh my god…I love you. I love you. I love you so much,” he whispers as he twitches once more, pulling your ass flush against him so he can hit that spot you love one last time. 

When it’s over, he holds you there for several minutes. His arms are wrapped around your waist, head resting on the nape of your neck. You rub your hands gently up and down his forearms, both of you needing time to make sure that actually just happened, that it wasn’t a dream.

Only when you’re both sure this is real life does he let go. You slide down on your front and collapse into the bed. Your arms fold on the pillow so you can rest your head on your hands. You breathe the happiest sigh of satisfaction. Steve lays next to you, looking at the ceiling, one arm under his head, one on his chest. Your eyes flutter shut as you let this perfect moment wash over you.

“So…” Steve says, never one to let silence linger. “That was like, what? A five out of ten?”

Without opening your eyes you throw your hand in his general direction, smacking him on the arm as hard as your spent body can manage.

“Ow!” He fake cries. “I’m kidding!”

You turn your head to face him, cheek still smushed into the pillow. He shoots you a smirk and winks. 

You’re still completely naked and Steve doesn’t miss the goosebumps all over your skin. He lifts himself to pull the bedsheet up and over you. Giggling, you pull it higher until it’s over both of your heads. He finds you under the covers, your own little tent where only the two of you exist, just like when you were kids. 

Your lips twist, trying to suppress a smile that escapes anyway.

“What?” He asks, your smile making his cheeks go hot. 

“You said you love me.”

Bashful, he pulls the sheets back off, “okaaay, alright. That’s enough outta you.”

You laugh hard as he rolls away like he’s going to get out of the bed. You grab his arm to pull him back and he pretends he’s going to fight you on it for only a second before giving in and falling back onto the mattress.

When you turn on your side to face him, he follows suit, until you’re laying chest to chest, laughter fading slowly.

You reach out a single finger, running it over his jaw, across his cheeks, down his nose, even along the soft skin just under his eyes, caressing all of the features you’ve known for so long but never gotten to touch like this.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

You thought after all these years, you’d seen all of Steve’s mannerisms. But this look on his face is something completely new, like he’d been waiting all his life to hear those words.

“Promise?” He asks.

When you lift your pinky out, he wraps his own around it.

You kiss his hand slowly and swear, “pinky promise.”

:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ.✧:･ﾟ.✧ *:･:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ

a/n: thanks for reading! i know i'm new to the stranger things au world, i hope y'all like what i came up with! may have more steve stories to come! xoxo