The Impossible Girl 🕸️

• Second star✨to the right and straight on till the morning! • Dude where’s the pie?! 🥧 23

[spideysimpossiblegirl]

𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐏𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐨 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥!

[jerasketches]

I'm gonna share these again, since I deleted every social media apart from instagram... I had a very bad time but now I'm feeling better! Anyway I saw the Mandalorian & Grogu movie 2 times and ugh I LOVED IT.

Instagram Bluesky ( in progress )

[p1ttlings]

blurb that spiraled but it’s still a blurb argue with ur mother. 5.6k………. Right right….. mdni. PART 2

okay okay look listen to me. virgin!reader who’s getting tired of being her grown age and not getting any action!!!!! and ofc, that makes her naive and it’s easy for pope to swoop on in there for his families latest heist

you didn’t get much attention from boys growing up. your friends were the pretty ones. with the latest fashion pieces and current trends. you were the odd one out. reading fanfiction for hours on end, even dabbling in writing your own. you spent more time on your phone, talking to online friends from halfway across the world, than doing things with your class. 

you told yourself you didn’t need it. and you still don’t! or that’s what you tell yourself. in middle school, it was excusable, you were young! you didn’t need to focus on dating! and high school was the same. You were focused on your studies and ramping up your transcripts with sports and clubs and all sorts of extracurriculars that would make you stand out to the colleges you were applying to. 

but now, you’re in your 20s. and you haven’t so much as held hands with a guy. your sisters tease. your friends tease. and they’re not bullying you but it makes you insecure. it’s not like you’re not interested!!! you have sex toys who keep you company but only vibrators, tiny ones that you can hide anywhere. it’s not the same. 

your family owns a chain of grocery stores. well, your step-father does. you’re not close to him. he married your mother pretty late in your life so he didn’t feel the need to parent you, your mother had already done all the grunt work. you don’t have to work because of him though, he’s paying for all your schooling. the only thing he asks of you is to cover his shifts if he’s ever in a dire situation. 

you’re shy. you don’t stand up for yourself often. an old white man is berating you at the register, a long line of customers behind him. tears are welling up in your eyes at his accusations, the others watching as if it were entertainment. 

it wasn’t pope you were supposed to fall for. the plan was for craig to seduce you. he’s tall and buff and what most people would deem more conventionally attractive. he had to piss, leaving pope behind in line. he’s too far back to notice what’s going on quick enough. he listens for a beat, listens to the old man yelling about his coupons and that you’re stealing from him. 

one second, you’re letting tears fall from the sheer embarrassment of this situation, a hand suddenly grips to your arm, yanking you harshly, and the next, the white guy is on the floor, punch after punch falling to his face. it takes three other men to pull them off of each other. your assistant manager deals with the cops. all your coworkers attest that the white guy assaulted you first. the knight was only helping you. 

so you help him. he insists he doesn’t need a hospital. so you offer your services. you’re both in the employee bathroom now. Your hands are shaking as you wipe his bloody fists clean. he’s staring at you. he won’t look away. and god, you’re nervous. 

“you’re scared.” he comments. 

you eyes widen, head snapping up to look at him. “what?” 

“you’re scared of what i did back there.” 

“n-no! not at all! i really appreciate it! i-it-it, im just… you… you make me nervous. not scared…” 

“nervous?” his stare is still so damn intense. 

you’re not sure what comes over you. you’re not bold. not in any single way.  not with your hair. your clothes. your way of speaking. none of it. and yet— “you’re just… you’re really… hand…” you clear your throat. “you’re handsome…” 

the intense look switches to what you can only conclude is confusion. “handsome?” he repeats, needing confirmation. 

you nod. “y-yeah.” 

you’re embarrassed by what you’ve said when a heavy silence falls between you two. you’re about to apologize profusely but he cuts you off. 

“can i have your number?” 

And god, you’re so nervous for your first date. too nervous. you almost ghost him, block him and vow to never show up for another shift at the store. you’ll just have to pay for your tuition all on your own!!!!!! but your friends give you a loving pep talk. and your tuition is far too much to manage on your own. 

it’s how you end up in his truck, nervously fidgeting with your fingers, hands placed on your lap. he’s not much of a talker. and you’re too nervous to talk. it’s awkward. you’ve been texting a lot. youre not complete strangers anymore but still… you wish you could jump out of the damn truck and never see him again. but it turns out… nice. understatement. 

you loved it. he took you to the beach. you two ate at a cute little cabana restaurant. the awkwardness dissipated as soon as you two were sat. and you walked side by side down beach with ice cream cones at hand. 

“so, college?” it almost makes you laugh how stiff the guy is. but it doesn’t seem to deter him. he lets you talk and talk. he gives his two cents but he seems to be content just watching you and listening to you. 

you nod, “yeah. college.” you confirm, “did you go?” 

he shakes his head, “no. i, uhm, i dropped out of high school.” 

you hum, “ah, that’s okay. it’s never too late to go back though. get a ged. there are a lot of amazing programs that can help you get a better career than… what do you do?”

his hands are in his pockets, having finished his ice cream first. “work for my mother. help manage her properties. my brother baz… he’s the actual manager of her properties. i do the… physical things. mow lawns, fix broken sinks, squeaky doors, break noses when tenants don’t want to pay rent.” 

you laugh at this, not believing him. sure, he beat a man up for you but you figured it was just a one time thing. how wrong you are. “right, right… either way… you got a good gig. i can respect that. but if you ever want something else, you have options.” 

“that’s long past me.” 

you stop in your step, glaring softly at him, nothing serious. “education is never past anyone.” there’s a ghost of a smile on his face, you can see it. “im serious, pope. you can be anything you want to be.” 

“this a ted talk?” 

you laugh softly, “sure is.” but you don’t let him keep walking. you lightly take his hand in yours. “i mean it. anything.” 

— 

he’s awkward. he doesn’t mean to be awkward. he’s just quiet. and that makes people awkward. you’ve seen the way he interacts with people. and by interact you mean the way he stares and doesn’t talk. most people think he’s awkward. he thinks he’s being normal. you like it. it always makes you giggle.

you watch him as he orders your coffee for you. and it’s a simple order, it really is but he makes even that seem stiff. it takes everything in you not to giggle as the barista fumbles around. 

but the ping of your class chat pulls you away and you’re back to typing away at your laptop. he plops down across from you, your order at hand, placing it by your side, and staring at you. you’re used to it at this point, his eyes always on you in some way. it’s not inherently sexual but sometimes, it makes your stomach flutter. but you have to reign it in at the coffee shop. 

“yes, king?” you ask teasingly without looking up. 

he hesitates and this makes you stop typing, finally looking up at him. he begins soon enough, “are we dating?” 

your eyebrows furrow in confusion, “what?”

“are we… dating?” 

the snort you let out is completely unattractive. “shouldn’t i be asking you that?”

he shrugs, “i read up on feminism like you told me to. i can do that, right? ask?” 

your grin is bright, “you read up on feminism?” 

“stop smiling.”

“can’t. you know i live in world of sunshine and rainbows.” 

“are we dating?” he asks again with a sigh. 

“don’t sound too excited.” you scoff, going back to typing. “you haven’t asked me.” 

“im asking.”

“no, you’re asking if we’re dating. im saying you haven’t asked me to be your girlfriend yet.” 

he leans on the table, eyeing you. “i read women can ask now too.” 

you laugh, “i guess i hold some conservative values. a guy must ask me. i will never do the asking.” 

“be my girlfriend.” 

you hum, looking up at him with your easy smile, “hmm… no.” 

“you can’t say no.” 

“i just did.” 

“but you like me.” 

“do i?” he kicks you softly under the table. you close your laptop, “it has to be romantic.” 

“i wont ask.” he scoffs, leaning back on his seat. “you have to ask me.” 

“then i guess we’re never going to be official.” you sigh wistfully, opening your laptop back up again. 

it’s quiet for a few more moments, not awkward, despite his stare. “you’ve never told me about your dad.” 

you pause, unsure of what to say. “what do you want to know?”

he shrugs, “what does he do?” 

it’s your turn to shrug. “don’t know.” 

his eyebrows furrow, “you don’t… know?” 

you nod. “last i heard, he was a janitor at some school.” 

“wait… i thought he was a manager of some sort.” 

your eyebrows furrow and then it hits you. “oh, my step-dad? he owns like a bunch of grocery stores. told you, the one we met at is his.” you hum. “he favors that one most. it was the first one he ever opened up. says it was his most precious piece of work.” 

he hums, interested. “how much is a bunch?” 

you shrug, still typing, multi-tasking your homework and your conversation. “uhm i know he has about a dozen in Oceanside. about… 30 in San Diego, maybe more? Another dozen in Carlsbad. I don’t know how many more but he has businesses in Escondido, Encinitas, Del Mar, Chula Vista— god, there’s a lot. he’s opened a few up in the Los Angeles area too, i think?” 

you see him nodding from the corner of his eyes. “if you ask me out first, we can date, get married, and you can knock me up and you can be rich like me.” it’s a complete joke. 

“ha.” you don’t notice how dry his laugh is. “yeah.” 

—-

you find yourself hanging out with him everyday. he picks you up, you two head to a quiet place, sometimes his home. mostly his home. 

the first time he takes you there, you’re nervous. your friends told you that you’ve been on too many dates to not give it to him. it being your “cookie”, as they like to call it. so you shaved. every single part of you. there wasn’t a single hair on your body. 

he ordered a heavy meal. that should have been your first sign. when you sit on the couch to watch a movie, he sits a little too far from you. and your damn panties are uncomfortable and riding up your butt. you’re not having a good time. you’re fully pouting by the time you get a few minutes into the second movie. 

“you okay?”

his voice snaps you out of your thoughts. you open your mouth, ready to deny anything and everything. but you’ve decided you have to get past it. you really, really like him. and communication is key… right…? 

“do you not want to have sex with me?” and for the first time since you’ve met him, he looks stunned. 

“… do you want to have sex with me?” He asks carefully. 

“uhm… yeah… do you?” 

“you’re… you told me you’ve never kissed anyone. figured you’ve never… had it…” 

you nod, skin feeling hot. “yeah… I haven’t.” 

“and you want to give yourself to me?”

another nod from you. “yes. I like you, pope.” 

he looks to be deep in thought, those dark and intense eyes scouring your face, looking for even a flicker of doubt. you’re sure he doesn’t find any because he releases a shaky breath and speaks, “let’s take it slow.” he scoots closer to you. “still haven’t had your first kiss?”

you snort out a laugh, “you mean since I met you? no. im only seeing you.” you pause, eyebrows furrowed. “wait… are you seeing other people?”

“im not.” 

“good. im not either.” 

the kiss is gentle. sweet. a little awkward only because you get into your head a lot. he pulls his lips from yours, a small snicker leaving him. “relax, baby,” a shaky breath against yours, “don’t stress it.” his hands are holding your face, caressing it. 

you pout softly, “can’t not stress it.” 

“jus’ me.” he’s ghosting his lips over yours, desperate to press his lips against yours again, breath labored. 

softly, “that’s why i can’t… wanna be good for you.” 

he chuckles softly, “don’t gotta.” he’s pressing wet kisses down your jaw now, “I’ll be good for you.”

you get the hang of it after a few tries. and you only get more desperate. you’re heavily making out now, his hands all over your body, groping every part he loves on you. 

and that’s what you do most of the time. you go out, talk, go on walks, go to his place and make out. just make out. you make moves to tell him you want more. but it always ends up in just dry humping. 

you’re straddling his lap, his big hands on your hips, guiding you. He’s unbelievably hard beneath his sweats. he’s relaxed around you, you learned that a few days ago when you realized he doesn’t wear only stiff button ups around you. and you love it. god, you love him. the first guy who’s ever paid any attention to you. the first guy who’s listened to you. the first guy who has made you feel wanted. a month and a half of this and you love him so much. too much. 

your breathing is hard as the friction against your covered clit rubs against him. “pope… I want—“ 

he cuts you off with a sharp kiss, “know what you want,” he mumbles against your lips. “can’t give that to you.” 

you groan, hips stopping. well, you stop putting effort. he’s still desperately dragging you against him. “pope… are you a virgin?” 

he huffs out a laugh, “no, god, no. just… don’t think you want me to be the one.” 

you glare softly at him, “why would you think that? i think you don’t want me.” 

it’s his turn to glare at you, “that’s stupid.”

you put your hands over his, halting him. “it’s not stupid. you reject my advances. are you… asexual?” his eyebrows furrow, looking at you as if he has no idea what the hell you’re saying. you continue, “are you uninterested in sex?”

he looks at you like you’re stupid. “do you not feel how hard i am?” 

“there are spectrums to it… maybe you’re not into vaginal sex. or vagina at all. you like vaginas… right?”

he laughs. actually laughs. a fully body laugh. it makes your heart race and grin in triumph. you’ve never heard him laugh like that, “im serious, pope. i don’t need you to eat me out or anything. i know men don’t like that and—“ 

“i like that.” he clears his throat. “i like doing that.” 

you freezes for a moment, nodding. “okay…” 

“okay…” sudden shyness on both ends. it’s silent for a moment, “do you want that…? right now?” 

you clear your throat now, “do you… want that… right now?” 

he nods, “yes.” 

and that falls into the rotation of the very limited things you two do. he doesn’t let you touch his cock. at all. he lets you dry hump him, sure. but if your hand ever tries to slip into his jeans, he moves your hand to any other place on his body. 

you try not to judge him for it but… you do think sexual intimacy is important in a relationship. but you don’t push. You try but once he shuts it down, that’s that. but surprisingly, you don’t need his mouth on you as much as you thought you would. it’s good, of course it is, but sometimes a lazy day at his place is better. 

“what’s a seven word letter for a man’s bag?” he makes fun of you for liking crossword puzzles. because you’re not good at them, always pulling out your phone to google it. he always answers. he’s not this time. “pope…” you hum. “answer me, fucker.” more silence. You look over at him. he’s already watching you. your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “you good?”

the sigh he releases is shaky, “y’know i’d never hurt you, right?” 

with absolutely no hesitation, “I know.” he reaches over and presses a soft kiss to your temple, inhaling deeply, you grin, “you sniffing me?” 

he chuckles, nodding. “yeah,” another kiss. “smell good.” 

—

“babe, do I really have to do this?” you’re groaning. groaning because you’re sweating and your body feels heated from the strain of working out. you were done for the day, having done an hour of a high incline on the treadmill and a too fast pace on the stairmaster for another hour. 

pope nods, holding the punching bag. “just punch as hard as you’re able to. with the correct form. im serious, baby, you’re gonna break a finger if you don’t.” 

you groan again, “im tired, pope.” you just wanted to take a long shower, wash off all the muck from the gym, and snuggle up into bed with him. 

“just a few times.” a pause. “you know i love taking care of you.” 

you raise a single eyebrow, “but?” 

“you’re a wimp, baby.” 

you snort out a laugh, “that so?” 

“very much.” the smile is soft but it’s there and it makes your body tingle. or maybe it’s the strain from the stairmaster.  “you’ve got to know how to throw a punch, at least.” 

you groan. again. it’s your default at the gym. “pope. im always with you.” 

“no you’re not.” 

“babe, you take me to and pick me up from school. im always at your place.” you hum. “i have a drawer. that’s how much time i spend with you. even when you’re at work, im at your place. you’ll always be there to punch someone for me.” 

“that’s a weak mindset.” 

“im not learning how to punch someone.” 

“baby—“ 

“no.” 

“just—“ 

“i said no.” 

it’s his turn to groan, “fine.” 

he pouts. you hate it when he pouts. you mentioned it to him once and he got upset. claims he doesn’t pout. so you never brought it up again. but it works on you. with a huff, you roll your eyes, “fine. come on.”

he seems content that he’s won, behind the punching bag and holding onto it tight, taking his own stance. “alright, you remember the stance?”

“yes.” you answer, “if you keep teaching me how to fight i’ll end up beating you up one day.” 

“what a dream.” he scoffs. “show me the correct way.” 

you do as he taught you once. “that good enough for you?” 

“more than good enough. come on, hit me, baby.” 

you snicker, “hit you or the bag? i can totally hit you.” 

“haha. what a funny girl i have. swing.” so you do. and he makes you repeat it. and repeat it. 

you’re getting bored after a while, “pope, im bored. let’s do something else. outside of the gym.” 

“just a little more.” he tries to convince you. 

you huff, annoyed now. “pope. what is up with you?”

he glances at you once before sighing and removing his thin gloves. “nothing.” 

“why are you being persistent about this?” you continue. 

“i just think it’s important for you to protect yourself, baby. look at how we met. a man put his hands on you.” 

you sigh, recognizing the fear in his voice. “nothings going to happen to me.” 

“you don’t know that.” 

“i do. because you’re… youre strong enough for the both us.” A pause. “i don’t know about you but… you're it for me, Pope. that means… i’ll always be around you. and you’ll always protect me.” you motion to the punching bag again. “a few more times. and we’re done, okay?” 

he seems lighter now. not as persistent with it. he ends up showing off some kicking move while you sit the side and drink some water. you thought it was kinda dorky but he looks happy so you cheer him on. before you know it, you’re up on your feet and with a laugh, you try to mimic him. 

it doesn’t work. 

you cackle as you fall to the floor, unable to contain yourself. he had rushed to you, concerned. “im fine, pope.” he takes your hands in his, helping you up. immediately, he’s wiping at your mucked up knees, knowing they’re your favorite leggings. you grin, pressing a quick kiss to his lips when he’s back up, “see? always got you.” 

he grins, pressing more kisses to your lips, “you do got me, don’t you?”

— 

you don’t work at the grocery store often, which there are a lot. you don’t get business, that’s not your major and you tune out your step-father often. but you’re in a good mood today. and it’s victors birthday, you have to bring him the brownies he loves so much!!! you spent so much time on them, writing a lovely birthday note with his favorite flavor of frosting. 

“my favorite underling.” you joke, putting the platter of brownies down. he gasps and coos, takes thousands of pictures too. but of course, there are no utensils in the break room. so, you’re off to grab some from the kitchen, which is closed down this late at night. 

you’re humming the tune of the birthday song you and the others just sang to victor. you open a few drawers in the kitchen, huffing in frustration when nothing is found. you grab your phone, shooting your step-dad a text. ‘forks in ur office??’. You get a reply quick, ‘yes. lock b4 leave.’

you can’t believe how lucky you are as you walk to his office. he’s started to trust you, he never lets anyone in there. despite not wanting his businesses at all, you know he’s speaking to your mother about his inheritance and who could take over. you’d say no, but being thought of still feels good. you have amazing friends who are helping you with every awkward question you have when it comes to the relationship you have with a hot, older man. 

and pope. you love him. you really, really do. he’s yet to say it and so have you but you know it’s there on his end. there’s no way he can be faking all of those late night talks, that intimacy you two have without having sex. and he had told you he has something big planned. you have a feeling your words got to him and he will be asking you to be his girlfriend in a romantic way. 

you try to remember this week's code to his office lock as you round the corner. he had told you the start of the week but he doesn’t let you write it down. crap, you really wish you had written it down right now. with a sigh, you press the first button but a small noise leaves you when the door pushes open instead by the barely there touch. eyebrows furrowed, you softly push the door open some more, “uhm… I thought you were at ho—“ your breath catches to see two masked men. 

immediately, you take a step back, but it’s too late. they saw you. there’s a big hand grasping your arm and dragging you into the office. a pained gasp leaving your lips as you’re shoved to the ground. you can’t take a full breath. the men are arguing back and forth. 

“he said she wouldn’t be here!” 

“she’s going to fucking kill us.” 

“she?? he’s going to fucking kill us.” 

one of them scoffs, the tallest one, “he told us he didn’t even like her.” 

“i call bull.”

you’re not even really sure what’s happening. you’re trying to think. think. think. think. but you can’t. not with the sight of their weapons strapped to them. weapons. guns. you’ve only seen a gun once. in pope’s truck. you were opening the center console and refused to even look at him afterwards. he promised since then that he took it out of his truck. you chose to believe him. 

there’s a safe in the office. one your step-dad refuses to talk about. your siblings and you would make jokes about it. there’s either gold, a porn stash, a body, or a fuckload of money in it. now, your best bet is money— these men clearly want it. but your step-dad can’t be that stupid, right? why wouldn’t you have your money at a bank? he’s smart. right…?

another body comes in. you’re too scared to look up, eyes on the floor and shaking. you thought you had gained confidence the past few months. you didn’t, apparently. there are tears streaming down your face, you can’t stop. 

your mind gets hazy as they keep arguing, placing the safe on to the roller. the third person isn’t talking, you notice. and it makes you miss pope. anytime you see or meet the quiet one from a group, it makes you miss pope. and then, before you know it, the two huge bodies are out, pushing the safe out with them. 

you think you’re safe. no more guns. no more arguing men. 

a pair of hands meet yours. you flinch, immediately yanking your hands from the third persons. they pause for a moment, as if deliberating. but they reach out again. you don’t pull away this time, you let their hands grabs yours, helping you up off the floor. your eyes are shut tight, trembling in fear. but your body completely stills when they bend over slightly, lightly wiping the dirt off of the jeans at your knees. you just let it happen. 

what’s worse is you let the man take a single step closer, his body almost pressed up directly to yours. he doesn’t do anything. he doesn’t say anything. he just stands there. as if he’s taking you in. a shaky inhale and your body shudders. he’s smelling you. inhaling the scent of you. and then, he’s pulled away. and leaving. leaving you behind in the turned over office, the giant safe missing. 

—

it took you a few minutes to get yourself together. when you’re brought back to the real world, it’s victor that’s shaking you out of your trance. there are cops. detectives. your mother and step-father are there immediately. 

you explain what happened so many times. at some point, it feels like a hallucination. like when you repeat a word too many times and after a while, it stops making sense. 

you don’t call pope. you’re too stuck. it should’ve been a red flag when he showed up. but you’re too wrapped up in fear to question him. when you spot him, tears well up in your eyes again and you’re rushing to him. he immediately wraps his arms around you, cooing in your ear as you cry. “it was s-so, so scary, pope.” you cry in his arms, letting his arms soothingly rub at your back.

“i know, baby, i know.” his voice is so soft and sweet as he holds you. “you’re okay, everything’s okay.”

it’s how you end up in his home again. wrapped up in his arms in bed. you’re still a sniffling mess. you’re recounting the story again. every single part. but you skip the last part. how the thief was… taking you in. 

“that’s all?” he asks softly, gently swiping the tears from your cheeks. 

you hesitate. “‘s all…” you lie. 

you’re like this for days. distraught. paranoid. he’s helping you a lot. holding you. talking to you. you swear this is the most he’s ever spoken.

“let’s do something.” you two are lying on your sides, facing each other. 

you shake your head softly, “no… i don’t feel very good.” 

he sighs softly, not from annoyance, but clear concern. “you can’t just… you can’t let this stop you.” 

you huff out a small laugh, “yeah? isn’t this your dream date? doing nothing with me all day?” 

he nods, “yes but i want your dream date. do everything with me all day.” 

it warms your heart that he’s trying. really trying. not a single part of you picks it up as guilt. so, you groan dramatically, sitting up. “fine. but that means record store, beach, steak, and ice cream.” 

he grins, sliding off the bed with you. “deal, baby,” he smacks your ass as you walk past him. you laugh happily, “get ready quick.” 

and you do just that. anything you want, you get it. not that you didn’t before. he likes taking care of you. you can see it makes him feel useful. like his days have a purpose. but it’s different today and you can’t put your finger on it. 

it should have been really obvious to you when suddenly, he has no qualms about being with you. about sex. despite being stuffed by your meal that afternoon, you two are heavily making out. and then, his face is between your legs. and then, it’s happening. he’s being so gentle, his touch full of love. he doesn’t need to say it. you know he’s feeling it. 

soft praises fill your ears. the bed beneath you feels softer. your skin feels hot. 

your breath catches as he pushes only a tiny bit of his cock. nothing crazy, just notches the tip of him in you. a small whimper leaves you, “fuck…” 

he’s worrying immediately, “whats wrong, baby? too much? i can sto—“ 

“don’t you dare stop, pope, i will kill you if you pull your cock out.”

you both fall into a fit of laughter at your words. his forehead is leaning against yours, hand caressing your cheek. “i love you,” the sound of your name coming from his mouth makes your eyes fill up. 

despite the fear you felt that day, you’re happy. You were so lonely before. and now, you’re losing your virginity to the man you love, “I love you, too, pope.” and he pushes in, hollowing out completely. 

you think you’re a sex addict from there. you can’t get enough of him. more time passes and your anxiety is easing. you don’t flinch or pull away from random men you come across. you’re still slightly paranoid but pope helps you calm down, come back to earth. 

“y/n…” he groans as you press kisses up his chest. 

“what?” you’re smirking as you do so, skipping a ton of skin and pressing your lips to his. “you know that thing that men spew when they take a girls virginity? that they get clingy and obsessive? think im feeling that.” 

his hands slides down to the curve of your ass, lightly smacking it. “yeah? you were already obsessive and clingy before.” 

you feign a hurt gasp. “how dare you? i was rightfully clingy either way. you’re sexy. and you’re so weird. that’s all girls want lately. sexy and weird. god, im so horny. let’s have sex.” 

he laughs heartily, “later, baby.” one final pat to your butt and he’s sitting up. he reaches over and grabs his wallet, handing a bill over to you. “delivery guy should be here soon. tip. gonna go shower.” he’s pressing a kiss to your cheek and moving out from under you. 

he doesn’t notice how you still, staring down at the bill. the familiar bill. how your finger traces the familiar drawing. it’s small. barley even there. you’d have to really inspect the bill to notice it.

when your mother first met your step-dad, you didn’t like him. you didn’t get why she needed someone else’s love when she had yours. it was silly but the first day you met him, you asked for collateral. a deposit. you asked for two hundred dollars, which you would not return if he ever hurt or left your mother. her boyfriends never lasted long so you were just in it for the money. easy 200 bucks. he only had 20s. you were bored in homeroom and you drew a heart on one using a purple glitter gel pen. in the middle you wrote your step-dads initials alongside your mothers. 

when they didn’t break up and you were the maid of honor at their wedding, you gave him the 20 back with their initials. “you two should really be thanking me. because of this 20 dollar bill, you two got married.” it made the room erupt in laughter and your mother cry as she pressed soft kisses all around your face. 

“it was you.” your voice wasn’t soft. it was cut-throat. unlike your soft-spoken nature. your hear shuffling. you don’t look up, eyes still on the purple glitter heart and initials. “it was you. you were… you and your brothers… you hit the store.” you finally look up. he’s watching you. the same intense fucking look he always has on. 

“what are you say—“ 

“don’t fucking lie to me, pope.” you hold the bill out to him. “this… i gave this to my step-dad. he must have been keeping it in the safe. the safe that you and your brothers stole. right?”

he doesn’t answer for a moment. his breathing is labored. and then, he’s fine. as if this weren’t a big deal. “yes.” 

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[secondlina]

Reblogging because it’s a damn potato and I want to encourage people to assume potatoes are magical.

[plagued-roses]

MAGIC POTATO GO!🥔

[thaumbody]

here we go again

reblogging the golden potato

hoping it will work

that my life will get a perk

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Always reblog the potato.

[wreneddieilysm]

Rebloged.

[tygerbug]

This is the money Marge. Reblog for good fortune

[fru1t4fr0gs]

It's Just Paper

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

Summary: You’ve been Lena’s nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, it’s not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it won’t be long before she’s going to be taken into foster care.

But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption… well, she’s right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesn’t matter as long as Lena is safe.

Besides, it’s just paper. Right?

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Baz’s, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!

Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!

-

“Are you sure about this?”

“Not really, no.”

Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.

You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.

“Then why are you doing it?”

“For Lena.”

-

“What the hell are you talking about, Smurf?” Pope Cody’s voice is a low growl, but there’s shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.

You can’t hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says “hand the phone to her”.

Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. You’d wondered, when she’d demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, it’s Smurf, so you know it can’t be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.

Pope doesn’t look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.

“Married couples have a better chance at adoption.”

You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.

Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”

You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…

“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.

Adoption because you’re married.

“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.

Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.

Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.

Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.

And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.

“Okay.”

-

“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”

“Your niece.”

“Your whole life.”

“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”

Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.

“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.

Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.

Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.

-

The ride back is dead silent.

So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.

“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.

But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.

His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”

“Smurf-“

“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”

Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.

-

“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“

“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“

“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”

You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”

“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”

“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”

“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”

“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“

“You can’t trust Smurf.”

“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”

“She always has a reason to lie.”

“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”

Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.

“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”

“More than yourself?”

“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”

“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”

“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”

Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.

-

It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.

There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.

It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.

But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.

Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.

So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.

You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.

When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.

You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.

And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.

-

Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.

He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.

Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.

And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.

That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.

You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.

This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.

And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.

But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.

And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.

And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.

He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.

He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.

And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.

And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?

And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.

But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.

And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.

-

The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.

It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.

For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.

You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.

And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.

“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.

“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”

The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.

Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.

In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.

-

“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.

Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”

“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“Would you? If I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.

“I didn’t know you even slept.”

He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”

“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.

You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.

It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.

“Do you think this was a bad idea?”

He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.

“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.

After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.

You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.

“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.

“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.

You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.

Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.

“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.

Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.

“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”

“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.

If he is, he fails at it.

His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.

You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.

“I’ll do it.”

You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.

His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.

And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.

He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.

The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.

“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.

His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.

And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.

“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”

Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.

“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.

“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.

-

You wake before him.

You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.

You’ve never seen him sleep before.

You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.

There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.

Married. You’re married. For Lena.

What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.

Shit.

You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.

His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.

For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.

“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.

His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.

“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.

“I have t-shirts.”

You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”

“Do you…like the shirts?”

“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.

And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.

He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.

“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”

He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”

“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”

He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”

And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.

He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.

And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.

-

Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.

Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.

And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.

And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.

But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.

And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.

So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.

-

Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.

“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.

Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”

“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”

He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.

You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.

“She needs more than just us.”

“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.

“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“

Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.

“A what?”

You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.

“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“

“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.

“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”

He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”

You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”

“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.

“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”

To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.

“Andrew.”

You blink. His gaze does not falter.

“My name is Andrew.”

For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.

“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.

“She doesn’t.”

“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.

He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.

“It didn’t work for me.”

“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”

He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.

You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.

“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”

His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.

“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.

“I don’t want to get angry.”

“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.

He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.

“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“

His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.

“She needs help.”

“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.

“Did you think something was wrong with you?”

His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.

“There’s a lot wrong with me.”

You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”

“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”

You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.

The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.

“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“Can I watch TV?”

Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.

You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.

“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.

And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.

And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.

-

Lena is gone.

And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.

And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.

And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.

“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”

“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”

You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.

“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”

Oh.

Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.

And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.

And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.

This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.

She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.

So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.

The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.

It takes six minutes for you to break.

“Pull over.”

He does.

You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.

And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.

“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“

“Andrew.”

You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.

He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.

“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”

“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”

“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”

You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.

“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”

“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.

It needs to be done.

-

You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.

“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.

“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.

You turn to go.

“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.

“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.

“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.

“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”

You shake your head.

“Want some coke?”

You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.

“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”

You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.

“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”

You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”

He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.

-

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.

“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”

“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”

“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”

“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”

“You sound like your husband.”

“Don’t call him that.”

You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”

“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.

He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.

“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”

You frown, and shake your head.

He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”

“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know you’re being a dick, right?”

“Rude.”

“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”

Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”

He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.

“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”

“M’not-“

“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.

“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.

“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.

-

You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.

You don’t take the ring off.

Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.

Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.

But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.

One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.

You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.

“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.

“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”

“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”

“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.

“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”

You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”

“Craig!”

“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”

“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.

“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”

“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“

“Smurf’s got him fighting.”

And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.

“What?”

“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re out the door in five minutes.

-

When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.

You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.

His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.

“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.

You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.

You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.

“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”

His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.

His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.

You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.

“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.

“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.

“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.

And you kiss him back.

The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.

This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.

And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.

But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.

You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.

“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.

“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”

Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.

“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.

He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.

“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”

Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.

This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.

“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.

“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.

“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”

Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.

“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.

You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.

“Did I hurt you?”

No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.

“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.

And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.

-

You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.

“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”

You look up.

The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.

“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”

You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”

On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-

“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.

You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.

-

Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.

You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.

Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.

“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”

You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.

“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”

Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.

“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”

You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.

He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.

He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.

“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“

Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.

He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.

You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.

You sink to the floor.

You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?

Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.

He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.

Oh, fuck.

-

You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.

You don’t. You don’t even think to.

You call your husband.

He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.

The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.

“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“

“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.

“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.

“Are you safe?”

No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.

“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”

You nod again.

It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.

But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.

“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.

But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.

Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.

You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.

When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.

“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.

Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.

Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.

“Can you stand?”

You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.

He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”

You shake your head.

Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.

He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.

You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.

“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.

“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.

You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.

For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.

“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.

“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”

He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.

“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”

And you do.

You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.

“Is this…okay?”

You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.

He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.

And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…

But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.

His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.

He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.

He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.

You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-

And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.

“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.

Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-

“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”

“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.

You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.

“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.

“Please, Andrew.”

He grips you tighter, and leans back down.

And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.

You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.

“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”

You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.

“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.”  He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.

“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.

“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”

“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”

“You’ve gotta take care of the…“

Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-

“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”

Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”

Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.

You turn back to Craig, and nod.

He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.

“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”

Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.

“Yeah.”

And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.

-

Pope is gone for hours.

Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.

“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.

“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”

You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.

“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Will you relax?”

“You’re definitely not doing it right.”

“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”

He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.

“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”

You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed 

 eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.

“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”

“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.

“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.

“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”

Ugh. You might start crying again.

You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.

“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”

You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.

-

You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.

There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.

“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.

“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.

Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.

“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.

He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.

“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“

“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”

That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.

“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”

“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”

His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”

“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”

This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.

-

EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER

“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”

“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”

Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.

“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…

A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.

“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.

“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”

“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.

“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”

“The birth was traumatic.”

“The birth was three months ago.”

He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.

All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.

And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.

“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.

“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.

Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.

“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.

“You really wanna throw another party?”

He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”

He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…

And now, you finally answer.

“Ask me.”

He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.

“Will you marry me?”

You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.

“Yes, Andrew Cody. I’ll marry you…again.”

[lovebugism]

✶ — OFF-DAY !

summary: 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. (6.4k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, mentor!michael robinavitch, samira mohan, melangdon crumbs

contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)

title inspo:

Visit Original Link

The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.

You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.

He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.

“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.

“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.

“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.

[honeypiehotchner]

baby, it's alright -- ex!michael robinavitch x fem!reader (part three)

The long awaited part 3 has arrived!! And there will be a final part 4, which will be smutty 🤭

<< Part One || << Part Two

Summary: Busy schedules keep you and Robby away from one another, but an accident in the kitchen sends you to the Pitt right at shift change. Will the trip to the ER be the catalyst for forgiveness?

Warnings: our usual angst + lots of fluff, reader is very squeamish ok don't laugh at her bc then ur laughing at me /hj, it's not graphic but mentions of a deep cut that bleeds a LOT + feeling faint, jack being a sweetie, dana being a mother hen, overprotective sister appearance, medical innacuracies are inevitable bc i've had many an ER trip but never for stitches so just run w it, mentions of not eating/disordered eating, they finally Talk ["Baby" by Robert Bradley's Blackwater Surprise]

WC: 8.5k

Letting Robby back in is too easy.

It starts with texting to try to figure out a date to grab coffee. (Not a single day of your schedules line up in the next two weeks. Not one goddamn day.) And then, one evening, when you’re just sitting in bed, he responds to a text that you sent two minutes ago.

He never answers anything on his phone that fast when he’s at work, which can only mean--

“Hello?” he says, sounding exhausted and slightly confused.

“Hi,” you breathe. “I think this might be a miracle.”

His laugh rumbles down the line, warm and soothing. “Jack sent me home early.”

It’s probably nothing, and none of your business too, but you still frown and ask, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just--” He pauses. He sounds like he’s walking home. “My therapist sometimes fits in a session for me before I go into work and today it was…not a bright idea.”

Your heart aches for him. You’ve made the same mistake before, doing a session before a busy or important day, thinking it’ll be easier to push through when it only makes everything worse. You told your therapist about it after one particularly rough session followed by probably your busiest day of the year, and the look she gave you was enough for you to never do that again.

You are, however, very happy that Robby at least listened to Jack and went home early instead of fighting it. He would’ve fought Jack on it before, and then stayed late just to spite him. You see this as a little glimmer of progress.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask tentatively, sliding down in your bed to get more comfortable. You’ve known that he’s been in therapy this whole time, but the two of you haven’t talked about it. Not like this.

“Not really, no,” he says, chuckling again. “Tell me about your day.”

And that’s how it starts. One minute you’re just texting him once every few hours, sometimes once a day with your schedules, and the next thing you know, nightly phone calls with him are something you look forward to the second you wake up in the morning.

It’s dangerous. But that doesn’t make you want or even try to stop.

Two busy weeks pass easily with a call every night. Robby jokes once that it reminds him of shift handover in a weird way. The way you debrief him on your day, and then he does the same. It’s the fact that he reciprocates that has a spark of hope blooming in your chest.

He doesn’t give you full details, obviously, because there are things he can’t say, and some things he won’t say because he’s not going to traumatize you unnecessarily. But he tells you the good stories, like:

“Dana misses you,” he says out of the blue one night. “I told her that we’ve been talking again.”

“Yeah?” You can’t help the evil grin that crawls onto your lips, not even caring that he can see you because tonight you finally convinced him to work the video option on the call. “What’d she have to say?”

“A few choice words,” he admits, shaking his head. He’s sitting up in bed as well, raking his fingers through his hair. “And that if I fuck this up again she’s going to kick my ass into the next decade.”

“So into the grave, then.”

He looks up at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but a genuine offense hiding in his playful gaze. “Hey.”

Your uncontrollable laughter at his playful hurt is something that Robby wants to bottle up and keep forever. The sound, the look on your face. You don’t realize it until you’ve calmed down that he’s been watching you the whole time, a devastatingly fond look on his face.

“What,” you murmur, now a little sheepish, looking at the blanket on your lap.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, softly, looking away.

But it’s obviously something. 

Two weeks ago, you wouldn’t have pushed it. Tonight, for some reason, you’re feeling bold. “You can’t look at me like that and say nothing.”

He looks back at you with that same expression. “I just miss you.”

It cracks your chest open, hearing him admit it so openly. In words.

“I miss you too,” you say, and it sounds a bit like a vow. You’re promising something to each other, neither of you know what just yet, but you feel it there. The heaviness of it.

He drags a tired hand down his face. “If I wasn’t so exhausted right now…”

“I know,” you smile. “Me too.”

If he hadn’t worked a full day today. If you hadn’t too. If both of you didn’t have full, busy days tomorrow. Always if and never when. 

When you shift to lay down, he tilts his head at you, smiling softly. “Tired?”

You nod. “I don’t know how you’re still awake.” You get up two hours later than him and get off work two hours earlier.

“I’m used to it.”

You just scrunch your nose at him, and he laughs. 

“Go to sleep,” he says. “I probably should too.”

“Or we could do what the kids do these days and stay on the phone until one of us falls asleep.”

“The kids?” He’s incredulous. “The kids do that?”

You’re giggling too hard to hear as he rambles nonsense about how he did that when he was younger so really his generation started it and the kids these days don’t know about their history.

“You are so dramatic!” you cut him off, still laughing. “It’s so easy to rile you up.”

“Oh, so you are doing it just to get a rise out of me!”

“Why else?” you snicker. “You’re cute when you’re so heated.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re laughing at me.”

The two of you just stare for a moment, recognizing what has happened. Somehow, somewhere, the conversation veered dangerously close to sounding like something the two of you would’ve had when you were dating. At least at the beginning.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

You don’t argue this time, you just shut your eyes with a little nod.

He doesn’t hang up until the morning, when he wakes up for work before you do. But you’ve got him all soft again, so he sends you a little good morning text and tells you to have a good day at work. And all of it makes him feel like being hit by an ambulance would hurt less than the fact that he can’t have you and that it’s all his fault.

+++

one year ago

The very first time you went to visit Robby at PTMC, you weren’t immediately met with smiles. 

You went through the main entrance, asking at the desk to see Dr. Robinavitch. You told the clerk to tell him that you were waiting for him, and that he would know who you were. Lupe looked skeptical, and like she did not want to tell Robby that you were there, but she did anyway.

Thankfully, the waiting area wasn’t too packed that day. It was still pretty full, because it always is, but there were still some empty seats. You didn’t take a chair, just stood off to the side in eyesight of the doors to the ED.

No less than five minutes after you spoke with Lupe, Robby came barreling through the doors, eyes wide as he searched for you. And once he found you, he was a stream of questions, both hands resting on your elbows. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What are you doing here? Despite the fact that you were standing, fully conscious, and had coffee and a croissant in hand -- because you had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t eat that morning, and he didn’t -- Robby still looked you over like he was checking for injuries, blood, or anything else concerning.

“I’m fine,” you laughed through it, through the fact that he was causing an obvious scene. “I’m just dropping off coffee and a croissant. I doubt you ate this morning and we were on the phone until late last night.”

He melted. He sighed, shoulders visibly relaxing as he bent to kiss your forehead. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Why don’t you come back for a moment? I can introduce you to everybody.”

Your eyebrows raised slightly. You had only been seeing Robby for a little over a month. You hadn’t introduced him to any of your friends and only briefly mentioned him to your sister, and yet here he was, asking you to come back and meet his coworkers -- who, arguably, classified as meeting his friends. 

“Sure,” you had said, forcing him to take the coffee and croissant right then just so you knew he had it. “If that’s okay.”

He shoved the croissant into a hoodie pocket so he had one hand free to hold yours. “‘Course it’s okay. Come on.”

That was the first day you met Dana, and the day you learned her coffee order so you’d “know what to bring in for the next time,” she had told you with a wink.

Hearing it then, next time you’re in, made it all feel so real, so permanent. Like you could get used to it. To stopping by with breakfast after you finally woke up a few hours into Robby’s shift. To dropping in with lunch because you knew otherwise he would only eat a protein bar. And you did get used to it, maybe too quickly.

You became a welcome face in the Pitt, a welcome smile among all the chaos. You only ever stayed for a few minutes at a time because of how busy they were, but it was enough. It was a genuine reprieve, Robby told you. There was a weight that you lifted just by showing up with a smile and a kiss.

You just don’t know when that stopped being the case.

The first day you met Jack, you coincidentally had bought a small Redbull. You had planned to give it to Robby to have him give it to Jack at shift handover. You were delighted to see Jack was still there so you could hand deliver it.

“This is Jack,” Robby introduced you. “Who should be going home.”

“I have a gift for him actually, so this is perfect,” you said, so pleased with yourself as you dug the can out of your bag. “Redbull, right?”

Jack’s ears perked and he smiled just a little, which for Jack was a lot. “Yeah, thank you,” he took the can from you, then tipped it at Robby. “You better keep her.”

“I’m trying, brother,” Robby said seriously, smacking Jack’s shoulder. “Now go home. Don’t drink that.”

“Saving it for shift tonight,” Jack promised, offering you another little smile. “Thank you again.”

You just beamed at him, and then beamed at Robby even though he was shaking his head and calling you a menace.

But he kissed you right through it, right there in the middle of the ED, as if he didn’t have things to do -- but he always did.

“You’re a bad influence,” he had mumbled against your lips, smiling through the words and the kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I can think of a few things,” you had whispered against his mouth, just quiet enough for only him to hear.

The look he had given you was full of awe and lust, one he had to physically shake himself out of. You left that day with a smug smile, knowing exactly what you had done, and knowing with bone-deep certainty that as soon as he got off shift, you’d see him. And you did. 

He didn’t even call. Just showed up at your door, and grinned like a madman in love when you pulled him inside by his hoodie.

+++

You try to tell yourself that it isn’t that bad.

Even as you drive yourself to the ER, finger wrapped in a dish towel soaked with your blood, you keep saying it. Out loud, even, because you’re trying to keep yourself sane while you’re behind the wheel.

“It’s not that bad,” you repeat, over and over. “Maybe a stitch. Or two. But it’s fine. It’s fine!”

You’re less and less convinced as you feel your finger pulsing with every heartbeat. You check at a stoplight to see if it’s still bleeding, and curse loudly when you see that oh, it’s bleeding alright.

And then you’re lightheated, so you quickly wrap it up and take deep breaths and think about literally anything else for the rest of the drive.

You park at the hospital in a reasonably close space, thank fuck, but your legs are feeling a little weak on the walk to the ER entrance. You chalk it up to your anxiety and apparent squeamishness -- that up until now you had no idea about -- and make it inside.

There are quite a few empty chairs, so that bodes well for you at least. When you walk up to the desk to check in, though, Lupe’s eyes go wide, her mouth opening to no doubt shout for someone.

“I’m fine!” you rush to tell her, dropping your injured hand out of her view. “I just nicked myself in the kitchen. It’s fine.”

She takes your ID and insurance and says it won’t be long. You believe her, sort of. You don’t think Robby’s here, or Lupe probably would’ve shouted for him. You texted him earlier asking if he was at work and he didn’t respond. Usually when that’s your question, he sends a quick reply, especially if he is at work, so you know he’s there in case, God forbid, you need him to be at the ER. 

Today, he hasn’t replied, and it’s around the time for shift change, so you’re thinking he’s gone for the day. Or in therapy. Or sleeping.

God, you wish he had replied. You hold your finger in your lap, still feeling the pulse and cringing each time. But it’s slightly less now than it was on the drive over.

So, like an idiot, you decide to check on the cut. Just very quickly.

Except, even though it’s brief, it still ends with your head in between your knees and the back of your neck tingling like you’re about to pass out any second now.

You distantly hear the doors to the department opening through the ringing in your ears, and then you hear Dana’s voice right by your head.

“Hey kid,” she says gently. “You out?”

“No I’m up,” you say, lifting your head and looking at her, but now the room is spinning, so you kind of look around her, which just means she’s not at all convinced about you being fine.

“Come on, sit,” she pats the seat of the wheelchair she brought for you. “We need to get you back.”

“No, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head a little. “Just a little cut.”

She raises an eyebrow at the dish towel with red patches coming through. “Uh huh. Sit. Do you need help?”

“No,” you grumble, surprisingly able to shift yourself onto the wheelchair. “This is dramatic.”

“Sure, kid,” she laughs, wheeling you back. “Just be glad Robby already left.”

The confirmation makes your heart tug a little. Maybe he’s just in therapy then, and that’s why he hasn’t replied.

Or maybe he’s just busy doing other things in his free time. He doesn’t have to be texting you all the time. It’s not like the two of you are dating. Anymore. Even if you’ve been talking more.

You never thought you’d let him back in like this, and now that you have, all you want is for him to be here. He told you that if you ever thought you needed the emergency room to call him first. And you did. He just didn’t answer. Why didn’t he answer?

Dana notices your silence. She doesn’t mention it.

She wheels you into an open room, shouting over her shoulder for Jack. You spotted him a second ago through your haze but hoped he wouldn’t acknowledge your presence because at this point you’re just mortified.

Jack calls out your name in surprise the second he sees you and you groan in embarrassment. 

“I’m f--” you start to say fine but Jack speaks right over you.

“What happened? Vitals?” And a dozen other questions while he shines the stupid pen light in your eyes.

“My vitals are fine,” you hiss, not knowing what they actually are but not caring either. “It’s a small cut. Just wouldn’t stop fucking bleeding.”

“Didn’t get a chance to triage her yet, she put her head down in chairs and Lupe yelled for me,” Dana relays the info to Jack.

“Lightheated? Dizzy?” he asks, eyes scanning your face as you speak, no doubt assessing how alert you are, but you’re starting to just feel stupid.

“Both,” you admit anyway, knowing better than to lie, especially when Dana is right here. “I’m just squeamish, alright? Don’t laugh when you see how small the cut is.”

Jack just gives you his little smile, wheeling the stool over so he can sit in front of your chair. “Let me take a look.”

You hold your hand out and squeeze your eyes shut. “I genuinely can’t look.”

You hear him chuckle but he says, “Okay, just-- I’ll let you know when you can look.”

You feel him lifting the towel, but he makes no noise, no indication of how bad it is, so like the idiot you are, you crack one eye open.

You see the blood and can barely say, “Oh fuck me,” before you feel lightheaded again, your head dropping into your free hand.

“I didn’t say you could look!” Jack scolds, but you can hear the humor in it. He really is amused by how squeamish you are, and you know you’ll never live this down, but right now all you can think about is how fucking nauseous you are. 

You keep your eyes shut as Dana and Jack help you onto the bed, propping you up. You don’t dare open your eyes yet, still feeling cold yet somehow hot and a bit like your body is floating toward the ceiling.

“Dana, can you get some fluids just in case and maybe a sandwich?”

With your eyes still closed, you retort, “I’ll literally throw that dry sandwich at your head, Jack.”

Dana just laughs. “I’ll find something else. And bring you some juice.”

While she’s gone, Jack actually takes your vitals this time, silent as he does, making sure to not mention anything about the cut in your finger (that does need a couple stitches, but he can tell you that after you stop looking like you’re going to hurl). 

“So…Robby tells me you two are talking again.”

You feel your pulse jump a little, knowing damn well that he felt it, too. “Yeah.” You pause. “Dana said he already left?” An innocent question. But still hopeful. 

Jack nods. “I can see if I can reach him if you want.”

You think about it for a moment, but eventually shake your head, opening your eyes to give Jack a half-hearted smile. “No, it’s okay. Thanks though.”

Jack is quiet while he listens to your lungs just out of habit. Or maybe he’s stalling. He’s not sure yet. “He can’t be far.”

You finish your deep breath and say, “I don’t want to bother him if he’s got things to do.”

Jack hangs his stethoscope around his neck, shrugging. “I think he’d just want to know you’re here.”

“I texted him.”

Jack nods. “Let me see if I can reach him while Dana gets you hooked up, yeah?”

Dana is already emerging in the doorway of your room as he says it, sugary cereal bar and protein bar in hand, both no doubt from her and Robby’s secret stashes. She nods back toward the ED as she walks over to your bedside. “Princess is coming with your fluids.”

You smile, taking the cereal bar from her and ripping it open. 

Jack stands and gives you a knowing nod. “I’ll be back in just a second.”

He shuts the door as he leaves. 

Dana collapses into the chair next to your bed, setting the protein bar on your thigh. “First time back and it’s you giving us a scare,” she laughs. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I know,” you groan, tipping your head back with a laugh. “I was just trying to make dinner!”

She squeezes your leg fondly. She waits a beat before asking, “Jack going to call Robby?”

“Yeah,” you nod sheepishly, biting off another mouthful of the cereal bar.

“You okay with that?”

“I texted him already,” you say. “So yeah.”

“Okay then,” she says with a smile. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“We’ve been talking,” you blurt, even though you know she knows, because Robby has told her. And Jack. It makes you wonder who else he has told, and if he told them because he just couldn’t help himself. If he’s just been so consumed by the hope of speaking to you again, the same way you have been.

“He told me,” she says. “Saw your name come across his phone one day and practically smacked him with the tablet.”

“Did he tell you he showed up at my door the night after Pitt Fest?” you ask quietly.

You see the surprise cross her face, and then the sadness. “He didn’t.”

You nod slowly, picking at a string on your leg. “When I broke up with him I told him he could still come to me if he ever had a shift he couldn’t be alone after,” you explain. “I didn’t think he would, but that was the one.”

“That was a rough day for everybody,” she sighs.

“Yeah, speaking of,” you remember what Robby told you and you nudge her arm. “How’s your nose?”

“Better,” she laughs. “Bruised like hell.”

“I bet,” you grimace. “And how are you?”

She squeezes you again. “I’m okay, kid.”

You don’t push it, though you can tell she knows that Robby must’ve told you about her thinking that she’s done here. You don’t think she is, and she’s still here so maybe she isn’t, but you leave it be, just as she leaves the subject of you and Robby alone.

+++

Robby’s phone finally turns back on after having it plugged in for a few minutes at home. He had forgotten to charge it last night, and because it’s older and kind of a piece of shit, it died before his shift ended.

Text messages start rolling in and he sees your name, but before he can click on it to reply, his phone lights up with a call from Jack.

“Yeah?” he asks because Jack only ever calls like this if he forgot something Robby said in his debrief at handover.

“She’s here.”

Robby’s stomach drops. Surely Jack doesn’t mean-- “What?”

“She’s conscious and alert, she cut herself pretty bad while trying to cook dinner, definitely going to need a stitch or two but the bleeding has stopped now. She nearly passed out a couple times, though, so Dana got her something to eat and I ordered some fluids just in case.”

Robby is listening, but he’s putting Jack on speaker so he can put his shoes back on and start grabbing his shit to leave again. But then he stops. 

Jack is telling him you’re there, but he hasn’t mentioned anything about if he’s telling Robby this for a reason other than to keep him in the loop.

Robby sits down on his bed, puts his phone back up to his ear, rubs his face with his hand. “Okay. But she’ll be okay?”

“She’ll be fine once you get here.”

“But--”

“Robby. Man. I’m calling you because she asked me to.”

Robby jumps up, his charger getting yanked out of his phone in the process. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Jack tells him what room you’re in and Robby is flying out his door, damn near sprinting down the street back toward the hospital.

He’s never made it to the Pitt as fast as he does right now, and he scoots in through the ambulance bay. Jack is just coming out of another patient’s room when he spots him, and he points toward your room.

The door is open and he can hear you laughing with Dana, so that at least eases his worries. He slows to a walk so he doesn’t startle you when he stands in the doorway, knocking softly on the wood.

“Told you he’d run here,” Dana whispers clear as day, winking at you.

You’re hooked up to an IV and have one of his protein bars half-eaten in your hand. Your finger is wrapped loosely in some gauze with no red peeking through, so that’s a good sign.

Dana stands and lets Robby have the seat by your bed. “I’ll go get everything so we can get those stitches done and get you out of here.”

You nod but you don’t say a word and Robby can see the fear on your face.

He sits next to you and rests his hand over your non-injured one. “Hey clumsy.”

A laugh bubbles out of you and he’ll take it. “Hey,” you murmur. “This is what I get for trying to cook when I’m already starving.”

Ah, he thinks. So that explains you nearly passing out on Jack and Dana. Pair your squeamishness -- that he doesn’t remember being this bad -- with intense hunger and it was inevitable that you’d feel faint.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, discreetly glancing up at the bag of fluids and the speed of the flow. He trusts Jack and Dana, of course he does, but still. Doesn’t hurt to double check things.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Sorry for stealing a protein bar.”

He just shakes his head at you. “Don’t.”

“Thanks for coming,” you whisper, turning your hand over to squeeze his palm against yours. “Dana said you had just left.”

“My phone died too, or else I would’ve seen your text and I could’ve been here when you got in,” he says. “I’m glad they got you back quickly.”

“Yeah, well, nearly passed out and Dana came over with a wheelchair,” you chuckle. “Pretty good for a first ER trip here.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t anything worse,” he says sincerely, gently rubbing your hand with his thumb. “Jack said you just need a couple stitches.”

“Yeah.”

Robby cups your hand with both of his. “Hey.” He tips his head down a little, trying to get you to look at him. You finally do. “Jack’s gonna do the stitches, and I’m gonna be right here the whole time distracting you, okay? We can get Dana in here too, keep you focused on us, and Jack will be quick. He’s a pro.”

“Okay,” you breathe, leaning your head back. “God. I feel like such a baby.”

“You’re not a baby,” he says sincerely. “You might be the most squeamish person I’ve ever seen, though.”

You just glare at him, but you’re smiling. You’re smiling and laughing and talking with him and that’s all he needs. His worst nightmare is you being here unconscious, unstable. He’s not happy that you’re here right now, but Jesus, is he happy that you’re conscious, stable, alert, and you just need a couple stitches before he can take you home.

Jack comes back with Dana a few minutes later, wheeling in a little cart with them. And when you start eyeing all of it warily, Jack shakes his head at you. 

“This is none of your business,” he scolds, then points at Robby. “Look at him.”

You look at Robby and say loud enough for Jack to hear, “Tell him he needs to work on his bedside manner.”

Robby snorts, leaning over, “Hey Jack--”

“Can it, Mike,” Jack tells him, but he’s smiling just a little, hands working practically on instinct as he sets everything out the way he needs it.

Dana sits on your bed, so you’re flanked on both sides, and so she can be mostly in your line of sight. Jack stretches your arm out to rest on the tray, and you keep your gaze locked on Robby.

“Do you want me to tell you what I’m doing or just--?”

“Jack, I swear to God, if you don’t get this over with in the next five minutes--”

“Duly noted,” he says. “I am gonna tell you about the lidocaine, just because I don’t need you flinching away from me. Just a prick and some burning, okay?”

You chew on your bottom lip when you feel the burning just as he warned. 

“What were you trying to cook earlier?” Robby asks, redirecting your focus. 

“Yeah, what’s for dinner?” Dana jokes.

You tell them the dish and Robby immediately recognizes it as one of your favorites -- and his. “I haven’t made it since--”

Well, since that night. The night you broke up with him.

He remembers. “It was really good,” he says softly. “I did eat it all.”

“Good,” you say sincerely. “That’s why I made it.” You pause, trying not to focus on the dull pressure you feel in your finger, no doubt from Jack starting the stitches. “I didn’t get very far tonight, though, so we’ll have to order pizza or something.”

You swear everyone in the room -- including yourself -- freezes. We. You said we’ll have to order pizza. 

Instead of calling you out on it, Robby takes it in stride. “Yeah,” he says, face soft as he continues the conversation. “We can order from that place down the street, have it ready to pick up on the way home.”

Home. You love the sound of that. You’ve missed the sound of that word coming out of Robby’s mouth, especially in this context. A place the two of you share. A place the two of you can run away to.

You just nod weakly, hoping he means it. Hoping this isn’t just to distract you. “I can make you watch another shitty romance movie.”

“Anytime,” he replies easily, squeezing your hand. He glances over at Jack’s work. Jack catches his eye for just a moment, a knowing look passing between the two men. “He’s almost done,” Robby tells you, looking back at you with a smile. “Just needs to tie the final knot.”

You nod. “That was quick.”

“Why, thank you,” Jack says, smirking. “You’ll just need to keep it clean and dry for about a week. These should dissolve on their own, so you don’t need to come back unless it gets infected -- redness, if it’s itching, leaking.”

“I’ll just panic and send Robby a picture of it every single day,” you tease. 

But in all seriousness, Robby replies, “I can come check on it every day just to be safe.”

It’s a small, though deep, cut. Both Robby and Jack (and Dana and you) know that he doesn’t need to check on it every single day. He really doesn’t need to check on it at all, unless it bothers you. But you all know what this is really about. 

An excuse to see you every day. Even if for just a moment, just to hold your hand in his, and take his time examining the stitches just so he can hold you a little longer. 

This knowingness hangs above you all. And none of you mention it. 

“You should be fine with some ibuprofen for the pain, but again, if it gets too bad, just panic and call Robby,” Jack chuckles. “But seriously, you’re all done.” 

“Can I look now?” you ask. 

“Are you going to try to pass out on me again?” Dana says, sounding a bit like she’s scolding you, but you can hear the genuine worry. 

“No,” you protest. Then, quieter, say, “I don’t know. I hope not. There’s no more blood, right?”

“You’re all cleaned up, kiddo,” Dana says, patting your leg. “Look now while we’re all here to catch you if you go down.”

Robby opens his mouth to protest, but he supposes you need to look at some point, and Dana is right. Might as well look while you’re in the ER, safe in a bed, with all of them surrounding you. 

So, you look. And it isn’t so bad now. You take a deep breath and smile, looking up at Jack. “I’m good. Thanks for the handiwork, Jack.”

“Anytime,” he says. “Try to be more careful, yeah? You’re not supposed to be a patient when you’re visiting us.”

“Noted,” you say with a salute of your stitched hand, doing it only because you want to see his eyeroll. 

“Okay soldier,” Jack scoffs but grins. “I need to go check on everyone else, but Dana’ll get your discharge paperwork.”

“I’ll bring you a Redbull tomorrow,” you say. “Or two.”

“Looking forward to it,” Jack says, sharing another little look with Robby before he leaves. 

Dana leaves as well, with the promise that she’ll return with the formal discharge information that they have to give when you get stitches. Robby stays with you, continuing the distraction, even though you’re better now, and your fluids have finished, so he takes out the IV for you.

While the two of you talk about anything that comes to mind, Dana is at the hub, pretending she doesn’t notice the night shift -- notorious for their gossip -- peering into the room where you sit with Robby.

“Is that…?”

Dana just nods, keeping her eyes on the computer. “Yep.”

“I thought they were--”

“They are,” she says.

“So what the hell is he doing?”

Dana looks up with a smirk. “Groveling. What’s it look like?”

+++

As soon as you’re free to leave, and after giving Dana a hug and Jack another thank-you wave, you head out the main doors with Robby in tow. You turn toward the parking lot and realize you don’t have your keys in your hands yet.

“Let me just dig my keys out of my--”

Robby’s head snaps toward you. “Keys? Car keys?”

“Yeah?” you reply, just as confused while you dig through your bag. “I drove here. You think I have money for an ambulance? Don’t even get me started on what this might cost me--”

“You drove here?” he asks again, his face growing more and more incredulous by the minute.

“Yes,” you huff, finally retrieving your keys.

“Give me those,” he says, though he doesn’t exactly give you a choice because he promptly snatches them from your hands as soon as he spots them.

“Robby!”

“You are not driving,” he says. “I can’t believe you drove here when you were feeling faint. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

You just glare at him, even though you know you deserve this scolding. It wasn’t your finest moment, you’ll admit that. “Fine. You can drive. Just don’t wreck. You’re not on my insurance.”

He barks out a laugh as you reach your car. “I’ll be careful, just get in.”

You grumble the entire time, though deep down, a tiny fire ignites in you again after hearing him scold you and tell you, not ask, what he’s going to do.

But you shove that feeling away because you can’t. You can’t think about that without it being dangerous. Especially when you’re about to do something that’s equally as dangerous.

“About dinner,” you blurt.

He buckles himself in and turns the key in the ignition. “We don’t have to if you--”

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” you interrupt.

He turns his head toward you, features softening. “Of course, if that’s what you want.”

You nod. “It is. It is what I want.”

His smile is full of relief. “Then let’s order a pizza so we can pick it up on the way,” he says. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” you reply, as if no time has passed since your last dinner with him. The usual, as if the two of you had it just last week. “And--”

He rattles off your favorite drink and dessert with no hesitation. “I know what I’m doing,” he says with a smirk, pressing his phone to his ear.

You melt into the passenger seat as he orders everything and says he’ll pay when he picks it up, which just tells you that he’s planning to pay for it himself, but you don’t have it in you to argue about it. You want to let him, for once.

So you do. He drives straight to the pizza place, heads inside to pick it up, and comes back with a smile and an armful.

He’s driving with one hand, the other arm propped on the center console, and you have to restrain yourself from clinging to his arm the way you used to. It’s so tempting that you almost give in, missing the way you used to weave your limbs around him in any way you could, because he’d let you. He always let you hang on him around the house, never one to complain when you’d walk up behind him and bury your face in his back as you wound your arms around his middle, sometimes underneath his shirt. 

You’re just about to say fuck it and wrap yourself around his arm when your phone buzzes rapidly in your lap.

“That would be my sister,” you chuckle. “I sent her a picture of my battle wounds.”

Robby laughs as you answer the phone, barely getting one word in before your sister starts going in on you. He tries not to eavesdrop on your call, he really does, but he can’t help it when your sister is practically shrieking over the phone, so much so that you even have to pull the speaker away for a second.

“Are you okay?! You can’t just send me a picture of stitches with no explanation!”

“I’m fine,” you chuckle, and you pointedly ignore Robby’s little scoff. “Just nicked myself trying to cook dinner and it wouldn’t stop bleeding so I drove to the ER.”

“You drove?”

Robby is glad to not be the only one incredulous about the fact that you drove while feeling faint. 

“Yes, but I am fine,” you hiss. “Just shaken up, but fine.”

Your sister says something that he can’t hear, and then says something like, “...eat enough today?”

Robby’s eyebrows furrow as he drives. He really shouldn’t be paying attention to this call. It’s clearly personal and private and none of his business anymore, but. 

“I was in the process of making dinner” is your quiet reply to your sister and he can’t help the way his eyes narrow a little at the road. Does that mean you didn’t have breakfast? Lunch? A snack? Anything until Dana handed you a protein bar?

Your sister’s voice goes soft again, but you’re nodding along, looking out the passenger window and saying, “It’s fine. No, I know. I was just busy. It’s fine. We got pizza and stuff. Yeah. He’s driving me. Yeah. I know. Love you.”

You’re quiet when you hang up. Robby doesn’t mention what he heard. He just drives.

When he parks at your place, he grabs all of the food before you can even try, handing your keys off to you instead so you can get the door. Your little glare is met by his unfazed smile.

He drops everything on the kitchen counter, letting you help unload it because he can tell you’re restless. He focuses on clearing away the little bit of dishes from when you were attempting to make dinner earlier, trying to give you some physical space. 

He doesn’t want to bring up what he heard, but clearly it’s bothering you. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s here again, in your apartment, when you told him he couldn’t do this again. Except you invited him in -- again. 

Just as he’s about to open his mouth and say something probably very stupid about how he can go if he’s bothering you, you speak instead.

“It’s not a thing,” you say.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence and you both know it. He reaches under the sink for the pack of paper plates you always keep there, retrieving a few.

You let out a sigh, taking a plate from him. “What my sister said. It’s-- It’s not a thing.”

He nods slowly, grabbing a slice of pizza and putting it on your plate. “Okay.”

“You don’t need to pretend like you didn’t hear it,” you chuckle. “She was practically screaming.”

“Well,” Robby lets out an awkward laugh, grabbing his own slice. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I know we’re not,” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, “so if you say it’s not my business, then…it’s not my business.”

You rub your forehead, setting your plate down on the counter. “It’s not that it’s-- I just don’t want you guilting yourself.”

“Why would I--” he starts but then stops, the realization dawning on him.  

“It’s an old habit, you didn’t cause it,” you clarify. “But the breakup and a load of other shit happened at once and it sort of created the perfect conditions for it to come back, I guess,” you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t want you guilting yourself, it just got worse after things ended, but I know I ended things, so I don’t really have room to talk--”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

“But it’s the truth, I’m the one that pulled the plug.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt,” he argues. “That doesn’t mean you hadn’t been hurting. Because of me.”

You open your mouth, pause, close it. You frown. “Are we doing this right now?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Should we?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, just as honest, just as quiet.

“Eat first,” he says, softly, not accusatory. “And let’s sit.”

“Yeah. Okay.” You nod absentmindedly, heading for the living room with your plate in one hand and drink in the other, careful of your finger.

Robby tries not to watch you like a hawk, but still you feel his eyes on you as you move and settle down on the couch. He sits beside you, nowhere near as close as when the two of you shared a blanket that night, but close enough. Close enough to mean something.

“I’m scared,” you say before you’ve even taken one bite. “I’m fucking terrified. Because you’re starting to remind me of the Robby that I fell in love with.”

He sighs, brown eyes softening and growing sadder with your every word.

“And part of me loves it, part of me is so-- so giddy every time I talk to you because I can see it. I can see the man I first met,” your voice breaks at the end, and when you look up at him, there are tears shining in your eyes. “But he disappeared on me once. How do I know he won’t disappear again?”

“Fuck” is all Robby can think to say, and maybe it isn’t the right thing to start with, but it’s honest. It’s raw and it hurts when he hangs his head and thinks about the ways he treated you, the way he snapped at you for days on end.

“Yeah,” you let out a wet laugh, resting your forehead in your palm. “That’s all I can think about. I want you so badly and every time I just-- I remind myself about the way it felt at the end and I don’t want to feel that way again. I can’t watch you fall out of love with me twice.”

His head whips up at that, eyes a little wide as he looks at you like you’ve just said the single most absurd sentence he’s ever heard. “Fall out of love with you?” he repeats. “I never stopped loving you.”

You sniffle, just offering him a sad smile. “Well it sure seemed like you did.”

“No, I--” He stops himself, turns his body toward you, hands reaching for you and landing on the couch cushion instead. “I was so-- Jesus, I was so angry but it wasn’t at you, it was never at you. Or I never meant it to be, but I know that doesn’t change that I hurt you because clearly it looked like I was angry at you, but I promise, you never did anything wrong.”

You cover your face with your hand, sniffling harder as you shake your head. “I want to believe you Robby, I really do, I just--”

“I know,” he cries. “I know and I know it’s my fault that you can’t believe me, I know I did that and I won’t blame you if you can’t, but--” He pauses, realizing abruptly that there are tears clouding his vision too. “When Jack called me and told me you were at the Pitt, for a second I thought something had happened to you, and I’d regret it forever if I didn’t get the chance to tell you I’m sorry and to beg for one more chance, I--” He cuts himself off again, making a split-second decision that he knows he’ll pay for tomorrow with the way his knees creak, but he has to do it. He has to get on his knees in front of you; it’s what you deserve.

“Robby,” you’re fighting back a disbelieving smile, “what are you--”

“I’m begging for forgiveness,” he says, as if it isn’t obvious. He reaches for your hands, sure to be gentle and careful with your injured finger. “For just one more chance. Because I need you to know I never fell out of love with you. I hated myself so much that I thought I didn’t deserve you or to be with you and every time you were kind to me I just felt like I didn’t deserve it, and I was driving myself crazy because I couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see that I was a waste of your time,” he admits it all in a rambling haze, not even sure if any of it makes sense to you, but he needed to say it. He needs you to know that it was never you. It was all him.

You’re shaking your head at him, though, like none of his words are helping. “That’s so-- Part of me hates that you had that twisted train of thought because you do deserve love but a bigger part of me is so pissed at you,” you let out an incredulous laugh. “You didn’t think you deserved me and so instead of breaking up with me, you just treated me like shit?”

“I know,” he cries. “I know it makes no sense, and I realize it now, that none of it made any sense. My therapist is-- We’re working through it and part of it has been recognizing that it was twisted and so unfair to you--”

“Uh, yeah,” you scoff, wiping under your eyes with one hand, but then you return your hands to his, and that small action gives him the tiniest glimmer of hope.

“I’m staying in therapy,” he promises. “And I’m going to keep trying and keep doing whatever it is you need me to do for you to forgive me because I can’t-- I can’t go another day without you. It doesn’t feel right, and I know I did it to myself, I know you don’t have to forgive me, but-- Please.”

You just stare at him. For the longest time. And he lets you. He holds your gaze, never once wavering, because he needs you to see that he’s serious. He means all of those words. Every last one of them.

“You get one chance,” you begin. “Because I meant it, that I can’t watch you leave me twice.”

He nods. “Just one chance, that’s all I need.”

You stare. And stare. Until your silence makes him squirm.

“Please,” he whispers one more time, knowing that you don’t have to forgive him and knowing what a real possibility that is because it’s well within your rights after how he treated you. But he can’t let go until you tell him to. He can’t have this be the end. “Please, just one more--”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Because you don’t let him.

Your hands leave his so instead you can cup his face, tears and all, and bring his lips back where they belong: pressed against yours. He can taste the salt on your lips as he’s sure you can taste the salt on his, and it makes him sigh and relax, hoping this means what he thinks it might.

“You have to stay in therapy,” you mumble when you pull back for air. “I mean it.”

He nods, looking deep into your eyes. “I will. I promise.”

“Good,” you kiss him again. “For the record, I will be too.”

He laughs against your lips. “That’s good, it’s good for us.”

You pull back and stare at him. You twist his head as if you’re inspecting every inch. “Who are you and what did you do with Michael Robinavitch?”

He dives back in for another kiss. “He’s still here,” he whispers. “He just got a little lost there for a while.”

“You’re telling me,” you mutter, but you’re smiling through it. “We’re doing this?”

“I want to,” he says, and every word sounds like a confession. “But it’s your decision.”

“I want to,” you echo. “My sister might kill me, but I really want to.”

“Well, the entire Pitt crew will probably kill me if I fuck this up again,” Robby jokes, though knowing Jack and Dana, you imagine it isn’t that much of a joke. 

“Let’s start with dinner,” you smile, hands smoothing down his hair, then ghosting over his cheeks. “Because I’m starving.”

“Yes,” he agrees. He starts to get up, bracing himself on the couch and promptly ignoring the popping sounds his knees are making. 

You don’t ignore them, though, based on the little giggles he hears you letting out. He settles onto the couch beside you, a bit closer than before, and you take the opportunity to move even closer.

“I believe I was promised a shitty romance movie,” he says, leaning over to grab the plates of pizza, handing yours off to you.

“And who am I to break that promise?” you grin, reaching for the remote. “I saw one last week that was awful. I need to see your face in the third act.”

“Hit me,” he smiles, letting you tuck yourself into his side as you search for the movie. 

It feels easy, just like this. The two of you right back where you should be. Not exactly right where you left off, because things weren’t working then, and changes needed to be made. But now that they’ve been made, the two of you can get back to what you did best: loving one another.

[ponyosmom35]

Exposure

Dr. Micheal ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x fem nurse reader

Part thirty nine

part 1/3 - tumblr wouldn't let me post the whole chap in one:/

part two | part three

Synopsis: Reader gets exposed to fentanoyl on shift and ODs

43.8k words strap in!!!

Warnings: pre-established relationship, nurse reader, OD, drugs, near death, reader is described to be shorter than robby, angst, typical medical gore, incorrect medical terminology, incorrect medial verbage, 

uneditied

Masterlist

The nurses' station was unusually quiet for once, the steady hum of monitors and distant hallway footsteps replacing the usual layered noise of a full department. She was leaning over the counter reviewing labs when he stepped in beside her, close enough that the warmth of him brushed along her arm. There was no one else immediately nearby, just a moment carved out of the chaos where it felt almost private.

"Hey," he said softly.

She glanced up, immediately catching the tone in his voice, and her expression shifted from neutral to attentive. "What is it."

He rested his forearm on the counter, angling toward her slightly so they weren't fully face to face but close enough to feel it. "I need to switch you to nights for the week."

Her brows lifted gently. "Oh. Why."

"We're short," he explained, voice calm and steady. "One of the night nurses went out early on maternity leave, and another one's home with the flu. It's tight. I tried to juggle it around, but you're the only one I can move without it unraveling everything."

She listened without interrupting, her eyes soft, not defensive. "Starting when."

"Tomorrow," he said, and there was a quiet apology woven into it. "It'll just be three shifts. After that we're into our weekend. I'm not touching that. I promise."

She let out a small breath, processing the timeline. "Three nights."

"Just three," he repeated gently. "And then we still have our four days. That doesn't change."

She looked up at him, studying his face like she was measuring how much he was carrying. "Okay."

"You're not mad," he asked carefully.

She shook her head, the corner of her mouth tipping up slightly. "No. I'm not mad. Just... tired already thinking about flipping my sleep."

He winced sympathetically. "I know it's rough."

"I'll figure it out," she said softly. "Maybe take something to knock me out the first day."

He nodded. "That's what I was going to suggest. Nothing heavy. Just enough to help you reset. I'll ask Jack to take it easy on you. "

She smiled faintly. "You don't have to protect me."

"I know," he replied quietly. "But I still want to."

That made her soften completely. He reached down, letting his fingers brush against hers on the counter in a quick, subtle squeeze that would look like nothing to anyone else. "I'm sorry this landed on you," he said, voice low. "I don't like making your week harder."

"It's not you making it harder," she replied gently. "It's staffing. And I can handle three nights."

"I know you can," he said. "That's part of the problem. You're too reliable."

She laughed softly at that. "You're sweet when you're guilty."

He shook his head, but there was affection in it. "I just don't want you running yourself into the ground."

"I won't," she promised. "And then we still have our weekend."

He leaned a fraction closer. "We absolutely still have our weekend. I am not giving that up."

She smiled more fully now. "Okay."

He slid the scheduling form toward her across the counter. "I just need your signature."

She picked up the pen and signed without hesitation, sliding it back to him.

"Thank you," he said, sincerity clear in his voice.

"You don't have to thank me," she replied softly.

"I do," he said. "Because you didn't make this harder than it had to be."

She looked at him for a second longer than necessary, eyes warm. "We're a team, remember."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. We are."

They stayed there a beat longer than they probably should have, close enough to feel it, before a monitor chimed and pulled them both back into motion.

-

She walked into the ED the next night with a coffee in one hand and an energy drink tucked under her arm like she was heading into battle. The automatic doors slid open and the fluorescent lights hit her all at once, the familiar smell of antiseptic and stale hospital air greeting her like it had been waiting. She felt slightly untethered from the normal rhythm of the place, her body still convinced it should be winding down instead of gearing up, but the caffeine was already humming through her veins. Robby saw her the second she stepped through the doors. A slow smile spread across his face.

"Good morning, sunshine," he called from behind the desk.

She lifted the energy drink in salute. "Indeed it is. I'm jacked up and ready to go."

He laughed under his breath, the sound warm and familiar, and fell into step behind her as she walked toward the lockers.

"You look suspiciously functional," he said.

"That's because I am chemically enhanced," she replied, setting her bag down and opening her locker. "How was it today."

He leaned against the row of lockers beside her, arms folded loosely. "Let's just say you're in for a long night."

She paused mid-motion and glanced at him. "Damn. You couldn't just try to lie to me."

He shrugged lightly. "Sorry."

They walked back to the desk together to do the handoff. He went through the active cases quickly but thoroughly, highlighting a couple of patients that were likely to crash and a psych hold that had already required security twice. She listened closely, asking a few pointed questions, her mind clicking into night shift mode despite the mild fog of the time change. Once they finished, she slipped away to find Princess and Perlah at the far end of the station.

Princess grinned the second she saw her. "Look who it is."

"Please tell me it's calm," she said hopefully.

They both laughed at that.

"It is not calm," Princess replied. "But before we get into that, you missed the tea."

Her eyes lit up despite herself. "What tea."

Perlah leaned in conspiratorially. "Dr. Weathers from peds."

She blinked. "What about him."

Princess's grin widened. "Hooking up with Dr. Carter from neurology."

She froze. "Holy shit. No way."

"Yeah girl," Perlah said.

"Aren't they both married," she asked, scandalized.

Princess nodded emphatically. "Yeah. And apparently Dr. Weathers' wife came in looking for him."

Her jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

"Nope," Perlah said. "He was with Dr. Carter in the bathroom when she showed up."

She physically recoiled. "No. Absolutely not."

Princess covered her mouth trying not to laugh. "Security had to redirect her."

Abbot wandered over at that point, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Well if it isn't our newest recruit."

She rolled her eyes. "You get me for three days Abbot thats it!"

He chuckled. "Good to have you back on nights."

"Good to be back," she replied. "Even if it's chaos."

He gave her a mock serious nod. "It's always chaos."

She turned to Princess, Perlah, Dana, Mateo, and Samira one by one, offering small waves and quiet goodnights as their shifts wrapped.

"Don't have too much fun without me," Princess teased.

"No promises," she shot back.

She caught Robby's eye across the station just as he was finishing something on the computer. She turned to Abbot. "I'm going to walk him out."

Abbot nodded easily. "Go ahead."

She met Robby near the ambulance bay doors and they stepped outside together into the cooler night air. The sky was dark and quiet in contrast to the fluorescent intensity inside, the parking lot lights casting long shadows.

"You'll be okay," he said, studying her face like he was trying to gauge how hard the shift flip was hitting her.

"I know," she replied. "I'll survive."

He smiled faintly and reached for her hand, squeezing it gently.

"I love you," he said quietly. "Have a good shift. Make sure you eat."

She nodded, squeezing back. "I will. Go home and sleep. Don't answer your phone unless it's me."

He laughed softly. "Yes, ma'am."

She stepped closer and squeezed his hand gently before pulling back before anyone could see. 

"Sleep well, I love you too," she murmured.

"I love you too," he replied.

She nodded, then stepped back reluctantly. He watched her for a second longer before turning toward his car, and she stood there until he was halfway across the lot before heading back inside, the doors sliding open to swallow her back into the hum of night shift.

-

By the time the clock on the wall edged toward handoff, she was running on fumes. The caffeine had worn off hours ago, the energy drink long since replaced by the dull hum of exhaustion behind her eyes. Her ponytail had loosened, strands slipping free around her face, and there was a faint crease on her cheek from where she had leaned against her hand while charting. She was still moving, still answering questions, still smiling at patients, but it was slower now, like her body was negotiating every step.

Robby walked in just before shift change, badge clipped, coffee in hand, scanning the department automatically the way he always did. He spotted her within seconds. And he saw it. The way her shoulders sagged slightly when she thought no one was watching. The way she blinked a little too slowly at the screen. The way her posture was upright purely out of discipline, not energy. He kept his face neutral as he approached the desk.

"Morning," he said evenly.

She looked up at him, forcing brightness. "Good morning."

There was no hug, no lingering glance, nothing that would betray what they were. Just two colleagues at a shift overlap.

"You survive," he asked quietly, low enough that it blended into the station noise.

"Barely," she admitted under her breath. "It was chaos."

He nodded once, scanning the board. "Looks like it."

She stepped aside to begin the handoff, going through patients with steady professionalism despite the exhaustion creeping into her voice. He listened carefully, asking clarifying questions, but his eyes kept flicking back to her face, tracking the subtle sway in her stance. When the handoff ended, she gathered her things slowly, stuffing her stethoscope into her bag. She turned to Samira, who was leaning against the counter finishing a note.

"Psych hold tried to elope twice," she was saying. "And the abdominal pain in Four needs rechecks in an hour."

Perlah called Samira's name from down the hall, and Samira squeezed her arm quickly before being pulled away. She turned back toward the desk just as Robby stepped closer.

"I ordered you an Uber," he said quietly.

She blinked at him. "You didn't have to do that."

"I love you," he replied softly, the words almost swallowed by the noise of the monitors. "But you look more tired than I've ever seen you. Please just get some rest."

Her throat tightened slightly.

"I made some waffles," he continued in the same calm tone. "They're in your microwave. And eggs. Please eat them before you sleep."

She froze for half a second. Waffles were her favorite food in the world. She blinked rapidly, trying to keep the sudden sting out of her eyes. He smiled at her, small and warm, like this was the most natural thing in the world. "Thank you."

Jack wandered up beside them, clapping his hands together once. "You did a great job tonight," he said to her loudly. "She was a saint, seriously. You have no right to complain about staffing when you have her."

He was clearly kidding, but the comment still made her cheeks warm. Robby didn't miss a beat. "Compliments won't make her switch to nights."

She laughed, the sound tired but genuine. "That's true, Jack. I won't come to nights just because you said a few nice things."

Jack pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. "I can say so many more nice things to get you to consider it."

"Sorry," she replied, shaking her head. "There is literally nothing you could say that would get me to switch to nights permanently."

"But we had so much fun," Jack protested.

"You call that fun?" she shot back.

"Yeah, it was," he insisted. "You're only saying that because your old man wasn't here to drool over you all day."

She smacked his arm lightly. "Shut up."

Robby shot Jack a look. "Keep your fucking voice down, brother."

Abbot appeared behind them, grinning. "You know you're not slick. Most people are either betting that you're together or when you're going to be."

Robby didn't even blink. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

Abbot laughed under his breath. Robby turned back to her, tone shifting slightly softer. "Go home. Get some rest. I'll see you later."

She smiled at him, the exhaustion making her expression gentler than usual. "Have a good shift."

"I will."

She leaned in just slightly, voice low enough that only he could hear. "I love you."

His jaw softened. "I love you too. Your Uber's outside."

She nodded and adjusted her bag on her shoulder. Jack fell into step beside her as they walked toward the sliding doors. "Sleep well," he said.

"You too," she replied.

The doors opened and the cool morning air hit her face as she stepped outside, Jack peeling off toward his car while she headed for the waiting Uber. Inside, Robby watched her through the glass for a second longer than necessary before turning back toward the board, already counting down the hours until he would see her again.

-

Her second night shift had been worse than the first in every possible way. The board had been full before midnight, the psych holds were volatile, and a pediatric trauma had come in just before four that left her hands shaking long after the room was cleared. By the time the sky outside the ambulance bay started to lighten, her body felt hollowed out. The exhaustion was deeper this time, not just physical but emotional, like she had poured everything she had into the floor and still been asked for more. She was standing at the nurses' station finishing up her last chart when the doors slid open and she saw him walk in. He scanned the department the way he always did, taking in the chaos, the faces, the energy, and then he saw her. Even across the room he clocked the tightness in her jaw, the way her eyes were just a little too bright, the way she was holding herself too carefully. She forced a small smile.

"Hi," She says in a small voice.

"Whats wrong sweetheart?" he asks quietly.

"I'm okay," she said quickly when he reached her, as if cutting off the question before he asked it. "But Jack's on the roof."

His expression changed instantly. He cursed under his breath and turned immediately, already moving toward the stairwell. She watched him go, swallowing hard, forcing the tears back where they belonged. Perlah and Princess slid up beside her quietly.

"You good," Princess asked softly.

She shook her head once, then straightened. "Rough shift."

They both nodded like they understood exactly what that meant. She updated them on the leftover patients, her voice steady but thinner than usual, pointing out labs that still needed to be reviewed and a psych patient that would likely escalate again.

When she finished, Perlah rested a hand on her arm. "Do you want to talk about it."

She shook her head quickly. "No. Because I'll cry."

They exchanged a look, then pulled her into a hug without another word. It was quick but firm, grounding in that way only coworkers who had seen the worst of each other could manage. She pressed her face briefly into Princess's shoulder, inhaled, then stepped back and forced a small smile.

"I'm fine," she insisted, even though her voice wobbled.

They did not argue with her. She lingered near the desk instead of heading straight out, waiting. After a few minutes, the stairwell door opened and Jack came down first, shoulders looser than before, Robby following close behind him. Robby clapped Jack on the back once, saying something low that made Jack nod, and then Robby's eyes found her again. He crossed the distance between them calmly, professionally.

"You good?" he asked evenly.

"Yeah," she replied, though her throat was tight.

He nodded once and then gestured toward the hallway. "Walk with me."

They moved down the corridor and into an empty exam room no one would wander into at shift change. The door clicked shut behind them. The second he turned toward her fully, she broke. There was no buildup, no warning. The tears just spilled over, her chest caving in on itself as she stepped into him and buried her face against his chest. She cried hard. He wrapped his arms around her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressing firmly between her shoulder blades.

"I've got you," he murmured.

She shook against him, breath hitching. He did not ask what happened. He did not rush her. He just held her, solid and steady, letting her empty it out. Eventually the sobbing eased into softer tears. She pulled back slightly, wiping at her face with embarrassment creeping in. He looked at her like she had just said something absurd.

"Stop," he said gently but firmly. "Stop overthinking."

She froze, caught.

"You don't have to hold back," he continued quietly. "Not with me, you know that."

That did it. Another rush of tears came, and she leaned back into him, pressing her face against his chest again.

"Fuck," he muttered softly into her hair. "I wish I could go home with you. I'm sorry."

"Me too," she whispered.

He pulled back just enough to cup her face in both hands, wiping her cheeks carefully with his thumbs.

"I miss you so much," he admitted, voice low. "I don't like sleeping without you."

Despite the tears, she smiled faintly. "I don't like it either."

"One more shift," he said. He brushed his forehead against hers."Then you're all mine for the weekend."

She nodded, arms wrapping around him again, holding on a little tighter this time. He lifted her face gently and kissed her, slow and tender, not heated, just reassurance. His hands lingered at her jaw for a second after.

"Let me walk you out," he said softly.

She nodded. They stepped back into the hallway together, the professional masks sliding back into place automatically. They reached the ambulance bay doors just as a voice called his name sharply from down the hall.

"Dr. Robby," Jesse called.

She looked at him immediately. "Go. I'll see you later."

He hesitated for half a second, then leaned in close enough that only she could hear.

"I love you," he murmured.

"I love you too," she replied.

He squeezed her hand once and then turned toward Jesse, already shifting back into command mode, while she stepped through the sliding doors into the pale morning light, counting down the hours until that final shift was over.

-

The patient came in just after midnight, wheeled through the ambulance bay with EMS already ventilating him manually. The medic at the head of the stretcher was squeezing the bag valve mask with steady rhythm while rattling off the report.

"Thirty five year old male, found unresponsive behind a bar. Powder on scene. Suspected fentanyl. We bagged him about six minutes. One intranasal naloxone in the field, minimal response."

The man's lips were blue, pupils barely visible pinpoints under half closed lids. His skin had that grayish, waxy quality she had learned to recognize too well. When they transferred him to the bed, he suddenly jerked awake just enough to thrash.

"Hold him," Shen said sharply as the patient swung an arm toward respiratory.

She stepped in without hesitation, grabbing his wrist to keep him from landing a hit. His palm pressed hard against hers, sweaty and coated in something gritty that felt like fine chalk dust. He twisted violently, fingers clawing. She felt the double layer of latex at the base of her thumb tear with a soft snap but did not look down because he was reaching for his oxygen mask and IV tubing.

"My glove ripped," she said quickly.

"Secure him first," Shen replied, already drawing up medication.

The patient bucked again and she pressed his hand flat against the mattress, her bare skin in contact with his palm for several seconds before she could disengage. Once he was sedated and repositioned, she stepped back to the wall dispenser and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves over both hands, snapping them tight around her wrists.

"You good?" Shen asked, eyes still on the monitor.

"Yeah," she answered automatically.

They administered IV naloxone, monitored his respirations, titrated oxygen. The patient's breathing improved marginally but remained shallow. They placed him on continuous cardiac monitoring and capnography.

"Fentanyl's sticky," Shen muttered. "Might need repeat dosing."

She nodded and moved to chart. Twenty minutes later she pressed her fingers to her temple, a pounding headache forming out of nowhere. 

"I think I've got a migraine coming on," she said lightly, squinting at the screen.

Ellis glanced over. "You drinking water?."

"Always," 

"Do you want me to grab some medicine for you?" Ellis asks 

"No its okay, I'll be fine, thank you though."

"Of course,"

She took a sip from her bottle, swallowing against a creeping wave of nausea she attributed to caffeine and exhaustion. It was her second night shift in a row. She felt warm, almost flushed, but chalked it up to adrenaline wearing off. 

Thirty minutes in, she realized she had been staring at the same line in the chart without typing. It was slow, as slow as the pitt could be at 3 am. She was so lost in the screen that she didn't hear Jack's voice calling out her name as he leaned on the counter above her.

"Hey," Jack called louder. "What's going on?"

She blinked at him slowly. "What?"

"You've been staring at that screen for like a full minute."

She forced a faint smile. "Just tired. Headache."

He stepped closer this time and studied her face. "You look pale."

"Its because I haven't seen the sun all week," she replied, attempting a joke, though her tongue felt thick in her mouth.

"What happened with the houseless man you and Shen were with?"

"Fent OD, we stablized him,"

"Good. Alright well take ten if you need to, meet me in South 2 for a blood draw and run the tests."

"I'm good lets go now," 

They went back into the patient's room together. She adjusted a lead and documented vitals, but her hands felt clumsy. There was a strange warmth spreading through her limbs now, like gravity had loosened its grip. The sounds of the ED felt distant, slightly muffled. When they stepped back into the hallway, she leaned one hand on the counter.

"Alright you really should take ten, get some meds." Jack says seriously. 

"I'm really dizzy," she admitted quietly.

"Have you eaten?" Jack asked.

"Yes." Her speech dragged slightly on the word.

"Look at me," he said, voice sharper now. She turned her head toward him. It took effort. He stepped closer and lifted her chin gently toward the overhead light. Her pupils were tiny, pinpoint.

"How long have you felt like this?" he asked, his tone changing completely.

"I don't know," she slurs.

Her knees gave out. He caught her under the arms just before she hit the floor.

"Jesus," he breathed. "Get a room open. Now!"

He carried her into the nearest open bay with controlled urgency, not panicked but moving faster than anyone in the room had ever seen him move. Her body was completely limp in his hands. Not resisting. Not protecting her airway. Just slack weight.

"Clear it. Now," he barked as he laid her flat on the stretcher.

"Hey. Stay with me," he said, tapping her cheek and leaning close enough to assess her breathing.

Ellis rushed in behind him. "What the hell is going on?"

"I think she's overdosing," he shot back without looking up. "Possible secondary fentanyl exposure from that guy in Two."

Her lips were dusky blue now. He went straight to the airway and pulse. Two fingers to the carotid.

"Bradycardic," he said tightly. "Pulse in the thirties and thready. She's barely breathing."

Her respirations were shallow and irregular, maybe three or four ineffective attempts per minute. Her chest barely moved. Her pupils were fixed and constricted to pinpoints. Shen burst into the room and looks at the scene in horror.

"How is that possible?" Ellis asked, stunned.

"Fuck, she had contact with his hands," Shen replied. "Gloves tore. We didn't clock it."

"Respiratory, I need a bag," he called.

Respiratory was already at the head of the bed with a bag valve mask and oxygen hooked to fifteen liters. He performed a jaw thrust immediately as her tongue began to obstruct. Her airway tone was gone.

"She's hypoventilating," respiratory confirmed. "CO2's climbing."

"Get me IV naloxone," he ordered. "Point four milligrams. Push now."

The nurse handed him the syringe and he pushed 0.4 mg IV directly through her line while watching the monitor. Everyone in the room stared at the screen. There was no improvement. Her respiratory effort continued to fade. Oxygen saturation dropped into the low eighties despite assisted oxygen.

"Bag her," he ordered.

Respiratory sealed the mask firmly over her face and began ventilating at an appropriate rate, watching for chest rise. He checked her pulse again.

"Heart rate's dropping," Ellis said.

"Another point four," he replied immediately.

He pushed a second 0.4 mg IV dose. Still no spontaneous respirations. Her heart rate slid into the high twenties. The monitor showed severe bradycardia trending toward pulseless electrical activity.

"Pulse weak," a night nurse said.

Her chest stopped moving entirely. He leaned close to her ear, voice low but urgent. "Come on. Stay with me."

"She's apneic," Ellis said. He reassessed her carotid. The pulse faded under his fingers.

"It's going," he said tightly. "Start compressions."

He climbed onto the step stool and positioned his hands at the center of her chest, interlocking fingers and locking his elbows.

"Starting compressions," he announced.

He began high-quality CPR at one hundred to one hundred twenty compressions per minute, full recoil, correct depth, counting under his breath to keep rhythm. Respiratory continued ventilations between cycles with the bag valve mask.

"Two milligrams naloxone," he ordered. "High dose. This is fentanyl."

The nurse pushed 2 mg IV rapidly.

"Epinephrine ready," Ellis said, holding up the syringe.

"Hold epi," he replied. "Let's see if this is purely respiratory arrest from opioid toxicity. Check rhythm in two minutes."

He did not stop compressions. Sweat gathered at his temples as he pressed harder, faster, refusing to let up. He watched her pale face and his stomach sank, he had no idea exactly how long she'd been unknowingly OD, he was terrified he might have noticed too late. This girl, whom he'd learned to love like a sister, the woman who had stolen his best friend's heart. He looked at her and saw his friend, he also saw Robby's partner. Robby his best friend in this world. Robby who was forced to schedule her on the night shift for the week despite fighting to keep her with him on days. Robby who asked Jack to look after her making him promise. Now she was dying in his hands while Robby slept peacefully, certainly dreaming about their four days off together. 

"Don't do this," he muttered under his breath. "You don't get to do this."

Two minutes passed.

"Pause. Check rhythm."

They stopped briefly. The monitor showed pulseless electrical activity.

"PEA," Ellis confirmed.

"Resume compressions."

He went right back in, compressing with everything he had. The entire room was silent except for the sound of compressions and the hiss of the oxygen bag. Another cycle.

"Check rhythm."

The monitor flickered. A slow organized rhythm appeared.

"Check pulse," he said.

A nurse's fingers pressed to her neck.

"I've got something," she said, disbelief in her voice. "Weak but there."

He felt it himself. A faint, thready carotid pulse.

"Okay. Continue ventilations," he said quickly. "Don't stop."

Respiratory maintained assisted breaths while he stepped back to reassess. Her chest suddenly jerked. A violent, involuntary gasp tore through her airway as her diaphragm began firing again.

"There," Ellis said. "She's initiating breaths."

Her pupils began to dilate slightly as the naloxone displaced fentanyl from the opioid receptors. Her heart rate climbed rapidly into the nineties, then over one hundred as catecholamines surged. Oxygen saturation crept upward. Eighty. Eighty seven. Ninety two. She coughed violently against the mask and clawed weakly at it. Her body came back in pieces. First there was sound. Not clear, just noise. A rush of static and voices layered over each other. Then pressure in her chest. A deep, brutal ache that felt like someone had driven a weight straight through her sternum. Then air. Too much air. It burned. Her eyes snapped open and the lights were blinding. She sucked in a ragged breath that felt wrong, like her lungs were tearing open. She coughed violently and tried to turn her head but hands were on her shoulders, steady and firm.

"Easy," someone said, but it sounded far away.

She tried to speak and nothing came out but a cracked whisper.

"What-"

Her throat felt shredded. Raw. She tasted acid and plastic and something metallic. Her chest hurt so badly she instinctively tried to curl forward, but pain shot through her ribs and she gasped, panic flooding in fast and hard. Her heart was racing violently in her ears. She felt like she was falling even though she was flat on her back.

"I can't-" she choked, clawing weakly at the oxygen mask.

"You're breathing," he said, right above her, close enough that she could feel the vibration of his voice. "Stay with me. You're breathing."

She was shaking uncontrollably. Not delicate tremors. Full body tremors that made her teeth chatter and her limbs jerk. Her skin felt ice cold and burning at the same time. Her stomach lurched violently and she gagged.

"Turn her," someone said.

Hands rolled her onto her side. She vomited hard, body wracked with it, muscles spasming as if they were being shocked. Suction followed immediately, the sound loud in her ears. She blinked through tears that she did not remember crying. Her vision tunneled and then widened again. The room spun. Monitors beeped in sharp, irregular bursts.

"What happened?" she managed, voice hoarse and thin, barely recognizable as her own.

"You were exposed to fentanyl," he said, steady but tight. "You stopped breathing. We gave you naloxone."

Her brain struggled to catch up. The words did not line up with any memory she had. The last thing she remembered was charting. Her chest throbbed. She lifted a trembling hand to her sternum and winced.

"Why does it hurt?" she whispered.

"We had to do compressions," he said quietly.

The information hit her like a physical blow.

"You coded," he said, softer now, but there was no way to soften that word. "You went into respiratory arrest and lost your pulse. We brought you back."

Her heart hammered harder, if that was even possible. Panic surged in a wave so strong it made her dizzy all over again.

"No," she breathed, shaking her head weakly. "No."

Her breathing sped up erratically, shallow and fast. Hyperventilating now.

"I can't breathe," she said again, even though air was moving in and out of her lungs.

He leaned closer, one hand braced on the bed beside her shoulder.

"You are breathing," he repeated, grounding. "Your oxygen saturation is ninety five percent. Your lungs are moving air. It feels terrible because the naloxone ripped the opioid off your receptors all at once. Your body's in acute withdrawal. That's why you're shaking."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to anchor herself. Her muscles ached like she had run a marathon. Her ribs felt bruised. Every breath pulled at something deep and sore. Her heart was racing. She could feel it in her throat.

"It's too fast," she gasped.

"That's the reversal," he said. "And the adrenaline. Your heart rate's one twenty. It's okay."

She forced her eyes open again and looked at him. Really looked at him. His face was tight in a way she had never seen. Controlled, but barely.

"I died?" she asked, the words fragile.

"You were seconds from it," he said. "Your pulse was gone. We got it back."

The room had gone quiet around them, the rest of the team moving more softly now. A nurse drew arterial blood from her radial artery for an ABG. She flinched at the sharp sting but it grounded her, reminded her she was still here.

"Continuous cardiac monitoring," he said to the room, slipping seamlessly back into attending mode. "Capnography stays on. Repeat naloxone if her respiratory rate drops below eight. Draw full tox screen. CMP. Lactate."

"ABG coming," Ellis said quietly.

She lay there trembling, tears sliding sideways into her hair. Not dramatic sobbing. Just silent leakage from a body overwhelmed.

"I didn't know," she whispered. "I didn't know."

"I know," he replied.

Her breathing finally began to slow slightly. Still fast. Still shaky. But more controlled. The nausea eased from violent to simmering. She swallowed carefully, throat still burning.

"Was it bad?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter now," he said honestly. "You're here."

"It hurts." Her hand drifted weakly toward her chest again.

"It's going to," he said. "You took effective compressions. That means we did them right."

A shaky, almost hysterical laugh bubbled out of her before she could stop it, quickly turning into another wave of tears.

"I can't believe-" she started, but the sentence dissolved.

"You scared the hell out of us," he said. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Out of me."

She looked at him, still trembling, still nauseated, still terrified because she had no memory of crossing that line. She was still trembling when the immediate chaos settled, though the shaking had eased from violent convulsions to smaller, persistent tremors that ran through her arms and legs. Her chest throbbed with every breath, a deep bone ache that made her wince each time she tried to shift. The oxygen cannula remained in place, capnography tracing each exhale on the monitor beside her. Leads dotted her chest. An IV line hung from the pole with fluids running slowly. The room felt too bright and too loud even though no one was speaking above a low murmur. Jack stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, watching the monitor, watching her respiratory rate, watching the rhythm stabilize into something consistent. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"I'm calling Robby," he said.

Her head snapped toward him too fast and she winced from the pull in her neck and chest. "No," she said immediately, voice still rough. "Don't wake him."

Jack stared at her like she had just suggested something absurd. "Are you kidding me?"

"He's exhausted," she said, forcing the words out through lingering nausea and adrenaline. "He just came off his own stretch of shifts. It's our weekend. He needs sleep."

"You're crazy if you think I'm not calling him," Jack shot back, his voice low but firm. "You coded. We had to do CPR. I'm admitting you. We need labs, serial troponins, chest imaging to make sure you didn't crack ribs, ABG trends, continuous monitoring. We have to rule out aspiration, hypoxic injury. This is not a 'let him sleep' situation."

She swallowed hard, the word coded echoing again in her skull. Her fingers tightened weakly in the sheets.

"Please," she said, softer now. "Give him some time. Once I'm upstairs and settled, then you can call. Just... let him sleep a little longer."

Jack ran a hand over his face. "He would fucking kill me if I didn't tell him."

She managed a faint, shaky breath that might have been a laugh if her ribs did not hurt so badly. "I will kill you if you do."

He gave her a look that was equal parts disbelief and exhaustion. "I can handle you. Robby would be a problem. I am not taking that chance."

Her eyes filled again, not from pain this time but from the weight of everything catching up. She looked smaller in the hospital bed than he had ever seen her.

"Please, Jack," she said, voice breaking despite herself. "I'm begging you. I need a minute. I need to process this before he's in my face looking at me like I almost died. I can't handle that right now."

He hesitated. The anger in him was not at her, but at the situation. At how close it had been. At how easily he could have missed it.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. He paced once to the sink and back, glancing at the monitor again. Heart rate one hundred and ten. Oxygen saturation ninety seven. Respiratory rate steady. She was stable, at least for the moment.

"Okay," he said finally. "Two hours. I'll give you two hours. No longer."

She nodded immediately, relief flooding her expression even though her body was still shaking. "Thank you. Seriously."

He stepped closer to the bed and took her hand carefully, mindful of the IV line. Her fingers were cold.

"You're not getting out of this admission," he added, softer now but not negotiable.

"I know," she whispered.

He squeezed her hand gently. "You scared the shit out of me."

Her throat tightened again. "I'm sorry."

"Don't," he cut in immediately. "Do not apologize for that."

She looked up at him, eyes still glassy from shock and exhaustion. "Thank you for saving me."

His jaw flexed for a second before he responded. "Of course, kid. That's the job."

But his voice was not purely clinical. There was something else in it. Something heavier.

He leaned down and pulled her carefully into a hug, mindful of her sore chest. She winced slightly but leaned into him anyway, her arms weakly wrapping around his waist.

"You're okay," he said quietly into her hair. "You're here."

She nodded against him, swallowing hard. He stepped back and brushed a hand gently along her shoulder. "Get some rest. We'll send you up to stepdown once a bed's ready. We'll run the CT, chest X-ray, labs. We're watching you for re-sedation. If your respiratory rate drops again, we repeat naloxone. You're not alone in this."

She nodded again, exhaustion finally overtaking the adrenaline. The tremors had softened to small residual shakes. He lingered one more second, then straightened.

"Two hours," he repeated. "Then I'm calling him."

She gave the faintest smile. "Okay."

He adjusted the blanket over her shoulders and stepped toward the door, pausing to look back once more to make sure her chest was rising steadily before heading out to coordinate the next steps.

-

Robby did not walk into the ED, he stormed in. The sliding doors had barely finished opening before he was already scanning the room with a kind of focus that made people instinctively move out of his way. He was still in yesterday's sweatshirt, hair not fully dry, car keys clenched tight in his fist. He had not waited for the elevator when he got the call. He had taken the stairs two at a time. He went straight for Abbot.

"Where is she?" he demanded, voice sharp enough to cut through the normal ED noise.

Abbot blinked at him, startled. "Robby-"

"Where is she?" he repeated, louder now, and there was no attempt to keep his tone neutral. He was past subtle. Past pretending.

"Brother," Jack said firmly. "I need you to hear me right now. Take a breath. She's okay."

Robby's jaw flexed hard. "She fucking OD'd on your watch, Jack. How the fuck did that happen?"

Several heads turned. Jack grabbed his arm. "Walk with me."

"I'm not walking anywhere until I see her."

"You are," Jack said, low but steady. "Because if you walk into that room like this, you're going to make it worse."

Robby hesitated for half a second, then allowed himself to be steered into the hallway, but his body was coiled tight, ready to snap.

"Take me to her. Now," he said through clenched teeth.

"You need to calm down as best as you can," Jack replied, stopping a few feet from the doors to the monitored bays. "You cannot walk in there and freak out. That is not what she needs right now."

Robby dragged a hand through his hair. "I have to see her."

"You will," Jack said. "But listen to me first."

Robby stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast.

Jack took a breath of his own. "The patient had fentanyl residue on his hands. Her glove tore while they were restraining him. None of them clocked it. She double gloved again after, but it was already absorbed. About an hour later she got dizzy. Pinpoint pupils. Respiratory depression. We gave naloxone. She went into respiratory arrest."

Robby's face drained of color.

"She coded," Jack continued, steady but blunt. "We started CPR. High dose naloxone. We got a pulse back. She's stable now."

Robby's voice dropped to something dangerous and raw. "You were supposed to take care of her."

Jack's eyes flashed. "I wasn't even on that case. It was chaotic. We didn't know. No one knew."

"Who was?" Robby snapped.

"It doesn't matter," Jack shot back. "It was an awful accident."

"She almost fucking died," Robby exploded. "She coded and you're telling me it doesn't matter who was involved?"

"Right now that shit means nothing, man," Jack said, stepping closer so his voice stayed low but intense. "She's alive. She's breathing. She's neurologically intact. That's what matters."

Robby's hands were shaking. He shoved them into the pockets of his sweatshirt to hide it.

"Did she arrest?" he asked quietly.

"PEA," Jack answered. "Short downtime. We got her back fast."

Robby closed his eyes briefly, absorbing that.

"She's going to have chest pain from compressions," Jack added. "We're running CT, labs, ABG. Watching for re-sedation. She's going to be nauseated, shaky, emotional. Naloxone reversal is brutal. You cannot walk in there angry."

"I'm not angry at her," he said hoarsely. Robby opened his eyes again. They were glassy but focused.

"I know," Jack replied. "But you're angry at the situation, and at me, that's fine. We can deal with that later."

Robby swallowed hard. "Is she scared?"

Jack hesitated, then nodded once. "Yeah. She asked me not to call you immediately, she wanted you to sleep."

Robby let out a humorless breath. "Of course she did."

"She needed a minute to process," Jack said. "I gave her two hours."

Robby nodded once, sharp and decisive.

"Take me to her," he said again, but the edge had dulled into something steadier. Jack studied him for a second, making sure he meant it.

"You walk in there calm," Jack said. "You let her talk. You don't interrogate her. You don't blame yourself. You don't blame anyone. You can yell at me later. Right now she needs you steady."

"Okay," he said. Robby exhaled slowly, visibly forcing himself to come down a notch. Jack nodded toward the monitored bay doors.

"She's in Five."

Robby did not run this time. He didn't knock. He pushed the door open and stepped inside like he was walking into the worst outcome his mind had already rehearsed. The first thing he saw was the monitor. Heart rate just over one hundred. Oxygen saturation high nineties on two liters. Respiratory rate steady. Capnography clean. His brain latched onto the numbers automatically, clinging to them like proof. Then he looked at her. And it felt like someone drove something straight through his chest. She was too pale. Not just tired. Not just post-shift pale. The kind of pale he had seen on stretchers under fluorescent lights. The nasal cannula curved over her cheeks. Leads were scattered across her chest. IV tubing hung in careful loops. The bruising over her sternum was already darkening, unmistakable evidence of hands pressing down hard enough to force a stopped heart back to life. His knees nearly buckled. He grabbed the back of the chair beside the bed to steady himself because for a split second he genuinely thought he might fall. She turned her head toward the door and she smiled at him.

"Hi," she said softly.

It hit him like a punch. He shut the door behind him without breaking eye contact and pulled the privacy shutters down with a quick, almost frantic movement. The snap of them closing echoed in the room. He stood there for half a breath with his back to her, shoulders tight, trying to get control of his breathing. When he turned back around, his face was already falling apart. He walked toward her slowly, eyes fixed on her chest. He was watching the rise and fall himself. Not trusting the monitor. Not trusting anything except what he could see.

"I'm okay," she said gently. "I promise."

He dragged the chair close but didn't sit right away. He just stood there, staring at her like he was trying to convince himself she was real. His lips parted like he meant to say something, but nothing came out. She reached for his hand.

"Robby," she said softly.

That was it. His eyes filled instantly. No warning. No attempt to hide it. It was raw and immediate and ugly in the most human way. He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, one hand coming up to cover his mouth because he could feel himself losing it. His gaze never left her face. He was memorizing it. His eyes dropped to the bruising along her sternum.

"They had to do compressions," she said quietly, following his gaze.

"I know," he said, but it came out strained. 

He made a sound in his throat that wasn't a laugh and wasn't a sob, then he broke. He bent forward abruptly, pressing his forehead into the back of her hand like he couldn't physically hold himself upright anymore. His shoulders started shaking almost immediately. He tried to stay quiet. Tried to breathe through it. But the sound that escaped him was raw and low and completely unfiltered. She had never seen him like that. She pushed herself up slightly despite the ache in her ribs and ran her free hand into his hair, fingers threading through it slowly.

"Hey," she whispered. "Hey. I'm here."

He shook his head against her hand.

"You coded," he said, voice breaking on the word. "You lost a pulse."

"I know," she said gently.

"I wasn't here," he said, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His eyes were red now, jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. "I was asleep."

"You were supposed to be asleep," she said softly.

"I should have been here," he shot back immediately, anger laced through the grief. "I scheduled you to nights. I made that call. You were in that building because of me."

"That's not how that works," she said firmly, though her voice trembled.

"Yes, it is," he snapped, then immediately shook his head like he hated himself for the edge in his tone. "I should have protected you."

She cupped his face with both hands despite the soreness in her chest. His stubble scraped lightly against her palms.

"You can't protect me from everything," she said. "You know that."

His breath hitched. Tears spilled freely down his face now. She felt her own tears rise.

"I almost didn't get to say goodbye," he whispered.

"You don't have to," she said. "I'm here."

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers, careful of the oxygen tubing. His hands hovered for a second before settling at her waist like he needed to feel something solid.

"I can handle losing patients," he said quietly. "I can handle chaos. I cannot handle losing you."

"You're not going to," she whispered.

"You don't know that," he said, the fear naked in his voice. "You stopped breathing. You were blue. They were doing CPR on you."

She saw it then, not just fear. He had pictured it, he had replayed it. He had seen her body on a stretcher in his mind before he walked through that door. His composure fractured again.

"I wasn't there," he said, and this time the words were full of guilt. She pulled him closer as much as she could.

"You don't get to blame yourself," she said softly. "It was an accident."

He shook his head but didn't argue. She ran her fingers through his hair again, slower this time, grounding him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't you dare," he said immediately, pulling back just enough to look at her. "Do not apologize for that."

He brushed his thumb lightly along the edge of the bruising at her sternum and winced.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes," she admitted. "A lot."

He could see it every time she shifted. The way her breath caught halfway in. The guarded way she tried to roll her shoulders without moving her chest too much. The instinctive tightening in her jaw when she inhaled a little too deeply. He stood up before she could wave it off.

"I'm getting someone," he said.

"Robby," she warned softly.

"You're in pain," he replied, already at the door. He stepped into the hallway and found Dr. James at the workstation. There was no small talk, no easing into it.

"She needs something stronger," Robby said quietly. "Chest wall contusions from CPR. It's hitting her now."

James nodded immediately and followed him in. When he stepped into the room, she gave him a tired look that was half professional, half embarrassed. He palpated carefully along her sternum and ribs, watching her face for reaction rather than pressing too aggressively.

"No obvious deformity," he said. "But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like hell."

"It does," she admitted through a shallow breath.

"We'll do scheduled NSAIDs," he continued. "Short course of something stronger for breakthrough pain. Incentive spirometer every hour while awake. Ice. Gentle mobility. We'll get imaging to rule out fractures, but even without breaks, chest compressions can leave you sore for weeks."

"How many weeks?" she asked quietly.

"Three to four," he answered plainly.

She stared at the ceiling.

"Three to four weeks, hun," James added gently.

"Jesus," she breathed.

James nodded sympathetically. "It's not linear. First week's the worst. After that it's gradual. You'll feel it when you laugh. When you cough. When you try to sleep on your side. But it gets better."

"Okay," she said softly.

"I'll put the orders in," James said, giving Robby a brief look that carried far more understanding than words. "She'll be admitted for monitoring tonight regardless. No heroics."

"Yeah," Robby said quietly. "No heroics."

Dr. James stepped out and the door closed. The silence settled back in.

"Three to four weeks," she repeated faintly.

He sat back down beside her, expression still tight but softer now.

"You're not going back in there until you can breathe without flinching," he said. "Probably closer to six."

She gave him a look. "I'll go crazy."

"I'll be there," he replied immediately.

She shook her head gently. "You can't take that much time off for me."

"I'm not taking it off for you," he said.

She frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means I need to be with you," he said quietly, leaning closer. "There's no question."

"Gloria and HR are going to find out," she warned.

"I don't care," he answered without hesitation. "I really don't give a fuck."

She studied him, the sadness in her eyes softening into something else.

"There is nothing in this world I care about more than you," he continued, voice low and steady. "Making sure you're okay comes first. I'm going to do everything I can to make this easier for you."

"I appreciate that," she said gently. "But I can't ask you to-"

"You're not asking me," he cut in. "I'm choosing it. I need this just as much as you do."

She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small, tired smile.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she replied softly.

She fell asleep mid-thought, the medication finally softening the sharpest edges of the pain. Her breathing evened out slowly, shallow but steady, oxygen tubing resting against her cheek. One hand was still loosely wrapped around his, even in sleep. He stayed there longer than he needed to, watching the rise and fall of her chest like it was the only thing keeping him upright. When her grip slackened completely, he carefully eased his hand free and adjusted the blanket higher over her shoulder. He stepped out of the room quietly. Jack was waiting down the hall. Robby looked at him and tried to assemble something resembling composure. It lasted about two seconds.

"Hey, brother," Robby said, voice rough.

Jack didn't answer with words. He just walked forward and pulled him into a hug. It wasn't casual. It wasn't quick. It was firm and grounding and deliberate. Robby stood stiff for a moment, then folded into it, gripping the back of Jack's jacket like he needed something solid to anchor to. They separated and started walking without discussing it. Up the stairwell. Through the door. Onto the roof. The early light hit them as the door shut behind them. The city hummed below, indifferent. Robby didn't speak at first. He just paced once across the concrete, then back again. His hands were in his hair, then on his hips, then dragging down his face.

"I'm sorry, man," Jack said quietly. "You asked me to watch her. It happened on my shift."

"No, that's not on you. I shouldn't have said that," Robby continued, voice tight. "That was bullshit. I was out of my head."

"It was a close call," Jack said carefully.

Robby's breath hitched sharply and he turned away, bracing both hands on the concrete ledge at the edge of the roof. His shoulders tensed like he was physically holding something back.

"She coded," he said, and the words came out wrecked. "She coded."

Jack stayed quiet.

"I wasn't here," Robby continued, voice rising without him meaning it to. "I scheduled her for nights. I made that call. I sent her into that building."

"That's not how that works," Jack said gently.

"It feels like it is," Robby shot back, turning around abruptly. His eyes were glassy and red, face pale.  Robby made a strangled sound in his throat and looked away again.

"I keep seeing it," he said. "Even though I wasn't there. I see her on that bed. I see you doing compressions. I see-" He cut himself off and dragged a hand over his mouth. "Jesus."

He started pacing again, faster now.

"Four to six weeks," he muttered. "Three to four weeks because someone didn't double-check a glove. Because fentanyl's everywhere. Because we can't catch every exposure."

"It was an accident," Jack said.

"I know it was an accident," Robby snapped, then immediately looked exhausted by his own tone. "I know that. I know that."

He pressed both hands into his hair and bent forward slightly, like the weight of it was physically too much.

"I thought I was going to lose her," he admitted, and this time his voice broke completely. "I thought that was it."

Jack stepped forward and grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him into another hug, rough and steady.

"She's alive," Jack said firmly into his shoulder. "She's alive, man."

Robby's grip tightened painfully against Jack's jacket.

"I don't know what I would've done," he said, voice muffled and shaking. "If that had gone the other way. I don't know."

"You don't have to find out," Jack replied. Robby's breathing was uneven now, almost hyperventilating. Jack pulled back slightly and put both hands on his shoulders.

"Look at me," Jack said. "She's upstairs. She's stable. She's pissed about recovery time. She's going to heal. You hear me?"

Robby nodded once, but tears spilled down his face anyway.

"I'm staying home with her," he said abruptly. "Two weeks. At least."

"How are you pulling that off?" Jack asked.

"I'm going to Gloria," Robby said, almost wild with it. "I don't care what she says. I don't care about optics. I don't care about HR. I'm not leaving her alone."

Jack exhaled. "That's going to be ugly."

"I don't give a fuck," Robby shot back. "I don't care. None of that matters if she's not-"

His voice collapsed again. Jack stepped back in and pulled him close once more, this time holding him there until the shaking eased a fraction.

"You're spiraling," Jack said quietly.

"I know," Robby muttered.

"You need to breathe."

Robby let out a shaky, humorless laugh through tears.

"Stop talking," he said hoarsely.

Jack huffed. "You're the one melting down."

Despite everything, that pulled a weak breath of laughter from Robby.

"I'm sorry," Robby said after a moment.

"For what?" Jack asked.

"For losing it. For snapping at you."

Jack squeezed his shoulder. Robby swallowed hard and nodded slowly. They stood there in the morning air for a few seconds longer, Robby staring out over the city, trying to steady his breathing.

"She's going to be okay," Jack said again.

"Yeah," he whispered. "She has to be."

-

It was 6:45 in the morning when Robby knocked on Gloria's office door. The hallway outside administration was quiet, fluorescent lights still humming softly as the hospital transitioned from night to day. He had not slept. He had not changed. He had not fully stopped shaking.

"Come in," Gloria called.

He opened the door and stepped inside. She had just set her bag down and was flipping open her laptop when she looked up. Her eyes paused on his face for a fraction longer than usual.

"You're here early," she said.

"Did you hear about what happened?" he asked, skipping any preamble.

Her expression shifted immediately.

"Yes," she said quietly. "How is she doing?"

"She's stable," he answered, voice controlled but tight. "In a lot of pain from the compressions. Bruised sternum. Possible rib fractures. They're running imaging."

Gloria shook her head slowly. "That poor girl."

There was genuine sympathy in her voice. He nodded once, then drew in a breath that felt too shallow.

"Listen," he said. "I need to talk to you."

She gestured toward the chair across from her desk. "Sit."

He did, but he stayed perched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.

"She's going to be out for at least three weeks," he said. "Maybe longer depending on how she heals."

"Of course," Gloria replied. "I imagine you can work out the schedule with Dana?"

"I can," he said. "I was planning to work my full shift today. When she's discharged later tonight, I'll take her home."

Gloria nodded. "That's kind of you. I'll have paperwork sent home with her. FMLA, incident reports, occupational health follow-up. She'll need to send it back in."

He nodded once. Then he lifted his head and looked at her directly.

"I'm going to need to take two weeks off," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"I need to be with her," he said, not wavering.

Her posture straightened immediately.

"Dr. Robinavitch," she said carefully, "that is highly inappropriate."

"The truth is," he said, and the words felt heavy in his mouth, "we've been together for six months."

"You've been with her for six months," she repeated slowly, "without saying anything or consulting HR?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea how inappropriate that is?"

"Yes," he said. "I do."

"And you chose not to disclose it."

"Yes."

She leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing.

"Dr. Robinavitch," she said, "this is a serious violation."

"I'm aware," he replied evenly. "And I am prepared to accept any consequences. After my two weeks."

"You have some nerve," she said quietly.

"I'm not asking," he replied.

"You are the chief attending in that department," Gloria said. "She reports to you."

"We have kept it strictly professional at work," he shot back. "She has never received special treatment."

"Except for the fact that you make her your personal nurse on nearly every case," Gloria countered.

"That was long before we ever started seeing each other," he said immediately. "I saw her potential from the beginning. She is the most competent nurse on my shift. I trust her with everything. That has nothing to do with our relationship. Strictly speaking, as her chief attending, she's one of the strongest clinicians I have."

"That doesn't matter," Gloria said sharply. "Do you know how HR is going to see this?"

"I know exactly how they're going to see it," he replied. "And it's not true. Ask anyone downstairs if you need to. They'll tell you she works twice as hard as anyone else. If anything, she's harder on herself because of me."

"They will conduct an investigation," she said.

"Okay," he replied without hesitation.

"They may suspend you."

"Okay."

"They may transfer her."

"No," he said quietly.

"You don't get to decide that," Gloria said.

He leaned forward slightly, hands braced on his knees.

"What I do get to decide," he said, voice steady but burning underneath, "is whether I'm there when she wakes up in pain and can't take a deep breath without flinching. I almost lost her last night. I'm not leaving her alone."

"You are asking me to cover for you," she said.

"I'm telling you I won't be here," he replied. "For two weeks. I won't be called in either."

"That department needs you."

"They'll survive," he said. "They always do."

She stared at him for a long moment.

"We will talk later," she said finally. "I need to consult with HR and figure out how to deal with this mess."

"Okay."

"But understand this," she added, voice sharp, "you have put me in a very difficult position."

"I know," he said.

"And I am not promising you anything."

"I'm not asking for promises."

"Get out of here, Robinavitch."

He stood immediately. He paused at the door just long enough to say, "Thank you," and then he left.

-

She woke slowly again, the medication dragging her up from a thick, heavy sleep that felt more like unconsciousness than rest. The room was dimmer now, late evening settling in, the monitors casting faint green light across the walls. Her chest ached before she even moved, a deep bruised pressure that reminded her of what her body had endured. For a moment she lay there staring at the ceiling, breathing carefully, trying not to let her thoughts spiral. The door opened quietly. Samira stepped inside, closing it softly behind her. She wasn't in scrubs. She had clearly come from home, hair down, hoodie half-zipped, eyes already red like she had been crying in the car.

"Hey," Samira said, voice barely above a whisper.

She swallowed and managed a small smile. "Hey."

Samira crossed the room slowly, like she was afraid of startling her. She pulled the chair closer to the bed but didn't sit right away. Instead she stood there looking at her, really looking at her, taking in the IV lines, the oxygen tubing, the bruising at the top of her chest.

"I came as soon as I heard," Samira said softly. "I wasn't on last night. I woke up to my phone blowing up and I thought... I thought it was a mistake."

Samira sat down then and reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly.

"I wasn't there," Samira continued, voice thick. "I wasn't there and that makes me crazy."

"You didn't need to be," she whispered.

"Yes, I did," Samira shot back gently. "You're my person."

That undid her more than anything else had. The tears came slower this time, deeper, pulled from somewhere heavier than shock. She turned her face slightly, trying to wipe them away before they fully fell, but Samira saw anyway.

"I'm scared," she admitted quietly. It was the first time she had said it out loud.

Samira's grip tightened immediately. "I know."

"I didn't tell him," she said, voice trembling. "I didn't tell Robby that I'm scared."

Samira tilted her head. "Why?"

"Because he already looks like he's falling apart," she whispered. "He was shaking. He's barely holding it together. I don't want to add to that."

"You don't want to burden him," Samira said softly.

She nodded.

"I feel like if I let myself fall apart in front of him it'll just make it worse," she continued. "He works too hard already. He carries everything. I can't be another thing he has to fix."

Samira let out a quiet breath.

"He's on one today, as you can imagine," Samira said gently. "Snapping at people. Hovering. Watching your chart like it's going to change."

She gave a small, tired smile. "That sounds like him."

"He's terrified," Samira added. "But he's also the best at this. He was my mentor before he was yours. There's nobody better to have in your corner."

She nodded slowly. "I know that."

"And he's so glad he gets to take care of you," Samira continued. "You should see the way he looks at you."

Her chest tightened, not from pain this time.

"I just..." She hesitated. "I feel like I'm a walking bad luck charm sometimes."

Samira frowned immediately. "What?"

"He's already stressed," she said quietly.

Samira leaned forward, eyes sharp.

"Stop," she said firmly. She looked down at their intertwined hands.

"I lean on him a lot," she murmured. "He holds me together."

"And you hold him together," Samira countered.

She shook her head faintly. "Not like he does."

Samira sighed softly. "You know Robby. If he had a problem with you leaning on him, he would tell you. He is not subtle. He is painfully honest."

That pulled the smallest, fragile smile from her.

"He doesn't hide things," Samira continued. "If he was overwhelmed, you'd know. He wouldn't sit quietly and resent you."

"I just feel like I'm always the one needing something," she whispered.

"You almost died," Samira repeated gently. Samira squeezed her hand again. "You're allowed to need something."

"You can't expect him to lean on you," Samira said softly, "if you won't lean on him. That's not partnership. That's self-protection."

"I know," she said quietly.

"And I know it's hard," Samira added. "But you have to accept this love. Not with one foot out the door."

"I have accepted it," she said, but her voice wavered.

"Then let him care for you," Samira replied. "Don't hide your fear because you think you're protecting him. He can handle it. He wants to."

She breathed in carefully, wincing at the pull in her ribs.

"I just don't want him to look at me like I'm fragile," she admitted.

"He looks at you like you're his whole world," Samira said quietly. "That's not fragility. That's love."

Samira stood carefully and leaned over the bed, wrapping her arms around her gently.

"You're not leaving me," Samira murmured into her hair. "We're not done being old and bitter together."

That made her laugh softly through tears, which hurt her chest but felt worth it.

"You promise?" she whispered.

"I promise."

They stayed like that for a long moment, holding each other in the quiet room. A knock came from the door, and Samira pulled back slightly, glancing toward it as her phone buzzed in her pocket.

"I've got to go downstairs," she said reluctantly. "They're short."

She nodded, trying not to let the sadness show too much. Samira squeezed her hand one more time.

"Be honest with him," she said gently. "He can handle it."

She nodded. Samira leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before heading to the door.

"I love you," Samira said.

"I love you too," she replied.

-

The afternoon blurred into a steady rotation of faces. Princess came first, crying before she even reached the bed and then trying to pretend she was not crying at all. Mateo followed with an awkward hug and a protein bar she could not possibly eat but thanked him for anyway. Perlah brought flowers and gossip in equal measure. Dana came in with her clipboard like she was conducting rounds, but her voice softened when she asked how her pain was. Even Abbott slipped in between patients to squeeze her shoulder and tell her she had scared the hell out of him. She loved them for it. But every conversation cost her something.

Her chest hurt when she laughed. Her head throbbed after more than ten minutes of talking. Her heart rate crept up on the monitor every time she got emotional, and she could feel how thin her energy was becoming, like a phone battery dropping into the red. Still, she smiled. Still, she reassured. Still, she told everyone she was okay because she did not know how to be the one who needed quiet.

By the time early evening rolled around, she was fighting to keep her eyes open. Another knock sounded. She expected another coworker. Instead, the door opened and Robby stepped in. The air in the room shifted immediately. He closed the door quietly behind him and for a second just stood there looking at her. He had changed into fresh scrubs at some point, hair slightly damp like he had run water through it, but there was a heaviness around his eyes that had not been there before.

"I missed you," she said softly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

His expression softened in a way that was almost painful to watch.

"I missed you too," he replied, voice low as he crossed the room. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," she said automatically.

He did not accept that. He moved closer to the bed and his eyes went straight to the monitor first, scanning the numbers with that automatic clinical precision. Heart rate 96. Oxygen saturation steady. Blood pressure acceptable. He nodded faintly, reassured but not fully relaxed.

"You tired?" he asked quietly, finally looking at her face instead of the screen.

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Yeah."

"Okay," he said gently. "I'm going to tell the nurse no more visitors for a few hours. You need to sleep."

"You don't have to-" she started.

"I do," he interrupted softly, not harsh, just firm. "You've had half the ED in here."

She smiled faintly because he was right. He stepped closer to the bed and reached for her hand, and she gripped it immediately, holding on like she had been waiting for that exact contact all day.

"I know you can't stay long," she murmured, eyes already heavy.

"No," he said quietly, "but I'll stay until you fall asleep. Okay?"

She nodded, her throat tightening slightly. Before he sat, he slipped fully into doctor mode for a moment, the way he always did when he was scared and needed something concrete to focus on.

"Let me see," he said gently.

He leaned over her, careful not to press on her chest, and lifted the hospital gown just enough to examine the bruising along her sternum. The skin was mottled purple and yellow already, tender when he touched it lightly.

"Does this hurt more than earlier?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted.

He nodded, filing that away. He checked her pupils next, gently lifting one eyelid and shining the small penlight across. Equal. Reactive. He repeated it on the other side, watching carefully for asymmetry, for delay. Satisfied, he let her eyelid fall closed again.

"Headache?" he asked.

"Dull," she said. "Not like before."

He pressed two fingers lightly at her radial pulse, counting without looking at his watch, then glanced once more at the monitor tracing.

"You're stable," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Then he softened. He sat carefully on the edge of her bed, shifting so he would not jostle her, and kept hold of her hand as if he had no intention of letting go.

"You need rest," he said quietly.

"I know."

He reached up with his free hand and brushed her hair back from her forehead, fingertips gentle, almost reverent. She leaned into the touch instinctively.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked immediately.

"For worrying you."

He frowned faintly but did not argue this time. He just stroked her hair again, slow and steady. Her eyes were closing now despite her effort to keep them open. He adjusted the blanket slightly around her shoulders, then shifted so he could sit closer, his thigh resting against the mattress. With his fingers still laced through hers, he used his other hand to continue smoothing her hair back, brushing along her temple, down to her cheek, repeating the motion in a slow rhythm.

"You're okay," he murmured. "Just sleep."

Her breathing began to deepen gradually, the monitor reflecting the change as her heart rate settled into the low eighties. She felt his thumb moving lazily across the back of her hand, grounding and steady.

"Don't go yet," she whispered, barely coherent.

"I'm right here," he said immediately.

She smiled faintly at that and let herself drift. He stayed exactly where he had promised, counting her breaths the way he had counted compressions earlier that morning, watching the monitor, watching her chest rise carefully, brushing his fingers through her hair until her grip on his hand loosened and sleep finally claimed her.

-

He left her room only after he was certain she was fully asleep. He stood there for a few extra seconds, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, eyes flicking once more to the monitor to confirm what he already knew. Stable. Sinus rhythm. Oxygen steady. He brushed his thumb across her knuckles one last time before gently placing her hand back on the blanket and slipping out of the room. The hallway felt colder than it had earlier. He had barely made it halfway down toward the elevator when he heard his name.

"Dr. Robinavitch."

Gloria stood near the nurse's station at the end of the corridor, arms folded, expression unreadable. She had that look on her face that meant this was not optional.

"I really need to get back downstairs," he said immediately, not slowing.

"I've already called Shen in early to cover you," she replied evenly. "We're doing this now."

"Fine."

Inside, the air felt tight. Caldwell was already seated, a legal pad open in front of him, glasses low on his nose. There were printed documents on the desk. Not just a thin file. A stack. Gloria closed the door deliberately.

"You understand the severity of this," Caldwell began before Robby had even sat down.

"I do," Robby replied evenly, lowering himself into the chair.

Gloria did not sit right away. She stayed standing, hands braced on the desk.

"You concealed a romantic relationship with a direct report," she said. "For six months."

"Yes."

"In a department you lead."

"Yes."

Caldwell tapped the papers. "And now that nurse has experienced a near-fatal occupational exposure on your watch."

Robby's jaw flexed. "That exposure had nothing to do with our relationship."

"That is not the point," Gloria snapped.

He looked up at her sharply. "Then clarify the point."

"The point," she said coldly, finally sitting down, "is that you compromised this hospital legally and ethically by not disclosing. If anyone alleges favoritism or coercion, we are exposed."

"There was no coercion," he said immediately.

Caldwell raised a hand. "Intent is not the only factor, Doctor. Perception matters."

Robby leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Then investigate perception," he said. "Pull every schedule, every performance review, every case assignment. Ask anyone on that floor if she ever received preferential treatment."

"We will," Caldwell replied calmly. "That is exactly what will happen."

The room went quiet for a beat. Gloria's eyes narrowed slightly. "You placed her consistently on your trauma assignments."

"She earned those assignments," he replied sharply. "Long before we were together."

"And you expect HR to accept that without scrutiny."

"I expect HR to do its job," he shot back.

Caldwell's tone cooled further. "You will moderate your tone."

Robby inhaled slowly through his nose, fighting the urge to escalate further.

"You are asking for two weeks off," Gloria said, shifting the subject but not the tension. "Immediately."

"Yes."

"While this investigation is pending."

"Yes."

"And you believe that is appropriate."

"I know it is necessary."

"For what reason?" Caldwell asked. "Medically, she is stable."

Robby's restraint cracked slightly.

"She coded," he said, voice low and tight. "She required compressions. She required multiple doses of naloxone. She experienced a hypoxic episode. She has chest wall trauma from compressions that will take three to four weeks to heal. She will have significant pain with movement, difficulty sleeping, anxiety, potential cognitive fog, and a high risk of acute stress reaction. She should not be alone."

Caldwell did not flinch. "That is her physician's assessment to make."

"And it has been made," Robby replied. "I've spoken to Dr. James. She agrees."

Gloria leaned back in her chair, studying him.

"You understand," she said slowly, "that if we approve this leave, it will be unpaid pending review."

"I understand."

"And if the review determines misconduct," Caldwell added, "there could be suspension or termination."

Robby did not hesitate. "I understand."

Gloria's expression sharpened. "Do you? Because you are not behaving like someone who does."

He looked directly at her.

"With respect," he said evenly, "I have behaved professionally in this department for over a decade. I have not abused my authority. I have not manipulated scheduling. I have not provided preferential pay, promotion, or protection. If you find evidence otherwise, act on it."

"And if we find that your personal relationship influenced your behavior in subtle ways?" Caldwell pressed.

"Then I accept the consequences," Robby replied.

Gloria's voice hardened. "This nurse will also need to be interviewed."

His posture stiffened immediately. "Not now."

"At some point during this leave," Caldwell clarified. "Via Zoom, if necessary. We must hear from her directly."

"She is recovering," Robby said. "She nearly died."

"That does not exempt her from policy," Gloria said sharply.

"She will not be interrogated while she is still on telemetry," he shot back.

Caldwell interjected before it escalated further. "We are not interrogating. We are documenting. We need her statement to confirm there was no coercion, no pressure, no inappropriate conduct."

Robby exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady.

"She will participate once she is medically cleared to sit upright without pain medication making her nauseated," he said. "Not before."

Gloria folded her hands. "You do not set the timeline."

"I am asking you to use judgment," he replied tightly.

Silence hung heavy for several seconds. Caldwell glanced at Gloria, then back at Robby.

"Two weeks," he said finally. "Unpaid leave, effective immediately. You will not return to clinical duties until this review is complete. We will conduct interviews with staff regarding perceived favoritism, professionalism, and boundaries," Caldwell continued. "You will not influence those conversations."

"I won't," Robby said.

"She will attend a virtual interview during this period," Gloria added firmly. "Non-negotiable."

Robby held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. "Understood."

"And when you return," Caldwell said, "you will no longer be her direct supervising attending. Reporting lines will change."

"Fine."

"This was reckless, Michael," she said quietly. "You know that."

"Yes," he replied.

"And you should have trusted the system enough to disclose."

"I didn't trust the system to protect her," he answered honestly.

Caldwell slid the paperwork forward.

"You will sign acknowledgment of investigation, unpaid leave status, and disclosure violation."

Robby signed without reading twice. When he finished, he stood.

"This will be thorough," Caldwell warned.

"It should be," Robby replied.

"You are gambling a great deal," she said.

"I know."

He extended his hand first to Caldwell, then to Gloria.

"Thank you," he said, and though his voice was steady, there was no triumph in it. Only exhaustion.

He left the office with the weight of it all pressing down on him, but not once did he hesitate about the decision.

-

By the time Robby finished his shift, he felt like he had lived three separate lifetimes in twelve hours. He had not processed a single emotion properly. He had functioned on reflex alone, muscle memory guiding him through consults and traumas while his mind remained somewhere else entirely. He signed charts he barely remembered reviewing, corrected residents with automatic precision, and caught himself snapping at two interns before apologizing in the same breath. Every vibration of his phone made his stomach seize. Every time someone said her name out loud, even casually, his pulse jumped hard enough that he had to steady himself against a counter. When he finally stepped back into her room that evening, the discharge paperwork was already printed and clipped neatly to the bedside tray. Dr. James stood at the foot of the bed reviewing instructions with her in that calm, no-nonsense tone she used for patients she respected.

"You know the protocol," Dr. James said, meeting her eyes directly. "Pain control as prescribed, no lifting, no driving while you're on anything stronger than Tylenol, incentive spirometer every hour while awake, and if you get worsening shortness of breath, confusion, persistent vomiting, or chest pain that feels different from bruising, you come back immediately. No hesitation."

She nodded slowly. "Yes."

Dr. James glanced at Robby, then back at her. "Four to six weeks for the chest wall. Don't try to be heroic."

A small huff of humorless laughter left her. "Jesus."

"It's not negotiable," Dr. James replied, softer now. "You scared us enough."

Robby stepped forward then, instinctively, as Dr. James handed him the discharge summary.

"I'll take it from here," he said quietly.

She gave him a long look, assessing not just her patient but him, and then nodded once. "Call me if anything changes."

When the door closed behind her, the room felt smaller and more intimate.

She was still in the hospital gown, telemetry leads attached, IV running slowly at her left arm. The oxygen had already been discontinued, the nasal cannula coiled neatly on the counter. Her hair was pulled back loosely, shadows under her eyes darker than he had ever seen them.

"You ready?" he asked quietly.

She gave him a small, tired smile. "As ready as I'm gonna be."

He moved first to the monitor, silencing the alarm before disconnecting her leads carefully, peeling each adhesive patch away from her skin with slow precision so it would not tug. He folded the wires neatly and set them aside, his movements deliberate, grounding himself in the routine.

"Okay," he murmured, more to himself than to her. He washed his hands at the sink, dried them, then pulled on gloves before returning to her side.

"IV next," he said gently. She looked at the tape securing the catheter and swallowed.

"I hate this part."

"I know," he replied softly.

He stabilized her arm with one hand and carefully peeled the tape back with the other, slow and methodical so it would not pull at the bruised skin beneath. When he withdrew the catheter, he did it in one smooth motion, pressing gauze firmly over the site immediately.

"Hold," he instructed quietly, guiding her fingers to apply pressure.

She watched his face the whole time. Even now, even after everything, he was steady. Focused. His hands did not shake. When he was satisfied there was no bleeding, he secured a small bandage in place and removed his gloves.

"I grabbed your clothes," he said, gesturing toward the chair.

Her spare leggings were folded there, along with a soft tank top and his PTMC blue zip-up that he had taken from his locker earlier that morning when it became clear she would be staying overnight. The sight of it on the chair made her eyes sting unexpectedly.

"You didn't have to," she murmured.

"I wanted to."

He turned his back politely as she shifted, but hovered close enough that if she swayed even slightly he could catch her. Every movement cost her something. Pulling the gown over her head made her wince as the fabric brushed the bruised skin across her sternum. He noticed immediately.

"Easy," he said, stepping forward without thinking. "Let me."

She hesitated only a second before lifting her arms carefully and letting him guide the gown off for her, slow and deliberate so it would not scrape. He did not look at her body clinically the way he had earlier. He helped her slide the tank top down gently, his fingers brushing her sides as he adjusted the fabric so it would not press too tightly against the bruising. When she stepped into her leggings, he steadied her at the waist, one hand firm and warm against her hip. She had no shoes. They had been bagged and disposed of because of the exposure risk.

She glanced down at her bare feet and gave a weak smile. "Of course."

"I've got you," he said quietly.

He zipped his blue jacket around her slowly, careful not to let the fabric pull across her chest too hard. The sleeves swallowed her hands, the hem hanging low over her hips. She breathed in automatically, and it smelled like him. He noticed the way her shoulders dropped slightly. He helped her ease off the bed carefully, one arm hovering behind her back in case she faltered. She hated being fussed over, but tonight she did not protest. She leaned into him without argument. For a moment they just stood there, close, her forehead almost resting against his chest.

"You drove," he said softly, more to himself than her.

She nodded. He closed his eyes briefly, the image of her collapsing halfway home flashing in his mind unbidden.

"Thank God," he whispered under his breath. "Let's get you home."

He cupped the back of her head gently and pressed his lips to her hair for just a second longer than necessary. Jack was waiting near the exit when they stepped off the elevator, exactly where she knew he would be. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched, jaw tight in a way that did not match his usual loose, easy posture. He was trying to look casual, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes locked onto her the second the elevator doors opened. Robby clocked it immediately.

"I'll grab the car," Robby said quietly, his voice softer now that they were almost out the door. He looked at her carefully. "You good?"

She nodded, though the movement was small and careful because of her chest. Robby held her gaze a second longer, as if memorizing her standing upright, then gave Jack a look that was equal parts trust and unspoken warning before stepping outside to pull the car around. The automatic doors slid shut behind him. Jack waited until they were alone in the small stretch of quiet by the lobby entrance. Then, without hesitation, he crouched down in front of her so they were eye level.

"Jack, your leg," she said immediately, brows knitting together as she instinctively reached toward him. "Don't do that, you're going to make it worse."

"I'm fine," he said softly, brushing it off with a small shake of his head. "Don't worry about me right now."

He reached forward and took her hands gently, mindful of the tender spot where her IV had been. His fingers were warm, steady, but she could feel the faint tremor beneath the surface.

"I need to say this," he continued, his voice rougher than usual. "And you're not going to brush it off or deflect with a joke."

She already knew the direction this was heading, and her chest tightened for a different reason.

"Jack-"

"No," he cut in quietly, not harsh, but firm. "Let me finish." He swallowed hard, jaw flexing as he searched for words that did not feel like knives.

"I should have caught it sooner," he said finally. "You weren't yourself. You were off. I asked you if you were okay and you said you were tired and I let that be enough. I knew we had a fentanyl OD in that room. I knew the exposure risk. I was juggling three other patients and I told myself you were just exhausted because it was night shift and you hate nights."

"That is on me."

"It's not," she whispered, squeezing his hands.

"It is," he insisted, and his voice cracked in a way she had never heard before. "You nearly died on my shift."

She shook her head slowly, tears slipping down despite her effort to hold them back.

"Jack, please," she said softly. "Do not do this to yourself."

He looked down at their joined hands for a second, then back up at her, eyes glassy and red-rimmed.

"I keep replaying it," he admitted. "You sitting there charting. You staring at the screen a little too long. Me asking if you were good. You saying you had a headache. I walked away. I walked away."

"You came back," she said firmly, even though her voice trembled. "You came back and you saw it."

"Too late," he muttered.

"Not too late," she corrected, her grip tightening despite the soreness in her chest. "You caught it before it was fatal. That is the only timeline that matters."

He let out a shaky breath, shaking his head like he could not quite accept that.

"I've run codes before," he said quietly. "I've had strangers die in front of me and I've gone home and slept. When you went down, it didn't feel like work anymore. It felt like I was losing someone."

"I don't remember any of it," she said softly.

"I do," he replied. There was a long pause, heavy and intimate in a way only two people who had seen too much together could understand.

"You scared me," he admitted. "Like really scared me."

She let the tears fall freely now.

"I'm grateful it was you," she said after a moment, her voice barely steady. "If it had to be anyone, I'm so grateful it was you."

His brows pulled together.

"Don't say that like it's a compliment."

"It is," she insisted gently. "I trust you with my life. I didn't know I was handing it over that night, but I did. And you didn't drop it."

That landed somewhere deep. He nodded once, swallowing thickly.

"I wouldn't have wanted him to see that," Jack said quietly, meaning Robby without saying his name.

She nodded immediately. "Me either."

"He would have broken," Jack added.

"I wish you hadn't gone down at all," he said after a second. "I wish none of it happened."

"Me too," she replied softly. "But it did. And you were there."

He shook his head again, but there was less self-blame in it now and more reluctant acceptance.

"I'm sorry you had to watch that," she added gently. "I'm sorry you had to see me like that."

"You don't get to apologize for that." he said firmly. 

She smiled faintly through tears. They stayed like that for a long moment, hands still linked, breathing through the shared weight of it.

"Thank you," she whispered again. "For saving me."

His grip tightened slightly, thumb brushing over her knuckles.

"Of course," he said quietly. "Always."

The sliding doors opened behind them as Robby pulled the car around to the curb. Jack stood slowly, careful with his leg this time, and offered her his arm without making it a big deal.

"You scare me like that again," he muttered, trying to bring some levity back into it, "and I'm filing formal complaints."

She let out a weak laugh. "Noted."

Robby stepped out of the driver's side immediately, eyes scanning her posture, her color, the way she was standing, the way she leaned slightly toward Jack for balance.

"You good?" Robby asked, his voice controlled but tight.

She nodded, though her eyes were still red. Jack clapped Robby on the shoulder once, firm and meaningful.

"She's good," Jack said quietly, and there was more in that sentence than reassurance. There was respect. There was promise. Robby held his gaze for a second and nodded.

"Call me if you need anything," Jack added, looking back at her.

"I will," she said.

And as Robby helped her carefully into the passenger seat, one hand steady at her waist, Jack stood there watching until the car pulled away, making sure she was truly leaving under her own power before he finally turned back toward Jack. Robby wraps Jack in a hug and pats his back. 

"Get ready for a full internal HR investaigation about us brother, I'll see you in two weeks."

"You'll be fine, you never did anything unethical."

"I know, but would you warn the others? I'd rather they hear it from you than Gloria and Caldwell, they should hear it from me, but I need to get her home."

"I've got you, don't worry about a thing, everybody here has your back."

"Thank you man, for everything you did, I'm glad it was you here." 

He nods and pats Robby's shoulder. "Take her home man."

Robby nods and walks away from him, jumping into the drivers side. Robby drove like the city had turned into glass. Both hands stayed on the wheel except when he reached over to lace his fingers through hers, and even then he kept his other hand steady, shoulders tight, eyes scanning every intersection like it was a trauma bay. He took turns slower than necessary. He braked early. He kept an almost absurd amount of distance between their car and the one ahead.

She watched him for a minute before she finally said, softly, "You don't have to drive like a grandma."

He didn't look at her. "I'm transporting precious cargo."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifted. "You're ridiculous."

"Correct," he replied evenly. "And you're not allowed to mock the driver."

She turned her face back toward the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of late evening light. The hospital felt far away already, but the ache in her chest reminded her it wasn't. Her body still felt fragile, like the world had edges she hadn't noticed before. He squeezed her hand gently. She didn't speak again, and neither did he. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, but it was shared. When they pulled into her building's lot, he put the car in park but didn't immediately turn it off. He looked at her first.

"You dizzy?" he asked quietly.

"A little."

"Okay."

He came around to her side before she could reach for the handle, opening the door slowly and offering his hand like she was made of something breakable. She stepped out carefully, but her legs betrayed her almost immediately. They felt weak, unreliable. She swayed. He was there before she fully tipped.

"I've got you," he murmured.

She tried to steady herself, but her knees trembled again, and she let out a frustrated breath.

"Okay," he decided softly.

Before she could argue, he slid one arm behind her back and the other under her knees and lifted her effortlessly.

She made a small sound of protest. "Robby-"

"Not negotiable," he replied calmly.

She gave up quickly, relaxing into him. Her arms slipped around his neck, her cheek resting against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear. He carried her into the building, up the elevator, down the hallway to her apartment. Every step was careful and deliberate. He unlocked the door, pushed it open with his shoulder, and carried her straight to her bedroom. He set her down gently on the edge of the bed, crouching in front of her for a second to assess her face.

"You want to shower?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head gently. "I know you do. But you're not steady enough, and I don't trust you not to lock your knees and drop."

She gave him a look that was half stubborn, half exhausted.

"I can run a bath," he continued softly. "You have to keep your movements limited for a few days. We're not pushing anything."

"Okay."

He disappeared into the bathroom and started the water, testing the temperature carefully with his hand before adjusting it warmer. He added a small amount of soap, enough to create a light layer of bubbles without overwhelming her senses. When he came back out, he found her sitting exactly where he'd left her, shoulders slumped slightly.

"Alright," he said gently. "Let's get you there."

He helped her stand, supporting her at the waist, and walked her slowly into the bathroom. When she reached for the hem of his blue zip-up, he paused.

"Easy," he murmured.

He helped her out of the jacket first, folding it carefully over the counter. Then the tank top, lifting it slowly so it wouldn't drag across her bruised sternum. His hands were clinical but tender, eyes flicking briefly to the discoloration across her chest, jaw tightening at the sight of it.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded, though her eyes were heavy. He eased her leggings down carefully, steadying her when she swayed again. Once she was undressed, he lifted her once more and carried her the short distance to the tub. He lowered her into the water slowly, supporting her back until she was settled.

"Temperature okay?" he asked.

She let out a quiet breath as the warmth surrounded her. "Yeah."

He stayed kneeling beside the tub, one arm resting along the edge.

"Stay still for me," he said softly.

She closed her eyes and nodded. He dipped a washcloth into the water and wrung it out gently before bringing it to her shoulder. He moved slowly, deliberately, washing her arms first, then her neck, then carefully down across her collarbone, avoiding direct pressure over her sternum. Every motion was patient. Every touch was careful. He washed every inch of hospital off her. The adhesive residue. The faint antiseptic smell. 

"You want music?" he asked quietly after a minute.

She shook her head slightly. "No. But... could you talk to me?"

He looked at her, confused but willing. "About what?"

She kept her eyes closed. "Anything. I don't know what I need right now. You're the only thing that makes sense."

"I've been thinking about getting another cat," he said.

"For Fish?" she murmured.

"For Fish," he confirmed. "He's bored. He pretends he isn't, but I can tell. He needs a sibling. Someone equally chaotic."

She hummed softly. "You're projecting."

"Probably," he admitted. 

He smiled down at her and continued talking, describing possible names, whether Fish would tolerate a kitten or demand seniority, whether two litter boxes would be enough. His voice stayed steady and conversational, something ordinary and safe to anchor her to. By the time he finished rinsing her off gently with a cup of warm water, her breathing had slowed. He drained the tub and wrapped a towel around her carefully before lifting her out again. He dried her slowly, mindful of her chest, pressing instead of rubbing over the sorest areas. He grabbed one of his soft shirts from her drawer and a pair of loose shorts, helping her step into them, guiding her arms through the sleeves. When she was dressed, he picked her up again without comment and carried her back to bed. He set her down gently against the pillows and pulled the blankets up around her.

"Stay," she murmured, eyes already closing.

"I'm here," he replied.

And for the first time since the code, since the panic and the fear and the sterile hospital lights, she felt clean. Safe. Home.

-

She woke like she was drowning. Her eyes snapped open and for a split second she did not know where she was. The room was dark except for the faint streetlight glow bleeding through the curtains. Her chest felt tight, too tight, and her first instinct was that something was wrong with her breathing. She inhaled sharply. Her heart began to race immediately, the sensation building before her brain could catch up. She tried to take a deeper breath and the pain across her sternum flared, sharp and radiating, and her mind interpreted it as danger. She couldn't breathe. Her body reacted before logic could. She pushed herself upright too quickly and gasped, which only made the pain worse. Tears sprang to her eyes instantly.

"Michael," she choked out.

He was awake before she finished his name. He had been sleeping lightly, attuned to every shift she made. He was up on one elbow immediately, hand hovering because he knew if he grabbed her wrong he would hurt her.

"Hey," he said softly but firmly. "I'm here."

She was breathing too fast now. Shallow, panicked pulls that barely filled her lungs.

"It's wrong," she cried. "My breathing feels wrong."

He sat up fully, heart hammering but voice steady.

"Okay," he said calmly. "Look at me."

She shook her head, tears spilling over. "I don't want to fall asleep again."

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, each movement making her wince. He wanted to pull her into him, wrap her up, anchor her physically, but he couldn't press against her ribs. He couldn't squeeze her without causing pain. So he shifted closer without touching her sternum and cupped her face gently instead, thumbs brushing just under her ears.

"Look at me," he repeated. Her eyes flicked to his.

"You are breathing," he said evenly. "Your oxygen was stable when we left. Your lungs were clear. Your airway is open. This is panic."

She shook her head again, gasping. "It doesn't feel like panic."

"I know," he said. "It feels real. I know."

Her breathing was still fast, bordering on hyperventilation.

"Okay," he continued, keeping his voice low and measured. "We're going to slow it down. Not deep. Slow."

He reached for the pulse oximeter he had brought home from the hospital and clipped it gently onto her finger. The red light glowed.

"Look," he said, angling it toward her. "Ninety-eight percent. You're oxygenating."

She glanced at it but her fear wasn't fully logical.

"It hurts," she whispered.

"Of course it hurts," he replied softly. "You had compressions. Your ribs are bruised. When you breathe deeper, it pulls. That doesn't mean you're not getting air."

Tears streamed down her face. He reached for the pain medication on the nightstand, already prepared earlier.

"I'm going to give you something," he said gently. "It's time anyway."

She nodded shakily. He helped her take it with a sip of water, supporting the back of her head carefully so she didn't strain.

"Okay," he said again, returning his hand to her face. "Now breathe with me."

She tried but it came out jagged.

"Not big," he instructed softly. "Small. In through your nose for four. Out through your mouth for six. Follow my voice."

He exaggerated his own breathing so she could see and hear it.

"In," he counted quietly. "Two, three, four."

She followed, though unevenly.

"Out," he said, slower. "Two, three, four, five, six."

"That's it," he murmured. "Again."

He kept one hand cradling the back of her head and the other resting lightly on her upper arm, careful not to press her chest.

"You're not dying," he said firmly but gently. "You're safe. You're home. I'm right here."

She sobbed once, the sound breaking in her throat.

He kept counting her breaths.

"In."

"Out."

Her heart rate slowly began to ease. The frantic edge softened slightly.

"You're not going to stop breathing in your sleep," he continued quietly. "Your brain knows how to do this without you thinking about it. It's automatic. It didn't fail you. The exposure did. That's over."

Her breathing steadied incrementally.

"It feels off," she murmured again.

"It feels off because your body remembers," he said. "Not because it's happening again."

The medication began to take the sharpest edge off the pain. He wiped her tears gently with his thumb.

"I wish I could just hold you," he admitted quietly, frustration flickering through his voice.

"You are," she whispered. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers instead, careful not to bump her chest.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "You can fall asleep. I'll stay awake if I have to."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He shifted so he could lie on his side facing her, one hand still lightly on her arm, the other brushing her hair back rhythmically.

"Keep breathing with me," he murmured.

They did it together. Her breaths gradually lengthened. The panic ebbed in waves instead of crashing all at once.

"I don't want to be scared like this," she said faintly.

"It won't always be this loud," he replied softly. "Your body just needs time."

Her eyelids grew heavy again, though fear flickered once more as they did.

"Stay," she whispered.

"I'm right here," he answered. He kept counting quietly under his breath long after her breathing evened out into sleep, his hand never leaving her arm, watching every rise and fall of her chest until he trusted it enough to let his own eyes close.

a/n:

Okay I'm gonna have to split this up into multple parts cuz tumblr sucks but yeah this whole chap was 43.8k words which is why it took so long! Enjoy!

[sushi1056]

deactivated

So thoroughly nuked that there isn’t even any record of their original blog url

[ivys-garden]

The Forbidden Knowledge

[bisexual-engineer-girl]

not even any notes. I feel like I’ve stumbled upon a plot-advancing skeleton’s notebook

[bigandlong]

If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.

[jae-felidae]

Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.

[seewhoyouwanttosee]

DON’T SMILE – JACK ABBOT X READER

☆ WORD COUNT: 4.5K

☆ SUMMARY: A week had passed since the end of your relationship and while you were slowly falling apart, Jack Abbot seemed to be doing just fine for himself. You didn’t want him to feel happy to have been with you– you wanted him to mourn the loss what could've been. 

☆ CONTAINS:  Angst, Younger, fem!reader. Mohan catching strays (England I know how you feel, I lost my queen too.) Mentions of jumping off a roof? Part two of SUGAR TALKING, but can be read alone!

☆AUTHORS NOTE: Okay, sorry this took some time– I’ve been in school and have only really been able to write at night. I genuinely didn’t expect the kind words and people wanting a part 2, so I’m sorry for the delay, folks. Also! In the last fic reader is on the day shift, but for the sake of continuity, let’s just say she was covering for someone and is originally on the night shift. Please leave your thoughts in the comments– the nice ones– or if you’d like more fics, and don’t forget to send any requests to my inbox!

☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @angeliicide

Your heart feels heavy in your chest as you sit in the booth, wedged between Trinity and Parker. 

The sound of the bar and low music filling the air is muffling the rest of the table’s conversation, but it’s not like you were paying attention anyway.

No, your attention is across the room by the bar, where none other than Jack Abbot is standing, his large hands wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle, and across from him stands Samira Mohan, dark curls let loose and plump lips stretched into a beautiful, wide smile.

It’s been a week since your last conversation with Jack, in the breakroom. A week since you had last let him into your bed, a week since he had touched you– a week since the two of you had ended things.

And Jack Abbot was clearly doing fucking fine. 

Your stomach twists and before you know it, you’re grabbing your glass and chugging the rest of your drink down, grimacing at the bitter taste. 

Parker sends you an impressed look, nodding in approval– clearly unaware of the internal battle you're going through.

“Atta girl!” she laughs, already motioning for the bartender to bring another round.

You give her a weak smile, eyes flickering past her and towards the bar once again.

They’re closer now, and you can see the faint smile on Jack’s face while his hand rests on her waist.

Jesus Christ, you’re gonna hurl.

Letting out a shaky sigh, you quickly stand up, almost falling into Trinity's lap when you climb over her.

“Woah– hey!” she exclaims, but you’re too lost in your head to hear her protests. 

The alcohol in your system is making the room spin, but you manage to find an empty hallway, stumbling down it. Leaning against a wall, you let the cool plaster bring you back to earth, eyes still downcast as you take a few breaths, trying to your racing heart.

Fuck this night, fuck that old man and fuck this fucking job–

A pair of shoes end up walking into view, and suddenly the surrounding noise is rushing back into your ears. You look up, blinking as you come face to face with dark eyes, equally as dark hair and a faint smile on the strangers lips.

Nick Barker.

“Huh?” you mutter dumbly, having seen his lips move but not registered any sound.

Nick gives you a small grin, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he takes in your disheveled appearance.

“I said, are you okay, Doc?”

You blink once again, the nickname finally snapping you back into reality.

“Yeah,” you say automatically, even though you can still feel your heart in your throat, beating wildly. “I’m okay,”

You were far from okay.

“Had one too many, have we?” he teases, singlehandedly carrying the conversation while you try to get your shit together.

Charming, you think to yourself. 

If only you could completely lose yourself in Nick Barker's pathetic attempts at flirting, rather than the sight of your…whatever, making eyes at your colleague in front of half the department.

“Something like that,” you muse weakly, unable to stop your eyes from flickering past him and towards the bar again.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, Doc?” he asks, softer this time.

You hesitate, standing up straighter.

You don’t know Nick like that.

He’s… around. Familiar, in the way everyone that frequents the pitt is but not enough to spill relationship troubles to, and definitely not about a relationship that isn’t a relationship, but isn't nothing either.

You glance at him, then away again. He thankfully gets the hint. 

“For what it’s worth, whatever it’s about, I doubt it's on you,”

You snort, shaking your head as you give him an incredulous look.

“And how would you know that?”

Nick shrugs, biting back a grin as his eyes dart across your face and you notice them linger on your lips.

“Pretty girls are rarely the issue,”

You actually let out a laugh at that– at his audacity and relentless flirting. It’s a respectable feat at this point. 

“Christ, Barker–”

Your shared laughter is interrupted by Victoria stumbling into the hallway, already flushed cheeks growing even warmer as her doe eyes dart between you and the radiologist, looking so…cozy.

“Oh, I was just– I mean– I didn’t mean to– bathroom!” she laughs nervously, lips parted and face contorted in that trademark disgruntled look, before she squeezes herself between the two of you and through the doorway you were blocking.

Only then do you realize you’ve been gone from your table for quite some time, and Nick seems to have that same revelation.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he interrupts, just as you were about to come up with an excuse and leave, clearly thinking ahead of you.

A small wave of doubt flashes across your face, and Nick quickly speaks up again when he feels that you’re about to question his motives.

“You know, as an apology for my terrible attempts at flirting, and to take your mind off of…things,”

Still flirting horribly, but fuck it– you could use another drink and let yourself be distracted by pointless flirting for one night, right?

“How about we join the rest again?” you suggest instead, not bothering to wait for an answer as you grip his wrist, already tugging him back into the crowd.

The main room is still loud, still crowded and still way too warm, but this time, it proves itself to be a distraction you welcome with open arms.

The booth is right as you left it– Trinity laughing at something Parker is saying, Dennis is flushing in a way that reveals that he’s the butt of the joke and Victoria is somehow back in her seat again, giving you a sheepish smile. 

The more time that passes, the closer you end up, until eventually, his arm stretches along the back of the booth where you’re sitting. Just then, the rest of the table is conveniently led to the dance floor by Trinity– though not before she sends you an imprudent wink.

Nick is fun, easy to talk to and definitely easy on the eyes. Hell, even Cassie gives you the stamp of approval– a single, smug nod from the other side of the room.

Everything feels normal.

And for a few minutes, you let it be just that.

You laugh when you’re supposed to, nod along to the conversation even when you’re barely following, take a sip of your drink just to have something to do with your hands.

It almost works.

Almost.

Like a magnet drawn to a forcefield, your eyes are drawn to where you saw Jack earlier.

Only this time your gaze is met by his.

It’s cliche– the way the rest of the room seems to blur, the noise fading away when your eyes lock, but it’s the truth.

It’s not for long though, because soon his stare shifts to the person that's supposed to be blocking your view of him. Jack’s eyes move to follow the length of Nick’s arm along the back of your seat, then to the way you’re leaning towards him, down the bare expanses of your crossed legs, before finally landing on you again– with a newfound tension.

Nick is still talking besides you, completely unaware of the fact that you’re not listening to a word he’s saying. No, instead you’re dialed in on everything that is Jack Abbot. And just as his gaze had shifted to Nick, your own now shifts towards Samira, observing the lack of space between the two of them.

You should look away. You should be listening to Nick rambling about something, yet you’re letting your attending eye-fuck you from across the bar.

Something akin to satisfaction settles deep in your stomach at the idea of Jack feeling even a semblance of what you have been feeling all night.

But it’s not enough. No, you want him to suffer just as you had.

So you tear your gaze away, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from Nick’s face. He freezes mid sentence, before sitting straighter, clearly pleased by your action. You don’t give him a moment to collect himself before you lean closer.

“Remember how you said you wanted to help me take my mind off of things?” you mutter, eyes flickering to his lips.

Nick nods, swallowing dryly.

“Now’s your chance,” you whisper, closing your eyes, and thankfully Nick doesn't need much convincing, because in an instant, his lips land on yours, moving softly, before he gains some confidence, pulling you closer. His palm lands on your thigh, squeezing it.

Your eyes flutter open mid-kiss, back to that same corner of the bar, back to those hazel ones.

Jack is in the same position you last saw him in, only you can sense the newfound tension in him radiating off his frame.

You let your hands slip into Nick’s hair, tugging slightly– eyes half-lidded and locked on the way Jack’s fingers tighten its grip around his bottle of beer, before he brings it to his lips, taking a large sip– still not looking away.

The moment stretches too long, and before you know it, the rest of the table is coming back. Pulling away from Nick, who’s looking a little dazed, you give him a pat on the shoulder, squeezing past him to get out of the booth.

“Thanks. I’m going to get some air, ‘kay?”

As soon as you step out of the bar, a flood of cold air is washing over you and you take your first proper breath of the night once you’ve rounded the corner of the building, a bit further away from the front entrance.

The little bell above the door rings again when it swings open and you don’t need to look behind you to see who has followed out. 

“Quite the show you put on in there,” he drawls, and you already feel your irritation grow at the smugness in his voice.

“Wasn’t aware we had an audience” you quip back, blatantly lying.

Jack enters your field of vision, and you almost wish he had stayed behind you– out of sight, so that you could continue pretending that he doesn’t have an effect on you anymore.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his grey jeans, the black t-shirt he’s wearing stretching deliciously over the broad expanse of his shoulders and the short sleeves constricting the bulging muscles in his arms.

You force yourself to stop checking him out.

You’re expecting a smirk– an unbothered, amused look on his face when you finally look at him. Instead, you’re met with a sharpened glare and a gritted jaw.

Oh?

“That was real mature, by the way,” he jeers sarcastically, Adam's apple bobbing when he awaits your answer, a reaction– anything to indicate you still give a fuck about him.

“Excuse me?” you say in disbelief, arms crossing at his harsh tone. You were used to the closed off version of him– one that held his cards close to his chest– but from here, the Jack standing in front of you was nothing like the calm and collected man from inside– out here, he was unabashedly unraveling.

Jack steps closer, close enough to where you can smell the beer on his breath and the last, lingering scent of the cologne he must have used before coming to the bar. His hands run through his short locks, and he gives you a torn look.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he hisses, gripping your arm and pulling you closer to him.

You tilt your head, forced to strain your neck as you glare up at his towering frame.

“Not everything is about you, Abbot–”

“Oh, bullshit!” he snaps, chest heaving as he struggles with rationalizing what he’s feeling. “You’re messing with me on purpose, you knew how I’d feel seeing that,”

You splutter in disbelief once again, eyebrows furrowing at his words.

“Are you serious right now? I don't know shit about what you feel for me– that’s the entire fucking reason we’re here right now!” you spit, shoving him away from you. 

Jack stumbles back, before catching himself and stepping right back into your space again– crowding you against the wall of the building.

For months on end you had compromised your own feelings for the sake of his, agreeing to something casual because that was what he wanted. You had spent months convincing yourself that it didn’t matter that Jack wouldn’t touch you in public, because behind closed doors, he was all yours.

For months you had begged for the same attention he so easily gave someone else tonight. 

Tonight, he had proved once again that you should stop making excuses for him.

“What do you want from me?” you say weakly, breathing growing heavier as you swallow the lump in your throat. 

Jack falters at your defeated tone of voice, so unlike the fire he knows lives within you.

Had he done this to you?

He wants you– how could you not know that? Everything Jack had done had been with your best interest in mind and yet here you were, falling apart because of him. Because he thought keeping his distance, letting you go was the right choice. 

Because you had so much to do, and Jack had nothing ahead of him. 

Jack’s stare searches your face, and you can feel his breath warming the side of your face. If you turned your head, you’d be close enough to feel his lips brush against yours. Pressing his nose to your temple, he breathes in the scent he’s been without for what feels like an eternity. 

A final, sharp inhale and Jack is pulling away again.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he mumbles. 

You sniffle, shaking your head at his words. The memory flashes in your head– his hand on Samira’s waist, the easy smile you hadn’t seen directed at you in weeks, the way he didn’t even look your way until it was too late.

“You can, you just don’t want to–”

“Of course I want to,” Jack cuts in immediately, shutting down whatever you were trying to allude to. “But it’s not fair to you if I take what I want,”

A sharp, bitter laugh bubbles in your chest, and you push his hands away from you, wiping your face harshly as you speak. 

“What’s not fair is you treating me like this. You tell me we’re casual, then treat me like more– then you let me end things with you, only to act like some possessive jerk afterwards!”

Jack drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “That wasn’t– fuck, you’re twisting it.”

“Then explain it to me,” you challenge, stepping closer despite everything. His eyes snap to yours, something frantic flickering in them.

“I screwed up,” he admits, voice rough. “Okay? I saw you with him and I–” he breaks off, jaw clenching. “I lost it,"

Your heart stutters at the revelation, but you don’t let it soften you. 

“That’s not enough,” you say quietly, not looking away from him. 

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair restlessly.

“What do you want me to say huh? Just tell me and I’ll do it–”

“No, I’m done telling you what to feel!” you exclaim, unable to hold back any longer. A look of hurt flashes across your face and you step back, shaking your head in disappointment.  

“Figure it out yourself,” you spit, giving him one last look, before rounding the corner and hailing yourself a cab to go back home. 

The sound of your heels against the pavement is too loud in the quiet of the night and Jack can feel his heart constrict in his chest at the sight of your retreating figure.

“Hey– ” Jack’s voice calls after you, strained, but you don’t stop.

Not this time.

You lift a hand, waving down the first cab you see like your life depends on it. The car screeches to a halt a few feet ahead, and you don’t dare to look back, not until you're inside of it and it's pulling away.

Jack stands right where you left him, watching you slip away.

The next day, you get to work earlier than you have to, immediately zeroing in on Robby, who’s standing by the hub, staring up at the patient board.

Over the rim of his glasses, he squints, giving you a one over.

“Fancy seeing you here! Surely you heard that we were swamped and decided to come in early to help?” he says teasingly, giving you a tightlipped smile.

You barely slow your stride towards the lockers, matching his sarcasm with your own.

“Oh, you know me! Always happy to help–” you retort, not lingering long enough for him to find you something to do. 

He huffs out a quiet laugh, adjusting his glasses as he turns back to the board, hands gripping each side of his stethoscope hanging around his neck. 

“Bet you are, hoo-ahh,” he mocks as you pass him, and you bite back a smile at the reminder of the silly night shift chant the team does– to build morale, apparently.

Slipping into your work shoes, you roll the sleeves of your undershirt up then head back to the hub, where Robby is now joined by Dana.

“I do actually have to speak to you, though,” you try to say as casually as you can, but Dana still gives you an appraising look, while Robby turns to face you, putting the ipad in his hands, down.

“Okay,” he says carefully, sharing a glance with the equally as curious charge nurse, before looking back at you. “Shoot,”

You shift your weight on your feet, suddenly very aware of their expecting gazes.

“I’d like to be put on the day-shift,” you say simply.

The silence that ensues does nothing to calm the cold sweats you're starting to have.

“…You’re kidding,” Robby says first, raising his eyebrows  like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“I am not,” you press, a shaky laugh escaping you when they continue to look at you like you’ve suddenly started to speak French.

That’s when Dana straightens a little, arms uncrossing as her attention sharpens fully, as she does a tentative scan over your frame.. 

“You’ve been fighting to stay on nights since you started here, kid, what’s with the sudden change of heart?”

“I know,” you say, shrugging slightly. “Just need a change of scenery,”

Robby lets out a low whistle, rocking back slightly on his heels as he studies you like you’ve just grown a second head.

“Does Abbot know about this?”

You look down, fiddling with your scrub top.

“No, why should he?”

“Well, he is the night shift attending–”

“It’s not a big deal. We don’t have to like…tell everyone,” you mutter as inconspicuously as you can.

Robby gives you a stiff smile, eyes darting to Dana, who gives him a shrug, equally as baffled.

“...Alright,” he sighs, scratching at his scruff.

You perk up, clearly surprised but quickly steel yourself again.

“Really?”

Robby nods, leaning back against the counter and holds your gaze a moment longer than necessary, like he’s weighing whether this is just a simple rescheduling request or something deeper.

Relief flickers through you before you can stop it.

“Thank you,” you say quickly, almost too quickly, then flash a smile at them, turning around and making your way towards the elevators, leaving them alone at the hub. 

Dana watches you go, the faintest crease forming between her brows as you disappear around the corner. After making sure that you’ve left, she turns back to Robby.

“...You’re going to tell Abbot, right–”

“Who’s going to tell Abbot what?”

Jack saunters into the department, his backpack slung over his shoulder and looking ready for work, like he’s not an hour early.

“Scheduling,” Dana snorts, not bothering with greetings.

Jack grimaces, dumping his bag at the counter.

“Ah, my favorite topic of conversation,” he says dryly, leaning back as he squints at the board, assessing the current patients administered there. 

Robby clears his throat, glancing up over his glasses before going back to reading on the ipad.

“Yeah, seems like you’ve got some residents jumping ship, brother,”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack hums, only half listening as he grabs a chart, ready to start his shift, “Who?”

The silence he’s met with has him coming to a halt. Setting the chart back on the counter, he sniffs, running his knuckles under his nose. 

He knows who.

“When did she speak to you?”

Robby doesn’t respond immediately, debating whether or not he should tell him, but seeing Jack’s hardened glare he decides to spare himself the headache.

“She came in early, asked to be put on days and I said yes,” Robby responds earnestly, knowing better than to try and sugar coat anything related to you.

Jack chuckles dryly, shaking his head. A hand runs down the back of his neck as if he’s trying to calm himself down, but before he knows it he’s moving.

“She came in early?” he confirms, already starting to walk away from his oldest friend.

“Jack–” Robby starts, only to stop mid sentence once Jack raises his hand, effectively cutting him off. Sighing for what felt like the hundredth time in only 20 minutes, Robby gives up on trying to intervene, “...I saw her head upstairs.”

Jack doesn’t spare him another glance. 

The door to the roof opens abruptly, breaking you out of your thoughts and sending you flinching.

At the scene of the crime is none other than Jack Abbot, looking very fucking pissed.

“You’re asking to be put on days?” he spits, not even bothering to act cool about it.

The wind tousles your hair when you turn around to face him

“I’m not asking, I’ve already switched–”

“Like hell you have,” Jack cuts in, slamming the door behind him harshly, before stalking over to where you’re standing. “Are you trying to get back at me– is that it?”

Scoffing, you resist the urge to roll your eyes instead meeting his glare with your own, face twisted in bewilderment.

“Get back at you?” you repeat incredulously, pushing off the railing and walking around him when he steps closer– keeping your distance.

Jack exhales, his palms rubbing into his eyes.

“Because of last night. Because of Mohan–”

“It’s not about her–”

But he’s not hearing you, continuing to ramble.

“ – you saw one moment, and now you’re cutting me out of your life completely–”

Frustration builds in your chest, bubbling up until you’re lashing out– the false, composed demeanor you had been trying to keep falling apart. 

“I saw you give her what I’ve been wanting for months for, Jack!”

The words finally seem to register in his ears, and for the first time since he stepped onto the roof with you, Jack is silenced.

You continue speaking, voice shaking but sharp nonetheless, the wind howling between the two of you.

“I asked you, no I begged you for the bare minimum, and you made me feel like it was still too much. And then I walk into that bar,” you go on, a bitter laugh slipping out, “and suddenly you have no problems anymore. Touching her, laughing with her in front of everyone, like it’s easy?”

Jack swallows his words, fists clenching and unclenching as he tries to hold back– to stop himself from spilling everything he’s ever felt out on the roof of the hospital.

It’s a losing battle.

You watch him stay silent yet again, a look of disappointment flashing in your eyes before you turn around, moving towards the exit.

Jack would rather fling himself off the roof than have you look at him like that again.

“It is easier with her,” he finally speaks, and you end up wishing he wouldn’t. 

“Go tell her that and spare me, Jack–”

"You told me to figure my shit out, so I am– just, hear me out okay?” he pleads, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to continue when you let him speak. “...It’s easier with her because I don’t care about her,”

You freeze in your step, his words causing your racing mind to finally quiet down.

“I never did. I–” he sighs and you hear him step closer to you, yet you refuse to turn around to face him. “...I was trying to forget," 

When you stay silent, Jack continues rambling, walking until he’s right in front of you, looking into your eyes with his own pleading ones.

“ –But then I saw you with him, and I realized I didn't want to see you with anyone but me. And I know it’s far too fucking late, and that I’ve been putting you through hell, but I…” he trails off, and you hear him breathe heavily, trying to collect his thoughts. “I thought I was doing the right thing…that I was helping you realize you didn’t actually want this,”

That you didn’t actually want me, Jack thinks to himself. 

The sky is falling behind you, casting an orange hue over the rooftop where the two of you are standing. The distant sounds of ambulance sirens can be heard, as well as the honks from traffic, the sound of people walking on the street and a lone helicopter flying above, yet all Jack can focus on is the broken look on your face. 

“I’ve always wanted you, Jack,”

You say, taking in the way his chest rises unevenly, the way his hands hang uselessly at his sides like he doesn’t trust himself to reach for you. 

You feel your eyes well up, and you break away from his searching eyes, blinking away the tears threatening to spill.

Jack can’t fight it anymore– he can’t let the distance last. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he steps closer, cupping your face. 

“I know and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, honey–” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. Your breath shudders when you feel his lips kiss the tears away, the familiar yet strange feeling of his coarse stubble scratching against your damp cheeks.

Pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, Jack doesn’t hesitate this time.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, the words catching in his throat, but he forces them out nonetheless. He wasn't going to let his fear win this time. 

Your breath hitches at his words, eyes searching him for an inkling of doubt– of regret, anything that would indicate you being hurt by him again.

He hates that you have to be cautious around him, that you’re worried about protecting your heart when all he’s ever wanted was to hold it in his hands forever. To protect you, to love you.

“I love you,” he repeats, softer this time. “ And if you’ll let me, I’ll make sure to prove it– no matter how long it takes,”

You watch him– waiting for that same version of him that would let his walls down just enough to reel you in, before shutting you out again.

And when he doesn’t– when you realize that the person you see before you is nothing like him– a tentative, soft smile forms on your face.

Jack can’t take his eyes off of you– he never wants to take his eyes off of you again. 

“Took you long enough,” you huff weakly, allowing yourself to relax in his arms when his lips press against your forehead.

That day, Jack Abbott decided to spend the rest of his life trying to make up for the biggest mistake he’s ever made– hurting you.

☆END NOTE: Yeah, yeah– sappy ending I know, but they've been through a lot, let them be happy! Speaking of going through a lot,I personally went through the five stages of grief writing this. It was supposed to be short n sweet (get it?), not an age gap-situationship-final boss fic. Not proud of it, man enough to say it and I hope you still like it?

☆TAGLIST: @wow-life-love4 @sirens-and-moonflowers @slowburnsky @bravewithacapitalb

[helaintoloki]

Misunderstanding

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader

warnings/notes: angst, reader is described as timid/shy, fluff

a/n: this prompt was sent in as a request! hope you all enjoy <3

summary: you accept Bucky’s invitation to attend Tony’s charity gala as his date, but your night quickly turns sour when you find out about his bet with Natasha

Your hands tremble as you raise the gun towards your target and fixate your aim on the bullseye. You’ve never handled a weapon like this before, but your novice status in the shooting range isn’t what has you feeling so nervous.

“Relax your arms a bit,” Bucky suggests, his hands gently resting on your biceps as he positions them in the correct form. His chest is pressed against your back, strong arms encasing you against him while he uses his leg to gently nudge your own into the proper stance. His metal hand comes to rest on yours and adjust your aim so that it’s aligned with the target across the way from you both. You hope he can’t hear the rapid beating of your heart or feel the growing perspiration resulting from being so close to the man, and you hope he doesn’t take notice of the fact that your powers are slowly manifesting themselves around you in result of your emotions.

You’ve been an Avenger for a few months now, having joined the team after they’d been sent to investigate an environmental disturbance in a quiet California town. You had just developed your powers after becoming an unwilling test subject for your father’s experiments and had little to no control over your ability to manipulate the flora around you. The city had been turned into your own arboretum overrun with a multitude of different plants, some more dangerous than others, and it was only with their help had you been able to clean up the mess.

Your first months training had been spent solely focusing on controlling your powers, managing your emotions to prevent plants from popping up in places they didn’t belong, but this was easier said than done. Your abilities still had the tendency to activate even when you didn’t want them to, but you were doing much better now with practice. Your regime had slowly begun to include more practical elements like hand-to-hand combat, stealth, and weaponry. That’s how you ended up alone in the shooting range with Bucky who had been more than happy to help you learn.

“Now when you’re ready, pull the trigger,” his encouraging voice sounds in your ear.

You clicked with Bucky almost immediately after joining the team. As a victim of scientific experimentation himself, he understood the trepidation you held towards your abilities and the loss of autonomy you were experiencing. He was a calming presence that provided you with comfort every time you felt like your body was turning against you, and it wasn’t long before he decided to take you under his wing. You’d become fast friends in no time, and it was a rare occurrence at the tower to see one of you without the other.

Calming your nerves, you let out a slow exhale before pulling the trigger. You watch anxiously as the bullet flies out of the barrel and hits your target dead on.

“Right on the mark!” Bucky compliments proudly before removing himself from you. You find yourself already missing the closeness, but you play it cool by flashing him a bashful smile. Your joy has already begun to present itself as tiny daisies bloom at your feet, but the super soldier doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. “See, wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I just got lucky,” you admit with a sheepish shrug. Bucky laughs before giving you an encouraging pat on the back.

“You just need some practice. I’m sure you’ll be able to start shooting at moving targets in no time.”

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” A third voice chimes. You turn your heads to find Natasha standing in the doorway, a knowing smile on her face as she greets you two with a nod before settling her gaze on Bucky. “Steve’s asking for you. Wants to talk strategy for the mission you two were assigned.”

“Right,” Bucky sighs before turning to you. “I’m going to be gone for a few days. Will you be alright without me?”

“I’ll manage,” you joke with a halfhearted smile that Bucky is quick to match. Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest from the way his blue eyes stare down at you, and you hope neither he nor Natasha can pick up on your nerves.

“Don’t worry, Barnes,” Natasha quips as she comes to wrap an arm around your frame, “she’ll be in good hands while you’re gone.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he affirms with a nod, bidding you both a goodbye before making his way to Steve.

You’d been holding back your powers for as long as you could in Bucky’s presence, so once the man is gone you let out a sigh of relief and finally release the tension within you. Red carnations bloom in a circle around you before quickly wilting once you will them away with a wave of your hand. You wish your abilities weren’t so intertwined with your thoughts, and you wish you weren’t so infatuated with your teammate.

“Rough day of training?” Natasha prompts with a raised brow.

“Just overwhelmed, I guess,” you offer with a weak shrug before gesturing to your surroundings, “and a bit intimidated by all of this.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she assures you with a faint smile. “It just takes time.”

You settle into a comfortable silence as you begin to clean up the mess left behind from your training session. Natasha simply watches on in silence, but you can tell by the look on her face that she’s heavily contemplating her next words.

“So you and Barnes?” She finally prompts, acting as inconspicuously as possible. You stiffen slightly at the question but immediately regain your composure as you unload your gun.

“What about me and Barnes?” You retort as nonchalantly as possible, though the mere mention of the man has your heart skipping a beat.

“You guys have gotten awfully close these last few months.”

“He’s a good friend,” you retort defensively, but it’s clear that Natasha isn’t buying your story. Her gaze suddenly becomes fixated on your head, and you watch with uncertainty as she reaches forward and lightly plucks something out of your hair. You blanch at the sight of the rosebud in her hand and try to avoid her knowing stare.

“You like him, don’t you?” She says with a coy smile.

“God, please don’t tell anyone,” you beg her in earnest while snatching the flower away, eyes full of panic and desperation. You thought you were doing well at hiding your little crush on Bucky, but you should have known better than to think an amateur like you could fool a top agent like Natasha.

“My lips are sealed, but even if I wanted to tell I think these flowers would end up blowing your cover before I could.”

“I can’t help it!” You exclaim in exasperation. “Wanda has been helping me learn to control my thoughts, but it’s like that all goes out the window whenever I’m with him.”

“Have you ever considered telling him?” She asks with a raised brow as if it’s the most obvious solution.

“Are you crazy? I think I’d rather die.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she scoffs with an amused roll of her eyes. “What’s the harm in playing the field?”

“I doubt there’s any part of him that sees me as more than the new teammate he has to babysit,” you denote woefully, clearly having already accepted defeat in your predicament. “Why risk making things horribly awkward for everyone?”

“It’ll only be horribly awkward if he actually rejects you,” Natasha reminds you thoughtfully, “and he won’t. But, Bucky also won’t make the first move either, so you have to.”

“Fat chance,” you murmur under your breath before turning to the armory to return your gun. You miss the look of determination that flashes across her features as she mulls over your conversation. It’s clear to her that your feelings for Bucky aren’t something that can just be swept under the rug, and she’s well aware of the fact that you won’t be able to muster up the courage to voice your feelings.

It seems it’ll be up to her to make the first move on your behalf.

~~~

“Y/n, just the person I wanted to see!” Tony’s voice calls, prompting you to halt in your tracks and remove your headphones. You’d just finished a workout session with Thor and were dying to let your aching muscles relax under a hot shower, but it seems your teammate had other plans.

“What is it?” You press gently while slowing your brisk pace so that Tony can walk alongside you in the hall. You watch with piqued interest as he pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it over to you.

“This, my dear, is an invitation to your very first charity gala,” he replies proudly. “I’ve already taken the liberty of RSVPing for you, so consider this as more of a formality than anything.”

“Charity gala?” You retort with a raised brow.

“Stark Industries throws one every year to raise money for good causes around the world, and it’s customary that every Avenger attends.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl nervously, already anxious at the thought of a huge party full of random strangers who know you as the girl that almost turned the state of California into an uninhabitable forest.

“You’re an Avenger now, sweetheart,” Tony reminds you thoughtfully, “and this will be a great way to introduce our newest member to the public and let them get to know you more. You wouldn’t say no to charity, would you?”

“No,” you sigh in defeat, clearly bested by Tony’s guilt tripping. You will yourself to open the envelope and take in the extravagant detailing on the card listing the time and date for the event. You’re not exactly the most extroverted person on the team, but you figure if you can fight world ending threats with no problem then you should be able to stomach one night of being paraded around like a show pony. “I guess I better find something to wear.”

“There’s the spirit,” Tony grins cheekily, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet before producing his credit card. “You know what, since this is your first event why don’t you take my card and buy something new. Sky’s the limit.”

You look at him stunned before hesitantly pocketing the card and thanking the man for his generosity. You never imagined that one day you’d be able to have access to Tony Stark’s credit card, but then again, you also never imagined you’d be living under the same roof as Captain America and Black Widow.

After your conversation with Tony, you finally make your way back to your own room and step into the shower to freshen up. You spend most of it anxiously mulling over the upcoming gala and worrying about how you’re going to present yourself. You hate being perceived by strangers, but you suppose that’s what happens when you become a public figure.

Once you make yourself presentable again, you roam the tower in search of Wanda to seek out some guidance for your attire. You make your way through the hallways hoping to run into her after finding her bedroom empty, but you instead stumble upon a hushed conversation taking place in the kitchen. You falter slightly at the sound of Natasha’s voice, and though you can’t make out what she says you’re curious to know what she could be speaking so secretively about. Not wanting to eavesdrop, you make your presence known by rounding the corner only to be met with the startled faces of Nat and Bucky.

“Bucky?” You retort in surprise, stomach already twisting with nerveous knots the moment you meet his eyes. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Just got back an hour ago,” he explains with a tired smile, but you don’t miss the way he subtly shoots a glance at Natasha before returning his gaze to you. The two look suspicious, almost as if you’d caught them in the middle of something you weren’t mean to be privy of, and though you tried to ignore it you felt unnerved. You didn’t think your teammates capable of keeping secrets from you, especially not Bucky or Natasha, but it seemed apparent that they knew something you didn’t and intended to keep it that way.

“I’m glad you made it back safe,” you offer with a timid smile, swallowing down your nerves to keep your powers at bay. You can feel the itchiness on your palms resulting from a flower attempting to bloom and decide it’s best to make your exit as quickly as possible. “I, uh… I guess I’ll leave you two alone now.”

“You don’t have to go,” Bucky assures you with a frown, but you quickly shake your head and already begin making your exit before he can argue further.

“I have to find Wanda,” you answer almost breathlessly. You quicken your pace before either of them can stop you, your heart pounding in your chest and thorn covered vines trailing in your wake at the sudden emotional discomfort you’re experiencing.

You can’t help but to think you’d accidentally walked in on an intimate moment between the two and perhaps discovered a secret bond they shared. Your stomach flipped violently at the thought. Surely Bucky and Natasha weren’t involved romantically, were they? You knew she could be harsh, but you don’t think she’d be cruel enough to fill your head with encouragement to pursue Bucky just to end up pursing him herself.

You give up on your plans to find Wanda and instead shut yourself into your room for the remainder of the evening to wallow in your ruminative overthinking. You’re left to your own devices for a good hour before a knock sounds at your bedroom door.

“Come in,” you call out quietly. You watch on in interest as your door slowly creeps open so Bucky can peek his head inside.

“You got a minute?” He asks with a bashful smile that makes it impossible to deny him. You give him a small nod and watch as the man makes his way into your room before timidly seating himself on the edge of your bed. “I wanted to talk to you earlier but you sort of just bolted out of there.”

“Sorry,” you reply with a meek smile, eyes glancing away towards the floor. “I was feeling a little overwhelmed about Tony’s charity gala. Plus, it looked like you and Natasha were having a pretty intense conversation…”

“Right, that,” Bucky says with a sigh.

You muster up the courage to peek over at him and ask, “Are you two…?”

“What? No, of course not,” he quickly interjects, and despite the subtle guilt that arises within you, you feel relieved to hear him say this. “I know it might have looked suspect, but I was actually talking to her about you.”

“Me?” You repeat in surprise, shifting closer to the soldier and hanging onto his every word. A fond smile washes over him as he sets his eyes upon you and carefully reaches for your hand.

“I wanted to know if I’d have a shot at being your date to Tony’s charity gala,” Bucky admits with a charming grin. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest, and you can’t help the sudden triggering of your powers as bushes of roses plant themselves around your bed. Your face heats with embarrassment at the display, but the giddy smile on your face says otherwise as you look to Bucky with wide eyes.

“You want to be my date?” You repeat in disbelief, nearly swooning when Bucky carefully picks a rose from beside him and hands it to you.

“I’d be honored if you’ll have me,” he utters sincerely, voice gentle and eyes full of admiration as he gazes upon your flushed face.

“Of course I’ll have you!” You exclaim, all inhibitions thrown out the window as you fling yourself into his arms and tightly embrace the super soldier. He lets out a soft laugh before gently wrapping his arms around your figure and encasing you against him. You never would have dreamed that Bucky would be hugging you so tightly in your room, that you’d ever be going to a charity gala as his date, or that he’d ever return your affections so sweetly as he was now. You’re overjoyed, a multitude of colorful flowers blooming around you much to Bucky’s amusement.

You suddenly find that you’re not so nervous now about Tony’s party.

~~~

“Hold still,” Wanda scolds lightly as she carefully swipes the makeup brush across your eyelids.

“I can’t help it, it tickles!” You retort defensively only for the witch to roll her eyes in amusement.

The night of the gala had finally arrived, and you were grateful for the fact that Wanda had been more than thrilled to handle your makeup for you. You worried your nerves would prevent you from creating a flawless look, and you entrusted her steady hands much more than your own trembling ones. You had purchased the perfect dress and jewelry to match, and all you were missing was a pair of heels to go along with it.

“I found them,” Natasha’s voice announces as she enters the room with the shoes she’d offered to lend you. “These should fit perfect for you.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you gush in earnest, earning a pleased smile from her in response.

“Barnes is going to lose his mind when he sees you tonight,” she compliments with a wink.

“I had a feeling about you two,” Wanda adds teasingly as she puts the finishing touches on your makeup. “I’ve caught him thinking about you when you’re not around. He’s smitten.”

You smile bashfully at the floor in response to their comments and nervously rub your arm as you think about Bucky. You’ve been waiting for this night for weeks, and now that it’s here you couldn’t be more excited. You were finally going to spend a romantic evening with the man you’d harbored feelings for since joining the team, and you had high hopes that the night would end with your friendship becoming something more.

After Wanda finishes your makeup and Natasha helps you learn how to balance in the heels, you make your way downstairs where Bucky waits patiently in his best suit and tie. His eyes brighten when they land on you, and you let out an embarrassed laugh when he releases a long whistle at the sight of you.

“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he compliments in earnest before taking your hand in his own and prompting you to twirl. “Come on, give me a little spin.”

You do as requested and giggle in delight at the attention you’re receiving. You always thought yourself to be fairly pretty, but Bucky makes you feel like you’re the most gorgeous woman on the planet. His eyes rake over your figure and admire every detail of your ensemble while still managing to be respectful of your person. You never thought the man who always appeared so solemn and reserved on the outside could be so romantically sweet.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” You ask meekly, somewhat apprehensive about your look. This isn’t how you’d typically style yourself, and though you enjoy the glamour and excitement that come with attending the gala you’re worried about how the public will perceive your image as the newest Avenger.

“I think you look perfect,” Bucky assures you before opening your door and helping you into the car. The drive is filled with quiet conversation as he informs you on what to expect at a Stark party and how to expertly avoid nosy reporters. You’re absolutely enamored by the Winter Soldier, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt as secure as you do now alongside Bucky.

Just as Bucky had warned you, a gaggle of journalists surround your car as you arrive at the party. You feel the nerves beginning to overtake you, but Bucky’s gentle touch against your arm brings you back down to earth as he assures you he’s got your back. He helps you out of the car and allows you to take his arm before guiding you up the stairs into the building. You’re blinded by the flash of cameras and overwhelmed by the multitude of voices that try to get your attention, something Bucky can sense by the way your grip on his arm tightens.

“Don’t worry,” he assures you, leaning in close enough for you to feel his breath fan against your ear as he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

You feel your heart nearly burst from the gentleness of the words and the way he lovingly gaze down at you. Everything around you seems to melt away when your eyes meet his own blue ones, and all your mind can comprehend is Bucky- the smell of his cologne, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile, the softness of his touch. You’re completely enamored, and you hope he feels as strongly as you do.

Despite your initial apprehension towards the charity gala, the night almost seems to go seamlessly for you and the Avengers. Tony is able to secure generous donations from his richest guests, your teammates are able to relax for a rare night of festivities, and since gaining your powers you’re finally able to feel comfortable in your own skin.

Halfway through the party you end up on the dance floor with Bucky, your head resting against his shoulder as he holds you close and gently sways you in time to the slow song being played by the band. Despite the excitement you feel, you’ve been able to keep your powers at bay the entire night.

“You having a good time?” Bucky asks after twirling you on the dance floor. You smile as he immediately pulls you back into his arms, finding solace in him as you drape your arms around his neck.

“It’s not as scary as I thought it would be,” you admit with a sheepish smile. “I was afraid I’d mess it all up, but Tony says the journalists loved me.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Bucky says adamantly. “You’re sweet and funny and so strong.”

“You really mean that?”

“Course I do,” he assures you with a charming wink. You let out a quiet laugh and bashfully look away only for Bucky to gently grab your chin and redirect your gaze back to his own. “You’re the prettiest girl in this entire room, and I’m the luckiest guy to get to have you on my arm tonight.”

You swallow nervously as you meet his intense stare, unused to having him look upon you in such a way. Bucky had always been sweet on you, but you assumed his kindness was a result of platonic affection and understanding for the new girl on the team. You were vulnerable and alone when you first joined the Avengers, and you assumed the extra care he gave you was merely him trying to smoothen your transition into the life of a hero. But now, with eyes boring into your soul while his metal hand gently presses against the small of your back to bring you closer to him, it seems as if your hopes for his affection are finally coming true.

“Bucky?” You murmur softly, stomach twisting itself into nervous knots.

“Yeah, doll?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you that I… well, I-“

“Mind if I cut in?” A voice interrupts, startling you both out of the moment as you turn to meet Natasha’s expectant gaze. She looks between you both with a raised before asking, “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, not at all,” you quickly interject before Bucky can answer. You look to the man with an apologetic smile in search of approval. “I’ll find you after this dance, okay?”

“Sure,” he relents with an understanding nod, “I’ll get us some drinks in the meantime.”

You watch his figure disappear into the crowd before allowing Natasha to pull you in for a dance. You shamelessly let her take the lead as she guides your steps to match with hers, and she wears a knowing smirk on her face as she looks to you. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the moment, but I wanted to see how things were going.”

“I’m kind of glad you did,” you offer with a despondent sigh. “I almost told him how I feel.”

“What? That’s great!” Natasha retorts, confusion clearly etched on her features. “I feel like you should be more upset with me than you are right now.”

“I’m just afraid of the possibility that I could be reading it all wrong. I mean, I know he asked me to be his date, but what if this is just a one-night only type of deal? Steve said Bucky was a charmer back in his day, so maybe he’s just trying to be nice and show me a good time.”

“Wow,” the redhead breathes out with a shake of her head. “You really are dense.”

“Natasha!” You exclaim in offense only to receive an eye roll in response.

“If you can’t see how completely enamored that man is with you then I can’t help you,” she states bluntly. In a gentler tone now, Natasha gives your hip an encouraging squeeze before continuing, “I have never seen you as sure or confident in yourself as you’ve been tonight, so don’t be so quick to revert back to doubting your worth. You deserve to get what you want.”

Despite the initial harshness of her words, you know that Natasha is right. You’ve worked hard these last few months to earn your spot on the team, to prove your capabilities, and to force yourself out of your protective shell. Gaining your powers and overrunning an entire city with plants had been terrifying but you’d gotten through it, so there was no reason to believe you couldn’t handle putting yourself out there and sharing with Bucky the feelings you’d been harboring for him. His actions tonight were clear indicators that the possibility of him viewing you in more than a platonic lens was real, and if a woman like Natasha who’d been trained to easily read others could clearly see his interest in you, then you shouldn’t have any ounce of doubt left within you.

“You’re right,” you utter undauntedly with a firm nod of your head. “I should just get over my fears and tell him how I feel.”

“There’s the spirit,” Natasha retorts with a proud smirk. She releases you once your dance is over and sends you off with a wink, watching on proudly as you leave to search for Bucky. “Good luck!”

You manage to push your way through the crowded banquet halls towards the bar, but Bucky isn’t there. Your eyes anxiously scan the room for any sign of your date, and you’re barely able to catch sight of him stepping out onto the patio with Steve and Sam. You smile in relief before briskly making your way over to him. You’re not as nervous as you thought you’d be, and your body feels as if it’s vibrating with the exhilaration you feel at finally taking charge in your life for once. You don’t want to be the shy or timid Avenger your teammates know you as any longer; you want to be seen as someone who knows what she wants and is sure in her ability to achieve it, and you hope that after tonight you’ll be able to prove that.

The cool night air sends immediate shivers across your bare arms as you reach the doorway to the patio. The three men have their backs turned to you as they converse amongst one another away from the crowded party, enjoying a moment of peace free of reporters and fanatic guests. You know that you should make yourself known instead of eavesdropping, yet you can’t help but falter when you hear your name arise in the conversation.

“So you and y/n?” Steve prompts with a pleased smile. “You two looked like you were having a lot of fun out on the dance floor.”

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Bucky voices, admiration present in his tone. You feel your heart swell with bliss at hearing the way he talks so fondly of you when he thinks you’re not around, and it only makes you more sure of your decision to tell him how you feel.

“I like you two together,” his friend says with sincerity. “I think you’ve both helped each other come out of your shells.”

“Not to mention she makes you less grumpy,” Sam notes with a playful smirk. “I just can’t believe you managed to pull off getting her to agree to come as your date tonight. She’s gorgeous and clearly way out of your league.”

You muffle your quiet laugh with your hand and decide that now is probably a good time to reveal yourself to save Bucky from Sam’s teasing, but his next words have you stopped dead in your tracks.

“Well, it wasn’t really my idea,” he explains while uncomfortably running a hand through his hair. “Natasha put me up to it.”

You can practically feel your heart sinking in your chest as the words settle into your mind. Your lips part in quiet shock and your stomach tightens in disgust at the reality you’re met with.

“Natasha?” Steve retorts with a raised brow. Bucky nods.

“We made a deal that she’d take over my next field assignment for me if I got y/n to be my date to Tony’s party.”

You slowly shake your head in disbelief and begin to back away as the weight of his confession sinks down onto your mind. You thought that Bucky was finally beginning to see you the way you see him, that he meant it when he said how lucky he was to have you on his arm tonight, that you were finally crossing over from being platonic friends to something more.

But it had all been a lie.

Sam turns to set his glass on a nearby table only to freeze when he sees you standing there. He takes in your trembling figure and wide eyes and is quickly able to piece together the fact that you’d heard everything.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, garnering the attention of both men as all three now turn to find you lingering in the doorway. Bucky’s face falls as he makes contact with your glossy eyes and trembling lips.

“Y/n,” he utters remorsefully, taking a step towards you only for you to step back.

“I can’t believe you,” you manage to get out in a quivering voice, holding back a sob before quickly turning and making your exit.

You’re overwhelmed by the music that now feels like it’s blaring in your ears and the suffocation that overtakes you as you push through the crowded hall. You feel like you can’t breathe, and all you want is to get out of this party as fast as possible so you can return to the tower.

“Y/n, wait!” Bucky’s voice calls after, garnering the attention of a few onlookers who pause their conversations to watch the super soldier chase after you. He finally catches up to you once you make it to the front room away from the party, gently grasping onto your hand to halt your frenzied escape. “Doll, let me explain-“

“Explain what?” You spit harshly despite the tears that fall down your cheeks. “That you lied to me? That you only brought me here because of some stupid bet?!”

“It’s not like that,” he insists only for you to yank your hand away with a frustrated groan.

“Really? Because that’s what it sounded like to me,” you utter in quiet disbelief. “I can’t believe I actually fell for it.”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Bucky pleads gently before carefully reaching out for your arm. His words only infuriate you further, prompting thorns to sprout from your skin and protect you from his touch.

“Oh, right, because that makes it better,” you retort sarcastically. “I actually thought that you could like me the way I like you… I let you make me believe that I was the prettiest girl in the room and that you could actually want to be with me.”

Your shoulders tremble as you let out a quiet sob, and Bucky can only watch on in despair as he tries to remedy the situation he’d created. He never meant to hurt you, and he hated to see you cry as a result of his own actions.

“Y/n, come on,” he urges you softly, now using his metal hand to try and reach for you. “Let me fix this, let me explain everything and I promise-“

“You want to fix this?” You interrupt in a shaky voice, swallowing down another sob that threatens to fall before backing away from the man. “Then leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you.”

“Y/n…”

“Congratulations on winning your bet,” you utter despondently before slamming the doors shut behind you and leaving Bucky to ruminate in the mess he’d created.

It was never supposed to be like this.

~~~

You haven’t left your room since returning from the party last night.

Your evening of glamour and excitement had come crashing down after your argument, and once you got home you immediately rid yourself of all remnants of the charity gala. You initially had been filled with anger and rage, but all you felt now was an embarrassing sadness. Natasha had filled your head with fantasies and gotten your hopes up about Bucky only for you to end up humiliated. A rational part of you knew she must have meant well by bribing Bucky into taking you to the charity gala as his date, but you wished she never would have meddled in the first place.

You don’t think you can ever stand to be around him let alone even look at him after hearing him talk about your night as if it was something less tedious to be done in comparison to being sent out into the field. You thought you were worth more to him than a stupid bet to be made, but his words had clearly proven you wrong.

No one has attempted to enter your room since last night, though it’s not like they could even if they tried considering you’d barricaded your door with a wall of prickling vines and thorn bushes to block their path. You didn’t want to see or speak to anyone, even if you knew that eventually you’d have to face your teammates at some point.

As you try to pass the time by tending to the plants littered around the room, a knock at the door interrupts the peaceful atmosphere you’ve created. You’re honestly surprised someone had managed to pull it off considering the multitude of thorns should have stopped them from doing so, but you make no move to answer it.

“Y/n, it’s me,” Bucky’s voice sounds, prompting you to bristle with unease. The thorns on the outside grow larger, but this does not deter the super soldier who uses his metal arm to knock against them. “Please talk to me. You have no idea how much this is killing me.”

“I told you I want nothing to do with you,” you shout back wrathfully. “Leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that doll.”

“Why don’t you go make another deal with Natasha and bet you can get me to open the door,” you retort sarcastically much to Bucky’s dismay. The quiet and timid girl he’d been so used to was nowhere to be found now, and you weren’t about to let him win you over again with charming flatteries.

Bucky groans in frustration, moving to walk away only to halt in his steps and turn back towards your door. He’s determined to get through to you, and despite the cold shoulder you’re giving him he’s not going to give up until you hear him out.

“Fine, you don’t have to open the door,” he says calmly, hands raised in surrender as he ceases his pounding. "I’ll just talk to you from here.”

You roll your eyes at his statement and try to block out his voice as you water your plants, but you can’t help the part inside of you that desperately wants to know why he would ever stoop so low to use you as leverage in a bet. You adored him, but he’d broken your heart, and you felt you did deserve an answer even if you didn’t want to hear it. You don’t respond to his proclamation, but you also don’t interrupt him, and Bucky takes this as a sign to keep going.

“I know I screwed up, and I shouldn’t have agreed to making that deal, but you have to understand that I didn’t ask you out just to get out of a field assignment,” Bucky says earnestly, prompting you to pause your ministrations and set your watering can aside as you slowly make your way closer to the door. “I worded it all wrong when I was telling Steve and Sam, and you didn’t give me the chance to explain myself.”

“When I came home from my mission with Steve, Natasha cornered me in the kitchen to talk to me about Tony’s charity gala. I had no plans to attend whatsoever until she warned me that if I didn’t go, some other guy would get the chance to sweep you off your feet instead. And I realized… I realized I didn’t want that to happen.”

Your eyebrows raise slightly at his confession before furrowing in confusion. You recalled the night you’d stumbled upon him with Nat in the kitchen, and you remember he had explicitly told you they’d been discussing you. You hadn’t been able to hear anything said between the two, and you were now finally learning for the first time what they’d been so secretively conversing about.

“She said I didn’t have the guts to man up and ask you out,” he says quietly, features forlorn as he leans back against the wall. “She bet I’d be too scared to ever make the first move, and I wanted to prove her wrong. I didn’t make that deal because I thought it would be an easy way to get out of work or to humiliate you. I did it because I like you, and I would hate for Natasha to be right about me letting some other lucky guy win you over all because I was too scared to open my mouth and tell you how I feel.”

A heavy silence fills the hallway as Bucky stands with bated breath before your door and waits for any sort of response from the other side. A part of him fears that you hadn’t heard a word he’d said, or even worse, had heard everything and simply chose to ignore it. However, just when he feels like giving up and finally leaving you alone, the vines guarding your room slowly begin to rescind until there’s nothing left. The door slides open and reveals your hesitant figure standing on the other side. Neither of you speaks at first, too nervous to make the first move, but after a moment you finally work up the nerve to talk.

“You said you wanted to tell me how you feel,” you utter softly, taking a nervous swallow before continuing, “so tell me.”

Bucky can’t help but to smile after finally being able to see you again, and you watch in uncertainty as he takes a step towards you and carefully takes your hands in his.

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day you touched my metal arm and accidentally made daises bloom around it,” he voices with an affectionate grin. “You make me want to be a better man every time I’m around you, and I know that if you gave me the chance I’d do everything in my power to be the guy you deserve.”

You bite back the tears that begin to well at his confession, a smile playing upon your trembling lips as you listen to Bucky say the words you’ve only ever dreamed about hearing. You can see the sincerity swimming in his eyes and know that he isn’t lying to make you feel better. What he says is real, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

“I believe you,” you relent quietly, “and I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to apologize.”

“I’m the idiot who should be apologizing,” Bucky avows with a chuckle while giving your hands a gentle squeeze. “I shouldn’t have needed a bet to tell you how I feel. Will you still have me, doll? Even after how stupid I’ve been?”

You giggle quietly as you pull him closer and prompt him to wrap his strong arms around your figure. You peer up to meet his loving gaze while gently placing a hand on his cheek, heart thrumming rapidly in your chest when he immediately melts at the feel of your touch. “Of course I’ll have you.”

Bucky bites back a smile, holding you close as he leans down to meet your lips in a kiss. Your arms find their way around his neck while his hands press against your back to hold you tightly against him as if he never wants to let you go again. The doorway once covered in thorns now blooms with beautiful roses, signifying your reconciliation with the man you adore.

Maybe that bet wasn’t so bad after all.

[riviawitch3r]

Save Your Heart

@vvcorvusvv: I really enjoyed the deaf!reader you wrote for that Witcher imagine 💕 is there any chance you could toy with it again? I don’t have a prompt in mind, just really like how you wrote it 🥰

A/N: You ask, I deliver (it may take me a while but I always get there). Title is from Florence and the Machine’s Seven Devils.

Warnings: Blood, canon-typical violence, drowning, angst (with a very happy fluffy ending)

Word count: 4k

Keep reading

[hearts4hughes]

— casual !!

jack abbot x fem!resident!reader word count: 9k warnings: medical inaccuracies, age gap, slight power imbalance (technically he’s her boss), miscommunication, angst w happy ending, past spouse death mentioned, emotion vulnerability, sexual innuendos, oral (fem receiving), MDNI note: this may be the longest fic i’ve ever written. just two idiots in love with major miscommunication (just talk it out already omfg) also, episode 13 abbot return soon!!!!😝😝

the room smells like sweat and your laundry detergent. your chest is still rising a little too fast, the sheets twisted around your legs, your hair sticking to the side of your face. the ceiling fan hums above you, slow and uneven, pushing warm air around instead of cooling anything down. jack’s hand is still on you. his muscular body is splayed beside you. he’s breathing heavier than he’ll admit to later, breath hot on your skin. his chest lifts once, twice, before he drags in a quieter breath and finally comes back down to earth.

you turn your head toward him, watching him instead of the ceiling. his jaw is tight—it always is after you’re done. “you okay?” he asks, voice rough, like it had to fight its way out of his throat. his speckled gray and white curls are sweaty, clinging to his forehead. you fight the urge to run your fingers through them.

you let out a soft laugh, still a little breathless. “i think so.” his thumb moves against your skin in soft circles and it’s enough to make you ready for round two.

for a second, neither of you says anything. it’s not awkward—it never is—but it’s not easy either. it’s that weird space in between you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist for months now. you shift slightly, turning more onto your side so you can see him better. his hazel eyes are already boring into yours when you turn. your breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away. these are your favorite moments. the haze of post-sex and soft gazes.

jack exhales through his nose and sits up. there it is. just like clockwork the mattress dips, the air shifts, and suddenly you’re alone even though he’s still right there. he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, before reaching down to grab his boxers off the floor.

you watch him. you don’t even try not to. “where are you going?” you murmur just loud enough for him to hear. you don’t even need to ask anymore, yet, you still do.

“we’ve got a shift in a few hours,” he replies, already reaching for his pants. “probably should get a decent nap in.” he keeps his eyes on his clothes, focusing on getting dressed rather than facing you.

you push yourself up onto your elbows, sheet slipping down your naked torso without you noticing. “you could always nap here.” it comes out light, like you don’t care either way (you do).

he pauses, and you wonder if for the first time in forever, he’ll take you up on the offer. his hand stills where it’s halfway to his shirt. his shoulders tense just slightly before he keeps going, pulling it over his head. “i sleep better at my place.”

your stomach sinks. stupid, stupid girl. it’s such a normal answer. practical, logical, and very him. you nod anyway, even though he’s not really looking at you. “right. yeah. makes sense.”

he glances over then, like he’s checking your reaction without wanting it to look like that. you’re already reaching for the edge of the sheet, fixing it around yourself, pretending you didn’t just offer him something that felt a little too close to asking him to stay.

“i’ll see you tonight,” he adds, like it’s enough to lift your spirits.

you hum, nodding once. “yeah. see you.”

he grabs his watch off your nightstand, fastening it around his wrist. your eyes track the movement automatically. you notice stupid things about him. the way he’s always precise and controlled, especially now.

he steps closer to the bed again and your heart does something annoying in your chest. the feeling is something hopeful and something you immediately hate. he presses a kiss to your lips. it’s soft enough to distract you for the meantime. after a beat too long, he pulls away. “get some sleep,” he murmurs, ruffling your hair with his hand.

you nod again because what else are you supposed to do? he turns, grabs his keys, and heads for the door. there’s no hesitation. no looking back. he used to look upset he had to leave. that affection faded sometime between the last few months.

the door shuts with a quiet click, and just like that it’s over. you sit there staring at the spot where he was standing like he might walk back in and say just kidding, i’ll stay. but of course he doesn’t. you let out a slow breath and fall back against the mattress with a thud, staring up at the ceiling again. the fan is still spinning in its useless way.

your skin still feels warm where he touched you. your apartment still smells like him. which doesn’t soften the blow. you drag a hand down your face, exhaling sharply. “so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, voice muffled against your palm. this was your idea—you have to remind yourself that daily. well, you didn’t propose the idea officially, but you let it happen. days like this, no questions asked, no expectations, and absolutely no labels.

casual was the way he preferred to describe it. he said it to robby once after he asked what was going on between you two. you were standing right beside him, looking at him with both hope and curiosity. then he used that six letter word, and you deflated like a balloon. but you didn’t argue against it. so, you don’t have the right to feel like…this.

you turn onto your side, facing the empty space beside you. your fingers brush against the sheets, still faintly warm. you press your lips together, eyes stinging. “it’s casual,” you whisper, reminding yourself of the rules. you close your eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. the worst part isn’t that he left. it’s that you already know he’s going to walk into the hospital tonight, look at you like nothing happened, joke with you like nothing happened, and you’re going to let him.

“fuck,” you curse, keeping your eyes up to stop the tears from falling. your fingers scrunch the sheets, gripping them hard enough to hurt. get it together. “you agreed to it,” you mutter, reminding yourself one more time before attempting to get some sleep.

~

stepping through the ambulance bay doors of the PTMC always feels like a fever dream. like stepping out of the hospital at the end of every shift leads you right back through those automatic doors. a coffee is tucked into your hand, hair pulled back, and a neutral smile gracing your lips. it’s become easy to pretend like you didn’t spend half your afternoon staring at your ceiling, trying to convince yourself you’re fine. you tuck your bag under the desk and log in, fingers moving automatically across the keyboard.

“you’re early,” dana notes from beside you, not even glancing up from her screen.

you shrug, scanning the board. your leg bounces rapidly under the table. “couldn’t sleep.” it’s not a lie…just not the full truth.

“join the club,” she mutters.

you hum in response, already pulling up your first chart. “what’s the damage?”

“room four’s been waiting too long and is about to bite someone’s head off, six is chest pain, eight’s a disaster-”

“when is eight not a disaster?” you mumble, grabbing a pen and mentally preparing yourself.

dana snorts. “fair.”

you’re halfway through reading when the doors swing open. you don’t even have to look. your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulders tightening just slightly, grip on your pen shifting, something low in your stomach pulling tight.

jack abbot walks in like he always does. his strut is steady and grounded. the emergency department chaos bends around him instead of the other way around. he’s clad in a black scrub top, sleeves pushed up, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck. his hair is still a little damp. you hate that you notice that. his eyes sweep the department once, before landing on you. his face stays blank, but his eyes are intense as ever. he looks away before you can react.

“abbot,” dana calls, lifting her chin. she looks him up and down, not impressed (she never is).

“dana,” hearing his voice is like tasting water in a desert. he sounds normal. like maybe he spent his time outside of work alone, or doing something productive. like he didn’t leave your apartment a few hours ago with your taste still on his mouth.

you swallow, forcing your eyes back to the screen. don’t make it weird. he steps up to the station a second later, fingers drumming against the counter. “what’ve we got?”

you glance at his fingers, then at him. he’s already looking at you. he’s good at this. no tension. no hesitation. just that same slightly amused look he gives you every shift. you clear your throat. “room six. chest pain, fifty-eight year old male. ekg’s…not great.” you keep your eyes on the screen, a subtle way to evade eye contact. he leans in slightly to look at the computer, shoulder brushing yours for half a second.

“not great how?” he asks. you can smell his shampoo and conditioner, the same ones you use when you’re over his place.

you click through the results, pointing with your pen. “st elevation in the inferior leads. troponin’s pending but i’m not waiting on it.”

he nods once, focused now. “good.” your chest warms at that.

“cath lab?” you ask.

“yup. page cardiology,” he says, already straightening. “let’s not waste time.”

“on it.” you pick up the phone, dialing quickly, slipping into that rhythm you know too well. you don’t think about him. when you’re working, you have no time to think. that’s one perk of being apart of the medical field.

by the time you hang up, he’s already halfway down the hall, calling out orders, pulling a team together and teaching med students. you watch him go for a second longer than necessary.

“eyes forward, doctor,” dana murmurs under her breath. her eyes are narrow, looking you up and down like she did to abbot before.

you blink, snapping back to your screen. “i was looking at the board.”

“mmhmm.” she hums. you can’t get anything past dana. she’s seen it all, and knows it all too well. “well, i’m out of here. gotta go before i’m pulled back in.”

“sleep well,” you blow her a kiss as she shuffles out the doors. when the doors close, you watch her grab a cigarette. you chuckle, shaking your head.

the next hour moves fast. patients come in, patients go out. you send out orders, labs, reassessments. you’re moving constantly, barely sitting, barely breathing, exactly the way you like it. it drowns everything else out.

“hey.” you turn at the sound of his voice. jack’s standing a little too close again, tablet in hand, looking at you like he’s been talking for longer than you realized. “you with me?” he asks, brow lifting slightly.

you run a hand over your face. “yeah. sorry. what?”

his mouth twitches. “i asked your plan for room four.” he crosses his arms over his broad chest. the same broad chest that you littered with hickies just hours befor—

right.

focus.

“uh, probably gallbladder,” you say, pulling the chart up on the computer. “pain after eating, radiating to the back, she’s nauseous-” you list the symptoms on your fingers. he watches you as you talk. “i was thinking ultrasound to start,” you finish.

there’s a beat before he nods. “good call.” you exhale softly, tension easing just a little. “you look tired,” he adds, shifting seamlessly between work and personal. it catches you off guard.

you shrug, keeping your tone light. “couldn’t sleep.”

his gaze lingers on you. “join the club,” he mutters instead, echoing dana from earlier.

you huff out a small laugh. “original.”

“i try.” he smiles sweetly. his dimples poke out from his cheeks. ugh you love those dimples.

for a moment, you just stand there, staring at each other. then, someone calls his name from down the hall and the bubble bursts. “abbot!”

he glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “don’t let four crash on you,” he says, already stepping away.

you roll your eyes. “no promises.”

“that’s reassuring.” and he’s moving on to the next thing.

you stand there, staring at the chart in your hands. your chest feels…tight. not in a bad way either. you always react like this to him. this is what he does. he’s kind and attentive. he listens to you, trusts your judgment, jokes with you like you’re the easiest part of his day. and none of it is supposed to mean anything more than that. it’s starting to hurt.

“you good?” lena asks, glancing over her thin glasses. she tucks her red bangs behind her ear while the rest of her hair stays pulled back into a ponytail.

you nod quickly, already busying yourself with the nearest object. “yeah. just tired.” your hands land on a pen. you click it repeatedly.

she nods and hums, not convinced. you know she means well, but you can’t look at her. if she’s looking at you with that knowing look, you might just break down, and that’s the last thing you need. so, you don’t look at her. you don’t look down the hall where he disappeared. you just keep working.

~

central seven smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. burns always do that. you’re standing at the bedside, gloves snapped on, eyes scanning the injury while the patient talks a mile a minute. adrenaline will do that to you. she’s in her late thirties, maybe early forties. pretty in a put together way, even with her hair slightly frazzled and her voice pitched a little too high.

“it was the pan,” she’s saying, wincing as you gently adjust her arm. “i didn’t even realize how hot it was until—god, it hurts.”

“i know,” you murmur, voice steady. “you’re doing great. just keep your arm still for me, okay?”

she nods quickly, eyes flicking between you and him. jack stands on the other side of the bed, gloved hands resting lightly against the rail, watching you work. he’s quiet, letting you lead, only stepping in when needed. it’s natural when you work together.

“second-degree,” you say, glancing up at him briefly. “no blistering yet, but it’s heading there.”

he nods once. “agreed.”

your shoulder brushes his when you shift closer to the patient. you pretend it doesn’t register. the patient, unfortunately, does not. “are you two always this in sync?” she asks, a breathy little laugh slipping out despite the pain.

you offer a polite smile, already reaching for more gauze. “we try.”

jack huffs quietly, something amused in it. “she’s the one doing the work.” he praises and your warmth blooms in your chest.

“team effort,” you correct, not looking at him.

“sure,” he agrees, but there’s that low, teasing tone. the same one he uses in more private situations.

you clear your throat slightly. “i’m gonna grab the silvadene,” you say, stepping back. “be right back.”

he gives you a thumbs up. “i’ve got her.”

you slip out into the hallway, the noise of the department swallowing you up again. it takes maybe two minutes max to grab what you need, maybe a little longer because you stop to answer a quick question from a nurse, scribble an order, check a lab.

when you push the door back open with your hip, you pause. the patient is smiling. not the tight, pained smile from before. she has that admiration in her eyes. the same type you have when you look at him. jack’s standing a little closer than he was when you left. not inappropriate—never that—but closer. one hand braced near her arm, the other adjusting something on the tray.

“guess i’ll have a pretty good scar to show off, huh?” she’s saying, voice lilting.

jack glances up briefly, a small, smile tugging at his mouth. “we’ll try to keep it minimal.”

“mm,” she hums, eyes lingering on him a second too long. “well…if i need a follow-up, i wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

your stomach drops. he doesn’t react the way you do. of course he doesn’t. he just chuckles. “always happy to treat a patient again.”

you step further into the room, setting the supplies down a little harder than necessary. “okay,” you say, voice back to clinical and controlled. “let’s get this dressed.”

jack shifts back immediately, giving you space without question. you focus on the burn and the steps. on anything but the way the patient keeps glancing between you and him.

you finish quicker than usual. “i’m going to have someone else take over from here,” you say suddenly, pulling off your gloves and tossing them in the bin.

jack raises a brow. “you don’t have to-” he starts.

“dr. ellis is better with burn care,” you cut in smoothly, already stepping toward the door. “i’ve got a few things i need to catch up on anyway.”

jack isn’t the only one with oddly reasonable excuses. he studies you for a second longer, forehead creased from confusion. “ok.” he’s reluctant to say.

you ignore the weird twist in your chest at that and step out into the hallway, already scanning for parker. “ellis,” you call, waving her over. “can you take over nine? second-degree burn, i’ve started dressing it but-”

“yeah, of course,” she says easily, already snapping on gloves and heading in.

“thanks.” you don’t look back. you don’t look at jack. you just keep moving.

~

the rest of the shift blends together. you throw yourself into it harder than usual. you pick up more patients, more notes, more anything to keep your brain too busy to circle back to that room. to the way he didn’t-

you stop that thought before it finishes.

by the time things finally start to slow, the clock creeping toward the end of your shift, your shoulders ache and your eyes burn from staring at screens too long. you’re hunched over the computer, typing out your last note, when a familiar presence settles beside you.

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

your fingers still for half a second. then keep typing. “have not,” you murmur, voice absent of its usual warmth.

jack leans his hip against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “mm,” he taps his fingers next to your keyboard.

you finish the sentence you’re on before finally glancing up at him. “i’ve been busy.”

“you reassigned my patient.” there it is.

you shrug, turning back to the screen. “parker is better with that stuff.”

“since when?” he huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

“since always,” you say a little harsher than you intend. you take a deep breath before continuing. “and i had to catch up on charting,” you add, clicking through another tab.

you can feel him looking at you. “everything alright?” he asks, leaning close enough that you can feel heat radiating him. that almost gets you.

you force a small smile, glancing up at him again. “yeah. why wouldn’t it be?”

his gaze lingers. searching for something. “just asking,” he says finally.

you nod once. “well, i’m good.”

no one talks for a moment. he shifts slightly, looming over you while you try to work. you swallow, skin burning from his gaze.

“you wanna come over tonight?” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “or…we could go out or something.”

your heart stutters. of course that’s what he follows it up with. he says it like it’s nothing. you should say no. you should say you’re tired. you should say you have plans. you should say literally anything that puts space between you and this thing that keeps pulling you back in.

instead, without thinking, you say, “uh, sure.” and the cycle continues.

his mouth twitches slightly, something satisfied flickering there before he looks away. “i’ll text you when i get home,” he smiles.

you nod, turning back to your computer before he can read anything on your face. “okay.”

he lingers. then pushes off the counter and walks away. after he’s out of sight, you sit there, staring at the screen without really seeing it. once again, you bring it onto yourself.

~

his couch dips under your weight. the leather is worn in just enough to feel lived in but still structured. everything in his place feels like that. modern decorations, muted colors, nothing unnecessary. you’re sprawled across it, back pressed into the armrest, one leg hooked loosely over his shoulder.

he’s between your legs, hands holding your thighs to keep you open. your fingers are tangled in his curls before you realize you’ve reached for him. “jack-” it slips out, breath catching halfway through his name.

he hums against your skin, low and satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s taking his time on purpose. he always does this. his thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin, and it’s enough to make something uncomfortable settle in your ribs.

you let your head fall back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut, chest rising too fast. “you’re-” you cut yourself off with a shaky breath, grip tightening in his hair.

he moans in response, not letting up. just keeps going until your voice breaks and your body follows, tension snapping all at once. your climax hits hard. you arch as a breathless sound falls from your lips. he stays between your legs, licking you entirely clean before coming up for air.

you’re still catching your breath when he shifts up beside you, one arm sliding around your waist, tugging you into him like it’s second nature. he wipes your slick off his mouth and chin with his arm, licking his lips clean. your cheek presses against his shoulder, his skin warm, steady.

his hand comes up to your arm, fingers brushing lightly over your skin, slow and absent. “have fun?” he murmurs, voice rough, softer than it is anywhere else.

you huff a quiet laugh, still a little dazed. “yeah.”

he hums, like he expected that answer. his thumb keeps moving against your arm. up, down. up, down. it’s stupid how that alone makes you feel woozy. “you want something to eat?” he asks, turning his head slightly toward you. “i’ve got-” he pauses, scratching his chin. “i don’t know. something. probably.”

you smile. “yeah, i-” your phone buzzes against the cushion beside you. you glance over without thinking, reaching for it. a name you haven’t seen in a while lights up the screen. your face softens instantly.

no way you’re still alive. drinks?

you let out a small laugh, the sound light and surprised. “oh my god.” you type back quickly, thumbs moving without much thought.

next to you, jack stills. every muscle in his body tenses. his throat bobs as he swallows. he tries not to care, but that sound—that giggle—is reserved for him. his hand slows against your arm before stopping completely. “what?” he asks, attempting to sound nonchalant:

you shake your head, still smiling at your phone. “nothing.” you don’t mean it like that. you really don’t.

his jaw tightens just slightly. “doesn’t look like nothing,” he rasps, memorizing the cracks in his wooden floors.

you shrug, setting your phone face down on the cushion. “just a friend i haven’t talked to in a while.”

“mm.” he doesn’t ask who, and it eats him alive. something green and fiery pits in his stomach.

you sit up slightly, pulling away just enough to reach for your jeans draped over the arm of the couch. “actually,” you clear your throat, trying to stay normal, “i might meet them out tonight.”

the words ring in his ears. his hand drops from your arm. “tonight?” he repeats.

you nod, sliding your phone into your pocket. “yeah. i haven’t seen them in forever.”

he watches you now. “thought you were staying,” his tone is flat. his mind is anything but. the mere thought of you meeting another person—possibly a man—for a drink has him seeing red.

you pull your shirt back on, smoothing it down like it gives you something to do. “i was, i just—this came up.”

he leans back slightly against the couch, arms resting along the back, posture more stiff than it was a second ago. “right.”

“it’s not a big thing,” you add quickly. “just drinks.”

“with…?” he trails off, like he doesn’t want to sound like he’s asking. his fingers drum against the leather of the couch. he wanted this.

you hesitate for half a second too long. “just friends,” you say again, not feeling like explaining.

he nods curtly. “got it.”

silence settles around you. you grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, suddenly very aware of the space between you now. how fast it showed up. he watches you pack up your things with no argument. his eyes follow your every movement like glue.

part of you wants him to fight. to tell you to stay. to tell you he needs you. when those phrases don’t come, you sigh. “i’ll see you tomorrow?” you offer, hovering near the edge of the couch.

“yeah,” he mutters, coughing lightly. “see you.” it’s the same tone he used this morning. like letting you go doesn’t cost him anything.

you linger anyway. just for a second. long enough that it almost means something. if he wanted to, he’d fill the space. maybe say your name, tell you to stay, give you anything to hold onto. but he doesn’t. you swallow, forcing a small smile as you turn toward the door.

you don’t look back this time. you know better now. for what feels like the first time, the crack in the canvas isn’t just something you imagine, it’s something he’s choosing not to fix.

~

the next time you step into the pitt, something is different. you’re smiling, and it’s not forced or fake. it’s real. you’re talking to princess, laughing at something stupid she says, coffee in hand, shoulders not as tight as they usually are at the start of a shift. you feel good. which is rare enough that you don’t question it too hard.

“you’re in a suspiciously good mood,” princess raises a brow, eyeing you with a grin.

you shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. “saw some old friends last night. i had fun.”

she snorts. “no way. taking time away from that casual relationship?” she lingers on the word casual, rolling her eyes.

“believe it.” you don’t elaborate. you don’t mention the drinks, the loud music, the way it felt to be something other than a resident for a few hours. to laugh with friends without checking the time. to not worry about him.

three feet away, jack notices everything. he got to work early just to see you walk in. his heart stutters as he watches you talk animatedly. you’re smiling—genuinely smiling. the sight sends goosebumps down his spine. you used to smile like that when you first started seeing him. how, he’s used to something more closed off.

he watches you longer than necessary before forcing himself to look at the labs on the screen. he lasts about ten seconds before looking at you again. you’re talking, explaining something to a med student, gesturing with your pen, that same easy smile still sitting on your mouth like it belongs there. it shouldn’t bother him, but it does.

the last twenty-four hours have felt…off. your texts came slower and often with shorter messages. he sent one this morning, sweet and teasing. he asked about your night (even if it made him clench his teeth at the thought). it took you three hours to respond, and all you sent back was good. no follow up. no teasing. no nothing.

he was the one to call it casual first. he meant it when he drew that line. so why does it feel like you’re the one pulling away now?

“abbott.” he looks up, blinking once.

robby’s watching him, eyebrow raised. “you good, man?”

“yeah,” jack says automatically.

robby glances past him, toward you, and then back again, something knowing flickering in his expression before he drops it. “right,” he sighs, slapping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “well i’ll see you in about twelve hours.” he salutes before walking off.

jack exhales through his nose, humming and sending him a wave goodbye. he drags a hand down the back of his neck before pushing off the counter. he steps into a case, then another, falling into work the way he always does. it should be enough to keep his head clear. it was working for most of the shift. that was until he heard your laugh.

it cuts across the department, soft and sweet. he looks up before he can stop himself. nick barker, head of radiology, stands too close in proximity to you. he’s leaning against the counter like he’s got nowhere else to be, one arm braced beside you, posture relaxed in. he’s practically melting into you.

“i’m just saying,” nick’s grinning, tone light, “if you’re gonna question my read, at least buy me dinner first. make it worth my time.”

you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “your reads are questionable on a good day, barker. i’m not rewarding that.”

“harsh,” he says, but he’s smiling wider now. “i like it.” his eyes drag slowly up and down your figure. jack’s molars grind.

you roll your eyes, clicking through the scan on your screen. “i’m sure you do.”

he leans in slightly, looking at the monitor, but it’s not the screen he’s focused on. it’s you. “so what’s the verdict, doc?” he asks, attempting a seductive tone. jack wants to see if he keeps that tone while he smashes his fist into-

breathe.

you tilt your head, studying the image. “small bleed. nothing crazy, but it’s there.”

“mm,” nick hums, still close. “good catch.” you glance up at him, and there’s that smile again.

jack feels something shift. his breathing labors. he looks away because he doesn’t like what that does to him. he doesn’t like that it bothers him at all. he agreed to this. no expectations. no exclusivity.

you laugh again, quieter this time, at something nick says under his breath. that gets him. he grips the closest counter to him, knuckles going white. it’s nothing. you’re just talking and being polite as usual. but when you barely looked at him all night. when your texts have gone quiet. when someone else is grabbing your attention—that’s when it feels like something else.

across the room, shen follows his line of sight and snorts under his breath. “yikes,” he mutters.

jack doesn’t respond. he just exhales slowly, forcing his attention back to work even though he imagines the sound of barker’s nose cracking under impact from his fist. he grips the counter harder to keep him from doing something beyond stupid.

he doesn’t get to feel this way—he reminds himself for the tenth time—not when he’s the one who made sure it stayed casual. yet, his eyes flick back to you. as much as he tries to keep it simple, nothing is ever simple when it comes to you.

~

the shift drags after that. the cases aren’t necessarily harder and the workload isn’t overwhelming. it’s the usual mix—some chest pain, a drunk guy with a busted eyebrow, a kid with a fever that has two terrified parents hovering like satellites. you mind your business, keep to yourself and try your best to get through the shift.

on the other hand, jack’s senses are heightened tenfold. he notices that you don’t linger near him at the desk anymore. that when you pass each other in the hallway, your shoulder doesn’t brush his the way it usually does. that you talk to everyone the same way you always have, but when it comes to him, you keep it strictly clinical.

“cbc and cultures,” you say at one point, handing him a chart without looking up.

he takes it. “already ordered.”

“good.” you murmur and that’s it. just work.

the distance sits in his chest like something heavy. when he thinks about it for too long, his eyes sting and his throat hurts from breathing harshly. and just to add onto it, nick barker keeps wandering back over. it’s not constantly. not enough that anyone could call it obvious. but it’s enough to have jack spiraling.

you still don’t flirt back, but you laugh and answer him a little too comfortably for jack’s liking. by the time the shift finally starts to wind down, the exhaustion has settled into his bones. twelve hours of adrenaline wearing off leaves him irritated.

the locker room is quiet when he walks in. most of the nightshift has clocked out already, leaving few lockers full. you’re already in there when he walks in. your back is to him, tugging your hoodie over your scrubs, hair falling out of your clip as you pull your bag from the bench. he just watches you. he does that a lot. it’s hard not to.

he exhales through his nose and drops his own bag onto the bench with more force than necessary. you glance over your shoulder. “long shift,” you say lightly, tone neutral.

“yeah,” he mutters. he starts shoving things into his bag, movements harsher than usual. the silence stretches for a moment. you zip yours closed, and that’s when he says it. “so what—was he the ‘friend’ you met out with last night?”

you freeze for half a second. you think you imagined the sudden outburst. slowly, you turn toward him. “…what?”

jack doesn’t look at you right away. he’s still digging through his locker. “barker,” he says flatly. “that who you were out with?”

your eyebrows pull together. “are you serious right now?” you scoff, crossing your arms.

he finally looks at you then. “just asking.”

you let out a small, incredulous laugh. this is classic coming from him. “you’re not asking. you’re accusing.”

“am i?” he shoots back, voice deepening. you swear steam is rushing out of his ears. his hair is tousled, probably from running his hands through it. his eyes are dark, like he didn’t get a wink of sleep. you haven’t seen whatever version of jack this is.

“yeah,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “you kind of are.”

he huffs, hands clenching by his sides. how can you not see it? how do you not understand his views? the thoughts only fuel his fire. “looked pretty cozy out there tonight.”

your eyes widen slightly. “cozy?” you sputter. “jack, what are-”

“laughing at everything he says,” jack interrupts with a growl. “letting him lean all over the counter-”

“oh my god,” you cut him off, disbelief bleeding into your voice. “are you actually jealous right now?”

the word hits something. his shoulders stiffen. “i’m not jealous.” he says quickly—too quickly.

“jack-”

“i’m just saying it looked a little-”

“no,” you shake your head before he can finish. “don’t do that. don’t pretend that’s not exactly what this is.” his mouth presses into a thin line. “you flirt with people all the time,” you continue, voice rising slightly. “patients, nurses, literally anyone who walks through the door.”

“that’s not-”

“it is,” you snap. “i’ve seen it.”

“i’m just being polite.” he mutters each word.

“and i’m not?” you raise a brow. “no one can be polite except for you?” you stifle a laugh. ridiculous.

“i’m not the one who went out with someone else last night.” he blinks rapidly, like he’s fighting emotion. his throat bobs after he says it.

silence fills the room. the overhead lights flicker under the tension. your eyes widen slightly, mouth falling slightly agape. “i was with my friends!” you’re quieter now. you don’t need volume to show how mad you are.

he doesn’t stop, just rolls his eyes. “doesn’t matter. you couldn’t even text me back, but you had time to go out drinking?”

“you don’t get to say that,” you fire back.

“why not?”

“because you’re the one who wanted this to be casual,” you say, the word coming out harsher than you mean it to. “remember?”

his chest rises slowly. “i never said you could-”

“no,” your voice cracks as you shake your head. “you just made it very clear there were no expectations.” the room feels smaller now. “so what,” you continue, voice quieter but cutting deeper, “now suddenly you care who i talk to?”

jack runs a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at the curls. “that’s not what i said.” his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

“it’s what you meant.”

“you’re twisting this.” he holds a hand over his mouth before dragging it down. his stubble scratches his hand.

“oh, am i?” you shoot back incredulously.

footsteps near the entrance of the room grow closer before you can finish. robby steps inside, mid sip from a coffee. he immediately stops when he sees…whatever this is. his eyes flick between the two of you. jack standing rigid near the lockers. you looking like you’re two seconds from throwing your bag at him. “…wow,” robby mutters, closing his eyes.

neither of you notice. or maybe you do, but you’re too upset to care. “you don’t get to be mad at me for moving on with my life,” you mutter.

“moving on?” jack repeats, huffing a chuckle.

“yes.”

“from what?”

you blink at him. “exactly,” you say quietly.

jack opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. his chest heaves with every breath he takes. “how dare-”

robby exhales loudly. “okay,” he sighs, stepping between you. “both of you get some air.” he claps his hands together like a mother separating two children. neither of you move. “seriously,” robby adds, voice firmer now. “this is a hospital, not couples therapy.”

jack scoffs while you shake your head. you sling your back over your other arm harshly. “forget it.” you mutter, pushing past them toward the door.

“hey-” jack starts, reaching for your wrist. his hand falls short of your arm and you don’t stop. your heavy footsteps echo through hospital as you leave.

that leaves just jack and robby in the room. robby slowly looks at jack. “…casual, huh?”

jack stares at the closed door with his jaw tight. “yeah,” he mutters through clenched teeth. the word sounds a lot less convincing now.

~

three days pass in stubborn silence. friday night ends with raised voices and slammed lockers. no one apologizes. no one reaches out. saturday passes. then sunday. both of you check your phones more than you’ll admit to. both of you type messages that never get sent. stubbornness wins every time.

monday night comes slower than it should. the pitt is alive when jack walks in, the department humming under the harsh fluorescent lights. patients complaining, nurses exchanging updates, the board already full curtesy of the day shift.

though, he notices it the second he steps through the doors. you’re not there. you’re almost always one of the first residents on shift. clad in your colorful undershirt, coffee in hand, already scanning the board. jack usually comes in a few minutes after with his bag slung over one shoulder, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. he likes the routine of walking in and spotting you.

now, as his eyes flick instinctively to the usual spots—the workstation, the trauma bay, and the corner where you tend to hover when reading a case over. nothing. his jaw tightens. it’s dumb, the way disappointment creeps in so fast. it shouldn’t matter whether you’re there yet or not. people run late. people get pulled into things. he tells himself that as he drops his bag into the locker and heads out toward the floor. still, he keeps looking.

ten minutes pass. then twenty. you still haven’t walked through the doors. he checks his watch too often, paces back and fourth between stable patients, and pinches the bridge of his nose enough times to bruise. he’s leaning over the counter, staring at the doors as if you’ll magically appear when lena cuts in.

“you’re early.” she hums, smacking gum in her mouth. he glances over his shoulder. lena’s setting her bag down at the desk, tying her hair back into a loose knot as she looks at him.

“could say the same to you,” he mutters.

she shrugs, pushing her bangs back. “early bird gets the worm.” the contents in her bag clack as she reaches for something. jack makes an absentminded noise of agreement, eyes drifting back toward the entrance again. her mouth twitches slightly as she follows his line of sight. “she’s not here, you know?”

his shoulders stiffen just enough to give him away. “who?” he feigns innocence.

lena gives him a look that says don’t be stupid. “your resident.” she narrows her eyes, tilting her head.

he exhales through his nose, turning back to the screen. he clicks into the login, flashing his badge like muscle memory. “i have multiple residents.”

“yeah,” she says dryly, “but you only stare at the door for one of them.” she huffs a laugh. jack doesn’t respond. lena scans the board, tapping a pen against the desk. “she took a couple days.”

that gets his attention. he turns fully now. “what?”

“oh, now you know who i’m talking about,” she tsks with smug grin. he scoffs in response. “called out,” lena continues. “sunday morning, actually. said she needed a few days. scheduled off tomorrow too.”

jack blinks once, trying to shuffle the words together to make sense. “she sick?” he asks.

lena shrugs. “didn’t sound like it.”

his stomach sinks. the events of friday night flood his mind. the way you stormed out before anyone could stop you. how tired and angry you sounded. the slight crack in your voice at the end of the argument. he drags a hand down the back of his neck, feeling a dull weight settle in his chest. he hears his own words again—jealous, and so, so stupid.

was he the friend you met out with?

the look of hurt that flashed across your face, and how that hurt turned into anger quickly.

lena’s watching him now, quiet for once. “you two okay?” she asks.

jack looks away immediately. “fine.”

she doesn’t believe that for a second. she nods slowly, “right,” she raises her brows.

he nods once, already turning back toward the computer like the conversation’s over, but the screen blurs in front of him. two days. you took two days.

way to screw that up.

~

across the city, monday night looks very different. your apartment is quiet. the curtains are half drawn, thin streaks of the sun set slipping through the gaps and stretching across the floor. you haven’t moved much since yesterday…or the day before that.

your phone sits face down on the nightstand. you told yourself you wouldn’t check it again. you checked anyway. the outcome was the same as before—nada. no messages. no calls. no apologies. you would rather him reach out to argue more than to just ghost you.

you stare at the ceiling, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes swollen and raw from crying so much your body eventually just ran out of tears. you feel ridiculous. you’re a doctor. a grown woman. someone who handles trauma cases and dying patients without falling apart. yet, somehow this relationship (if you can even call it that) wrecked you.

your throat tightens again. “god,” you whisper hoarsely, dragging your hands down your face. the argument replays in your head whether you want it to or not. the jealousy. the accusations. you swallow hard, staring at the wall. “you knew what this was,” you mutter to yourself, but the words don’t help.

you didn’t mean to fall for him. you didn’t mean to care this much. now you feel stupid for every second you let yourself believe he might care the same way. you turn onto your side, curling tighter into the blankets.

outside, the city keeps moving, while you stay stuck. what’s worse is that jack has no idea you’re lying there, crying into your pillow, wondering if you just ruined the best thing you’ve ever had.

~

the next morning, your body wakes up before your brain does and for a few blissful seconds you forget everything. that’s until the ache in your chest reminds you. you groan softly, shifting under the blanket. the couch cushion beneath you dips awkwardly, and it takes a second for your brain to remember why you’re here instead of your bed.

last night you finally got up after spending most of the day rotting in your room. you brushed your hair, washed your face, and tried to feel like a functioning adult again. it lasted maybe twenty minutes before the tears came back. so you grabbed a pint of ice cream, curled up on the couch, and put on the stupidest, sappiest rom coms you could find. you cried through three of them before exhaustion eventually dragged you under.

now the tv is still on, volume low, playing the end credits of something you don’t remember finishing. an empty ice cream container sits crooked on the coffee table beside a crumpled napkin. your face feels puffy. your throat still burns faintly from crying. you stare at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle over you. you would’ve stayed there forever had you not heard the knocks.

knock knock.

your brain doesn’t fully register it at first. maybe it’s a neighbor. maybe you imagined it. you sit up slowly, blanket sliding down your lap.

knock knock.

this time it’s louder. yup, definitely real. you frown, glancing toward the door. nobody ever comes here unannounced. something deep in your body clenches. you push yourself up off the couch, wincing as your stiff neck protests. your bare feet pad quietly across the floor.

knock.

“geez, learn some fuckin’ patience,” you groan under your breath, reaching for the door, and peaking in the peephole, heart dropping straight into your stomach.

jack stands in the hallway still in his scrubs. his hair is more disheveled than usual, curls flattened slightly on one side. faint shadows sit under his eyes, the kind that only show up after a long shift. in one hand he’s holding a coffee carrier. in the other, he’s holding flowers with a small box of chocolates tucked awkwardly under his arm.

you stare at the door like it might bite you. your pulse starts racing.

“i know you’re home,” his voice calls through the door, tired but unmistakably his. “your car’s outside.”

you close your eyes for half a second. your hand hovers over the lock. part of you wants to pretend you’re not here. the other, bigger part is already turning the handle. the door creaks open slowly.

jack looks up immediately, his shoulders dropping slightly. “hey,” he says softly. you don’t respond, just blink. you probably look like a disaster with tangled hair, swollen eyes, and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. jack takes you in quietly. “so,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the flowers, the coffee, and the chocolate box. “i brought options.” his mouth pulls into a small, sheepish smile. “figured i’d give you a variety of things to throw at me.”

for a second, you just stare at him. jack abbot—veteran, doctor, and professional pain in your ass—standing in your hallway holding flowers like a nervous teenager. you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folding loosely over your chest. your voice comes out rough from sleep and crying. “you’re persistent.”

he lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like that’s the closest thing to a victory he’s getting right now. “occupational hazard.”

the hallway light flickers softly overhead. neither of you moves. up close, he looks worse than you expected. the dark circles under his eyes are deeper than they should be. there’s stubble along his jaw he probably didn’t bother shaving after his shift. his shoulders sag slightly under the weight of the shift.

“you just get off work?” you ask.

“yeah.” he nods, rocking back and fourth.

“and instead of going home…you came here…?”

“yeah.” he nods once again.

you tilt your head slightly, unimpressed. “bold strategy.”

“desperation, actually,” a chuckle slips out before he can stop it. the smell of coffee drifts up from the carrier in his hand and your stomach twists. you didn’t eat anything besides ice cream yesterday. jack notices your eyes flicker to it. “one’s black,” he says gently. “one’s that…caramel thing you get. i don’t know the exact name because the menu looks like it was written by a wizard.” your mouth twitches despite yourself. he holds the flowers up a little awkwardly. “and these were the least offensive ones they had at the hospital gift shop.”

“high praise.”

“it was between these or balloons that say get well soon.”

you sigh, rubbing your forehead. that familiar ache presses behind your ribs. “jack…”

his expression shifts immediately. the joking drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “yeah?” he braces for impact.

you step aside. “come in.”

he hesitates for half a second—he’s surprised you didn’t slam the door in his face—before stepping into the apartment. the door shuts behind him with a soft click. the place looks exactly how it felt last night. blankets on the couch. empty ice cream container. credits still rolling silently on the tv.

jack takes it in without comment. he sets the coffee and chocolates on the table, then places the flowers down carefully beside them. you hover near the couch, arms folded again. neither of you speaks.

finally, jack exhales slowly and rubs the back of his neck. “so,” he mutters. “this is the part where i try not to screw this up worse.”

you lean against the arm of the couch. “good luck with that.”

he huffs quietly. “yeah, fair.” he inhales deeply, looking up at the ceiling, before exhaling and looking at you properly. “you look like hell,” he states bluntly.

you glare. “thank you.”

“meant it affectionately.”

“i’m touched.” sarcasm drips from tone.

a ghost of a smile crosses his mouth, but it fades quickly. “look,” he says, “i’m just gonna say it straight because historically when i try to be subtle everything explodes.” he taps his fingers against his wrinkled scrubs. “the thing i said to robby,” you swallow immediately. “the casual thing,” he squeezes his eyes shut. “was a reflex.” your gaze sharpens. jack’s gaze drops to the floor before coming back to you. “he caught me off guard,” he sighs, “came outta nowhere. started asking what we were.”

“and your instinct was to say casual?” you retort. the word tastes bitter in your mouth.

“yeah,” he admits even though he’s shaking his head.

“why?” you ask.

jack opens his mouth…then closes it again. a muscle in his jaw twitches. you wait. “because i panicked.”

your forehead creases. “jack-”

“i didn’t know what the hell to say,” he says, throwing his hands up. “and before i could think, the word just came out.” you stare at him. “and when you went along with it…” his mouth tightens. “i figured that was what you wanted.”

your brows knit together. “you thought i wanted it to be casual?”

“well you didn’t exactly argue.”

“i was standing in front of my two bosses.”

“yeah,” he mutters. “realized that about ten minutes later.”

you drag a hand down your face. “i thought you meant it.”

he laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “trust me, baby, if i meant it i wouldn’t be standing in your apartment right now holding flowers like an idiot.”

your heart gives an annoying little flip. you try to ignore it. “then why didn’t you say anything after?” your voice is sheepish.

he goes quiet again. his gaze drifts toward the window, like he’s watching something only he can see. when he finally speaks, his voice is lower. “because opening your mouth about stuff that matters,” he licks his lips. “is how you lose it.” jack rubs a hand across his jaw. “i’ve done this before,” he admits. “the whole loving someone thing.” he doesn’t look at you as he continues. “had a wife,” he lingers on the word. “she was…everything.”

you knew that vaguely. pieces of the story everyone in the hospital knows but never says out loud. hearing him say it like this feels raw.

“and then one day she wasn’t there anymore.” his throat works once. “you learn real quick after that,” he stutters, “that the universe has a pretty sick sense of humor.” he finally looks at you again. “so yeah,” he concedes. “i keep things,” he squints, racking his brain for the right word, “light.”

the room is quiet now. you’re processing and…well, processing some more. the early morning sun shines harshly through your windows. gour faucet drips repeatedly. “jack…” you murmur.

he stop you before you can continue. he has to say it now or he won’t ever. “because if you don’t say the important parts out loud,” he finishes, “then when it all disappears you can pretend it didn’t mean as much.”

your heart twists painfully. you step a little closer without realizing it. “that’s what you thought this was?”

“no,” he says immediately. he shakes his head. “that’s the problem.” his gaze flickers over your face. he memorizes your eyes, your mouth, the messy hair falling over your shoulder. “this stopped being casual for me a long time ago,” he admits quietly.

your breath catches. you take a step back. “then why-”

“because you’re younger than me.” your eyes widen. you rest a hand on your coffee table to stable yourself. he huffs out a small breath. “by a lot.” he looks to the side. “and i kept thinking,” his voice is tight, “one day you’re gonna walk into some bar and meet some guy your age who doesn’t have an endless supply of baggage.” you stare at him. “and he’s gonna look at you the way guys your age look at women like you.” the veins in his arms tighten at the thought. “and you’re gonna realize dating the grumpy middle-aged doctor was just a phase.”

you can barely breathe now. the room goes completely still. you stare at him. the tired lines in his face. the guarded way he’s standing like he’s bracing for something he fears. “jack,” your voice is like candy. he lifts his eyes. “i thought you didn’t want more.”

he frowns slightly. “why would you think that?”

you let out a small, incredulous laugh. “because you were the one leaving first,” you shrug. “drawing boundaries.”

“well-”

“and,” you continue, “we never talked about what we are.” he goes still. “and i thought that meant we were nothing.”

his expression shifts immediately. “hey,” he coos.

you shrug helplessly. “so i went along with it,” you admit. “because i figured if that’s all you wanted, i wasn’t gonna beg you to care.”

“god,” he mutters. it feels like a spear is lodged in his chest.

your arms drop to your sides. “i liked what we had,” you murmur. “but it never felt casual to me.” you blink back tears. “not once.”

jack steps forward instinctively. “so let me get this straight,” he recounts. “you thought i didn’t want more?” you nod once. “and i thought you didn’t want more?” you nod again. he exhales. “that might be the dumbest standoff in human history.”

a reluctant laugh slips out of you. he smiles faintly. the tension in the room loosens just a little. jack stops a step away from you now. “for the record,” he whispers, “i’m pretty sure i’m in way too deep for casual.”

warmth crawls up your neck and plants itself on your cheeks. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

you tilt your head slightly. “took you long enough to say it.”

his mouth quirks. “cut me some slack. emotional honesty isn’t exactly my strongest skill.”

you study him for a moment. “are you still scared i’m gonna run off with some guy my age?”

jack doesn’t flinch. “probably.”

you roll your eyes gently. “jack.” you’re not joking now.

he shrugs. “i’m working on it.”

you shake your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth now. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’ve been told.”

the weight that sat between you yesterday feels lighter now. it’s not gone—that will take some time—but the cracked pieces are starting to fuse back together.

jack glances toward the flowers on the table. “so,” he says. “are you gonna forgive me or do i need to start groveling more dramatically.”

you consider it. “the flowers help.”

“damn right they do.”

“the coffee helps more.”

“excellent choice on my part.”

you step closer, your shoulders brushing together. jack’s voice drops a little. “we okay?”

you look at him through your lashes. “yeah,” you say quietly.

[clarkkentluvr]

pls pls pls write something for clark kent / superman where reader finds out lois lane knew about clark being superman before she did. except she takes it in the way that clark trust lois more than her despite being in a relationship with him || maybe even thinks he’s cheating on her with lois

a lot of angst PLEASE but with a happy ending

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗑 fem!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 5.8𝗄

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌!

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝗁𝗂 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍!! 𝗂 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗄 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 lolll. 𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒, 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 :)

Is it better to speak or to die?

In this moment, both felt like the most appropriate option.

You had no idea when or how but a seed of doubt had taken root in the center of your relationship with the love of your life, Clark Kent.

None of it made sense at all, but it was true because seemingly out of nowhere you were no longer on the same wavelength as him.

You thought back to the beginning of your relationship, when you met almost a year ago.

He worked in the building next door, the Daily Planet, a reporter. Cute, you remembered thinking.

You worked in a little espresso and book nook. It was your sanctuary, a tiny, warm-lit shop that smelled of roasted coffee beans and old paper.

The first time you saw him, he was a study in adorable clumsiness. The doorbell jingled and in he walked, all broad shoulders and nervous energy, his glasses slightly askew. He’d been so focused on the notepad in his hand that he’d walked straight into the low-hanging antique sign that read ‘Mind Your Head.’

Thwack!

You’d winced in sympathy from behind the counter. “Oh my! Are you okay?”

He’d blinked, dazed, a hand flying to his forehead. A deep, delicious blush spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he met your worried gaze. 

“Golly, I’m sorry about that, really I didn’t see that there.” 

His voice was warm, a little shy, and it did something funny to your stomach. And he was apologizing for getting hurt, that was a first.

You smiled, “It’s fine, it happens all the time. A hazard of the job, I’m afraid. We like to keep our customers on their toes.”

You started to quickly make a makeshift ice pack for him, doing it so efficiently seeing as it had happened more times then you could count. You slid it over to him and he grinned lopsidedly as he took it and placed it on his forehead, despite not really needing it.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” You checked again, since you never really got an answer the first time.

“Yes- you’re fine. I mean I’m fine.” you raised an amused brow, and he suddenly thought that maybe it sounded like he was insulting you. “You’re fine too, really uh great.” he trailed off sheepishly.

“Thanks,” you mumbled shyly, starting to blush despite yourself, “Can I get you anything? On the house since you got hurt.”

“Oh you really don’t have to do that. I don’t mind really.”

You just waited expectantly with a pointed look not taking no for an answer.

Seeing this, Clark caved, dropping his shoulders that didn’t quite fill out his too large suit and spoke, “I’ll just take a coffee. Extra sugar.”

“Ok, one large extra sweet coffee coming right up.”

Clark smiled and sat at an open seat as you made his coffee. He took in the small but homely place, surprised he didn’t try this place out sooner since it was right next door to his job. 

Despite himself, Clark’s eyes kept flickering towards you though as you flitted around and when you turned back around with the coffee in hand smiling, he got up and made his way back to the counter.

“Here you go, sorry again for the whole sign thing.”

“Don’t worry about it really.” Clark paused, and he suddenly got the overwhelming urge to hold out his hand and introduce himself to you, “Clark Kent,” he said that day, “Daily Planet. Next door.”

“I know,” you’d responded, and then immediately felt your own face heat up. “I mean, your press pass. It’s… visible.”

He looked down at the lanyard he always forgot to take off, his blush deepening. “Right. Of course.”

That was it. A five-minute interaction. 

But he came back the next day. And the day after that. Not for the coffee, he admitted later once you started officially dating, but for the barista who blushed as much as he did.

Your first official date was a disaster in the best way. 

He’d taken you to a county fair, and you’d challenged him to a game of ring toss. He was impossibly, hilariously bad at it, his throws either comically weak or shockingly strong, sending the rings flying over the booth entirely. You’d laughed until your sides ached, and when you finally won a tiny, stuffed bear with one graceful flick of your wrist, he’d looked at you with such unabashed admiration you thought you might melt into the sawdust-covered ground.

“I’m clearly out of my league here,” he’d murmured, his hand finding yours as you walked past the Ferris wheel.

The first time he’d said “I love you” was under the muted glow of your apartment’s fairy lights that he took upon himself to hang for you. It had slipped out, quiet and sure, as he’d watched you absently hum along to a song on the radio while washing dishes. 

You’d gone still, your hands submerged in soapy water, and turned to look at him. There was no grand gesture, which you appreciated deeply. Just Clark, on your sofa, looking at you like you’d hung every star he’d ever flown past.

“I love you, too,” you’d whispered back, and it was the easiest truth you’d ever spoken.

He was your Clark. Clumsy, kind, endlessly patient Clark, who burned toast and wore mismatched socks and whose heart was so big it sometimes seemed to physically pain him when he saw suffering on the news. He was your home.

But that Clark felt like a memory now. 

The man sitting across from you at your kitchen table, his dinner growing colder by the second, was a stranger. His smiles were strained, his eyes distant. 

He’d been late more times than you could count and sometimes downright MIA even more times then that, his excuses flimsy and always delivered with a strange evasiveness.

It was something you were able to ignore in the beginning of the relationship, as the two of you still got to know one another. But you live together now. You were in love. You’ve done practically everything together.

What was the need for secrecy?

Weren’t you passed that?

A darkness came over you as you realized that you really had no idea. A pit started to form in your stomach at the alternative thought. No, you thought, Clark would never, he’s a faithful man.

But was he? Because now as he made an excuse for the thousandth time to leave dinner, you didn’t have the heart to even argue back with him this time.

The seed of doubt had blossomed into a thorny vine, choking the air from your relationship and you knew, with a cold, sick certainty, that he was hiding something. Something big.

The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, as he waited for your response, your permission to allow him to leave. Sometimes you don't know why he even bothered, he was going to leave anyway.

You studied his profile but said nothing, the way his jaw was clenched tight, the way he couldn’t quite meet your gaze. The love of your life was slipping through your fingers, and you had no idea why.

“Perry needs me to run down a lead on the Westside,” he said, the words practiced, hollow. “It… it can’t wait. I’m so sorry, honey.”

Honey. 

The endearment felt like a shard of glass in your heart. You just nodded slowly, your eyes fixed on the congealing gravy on your plate. “Okay.”

He looked almost disappointed by your lack of fight. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Promises. They were just words now. Empty calories. You simply nodded again, the motion robotic.

He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, but you subtly turned your head, and his lips grazed your hair instead. He froze for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something—pain? guilt?—in his eyes before the shutters came down again.

“I love you,” he said, his voice thick.

The words felt like a taunt. You couldn’t say them back right now. The lie would have choked you. You just watched him grab his coat and leave, the click of the door echoing in the silent apartment like a gunshot.

The moment he was gone, the air rushed out of you in a ragged sob. You buried your face in your hands, the weight of your paranoia crushing your chest. 

You were going insane. You had to be. This was Clark. Your Clark. The man who cried during sappy movies and helped little old ladies carry their groceries.

But the evidence was building bigger and bigger right before your eyes. 

If only you knew that you’re breaking point would come just three days later. 

You’d gone to the Daily Planet to surprise Clark with lunch. You entered the building pretty inconspicuously, those who knew you offering you a quiet greeting. Just as you reached the bullpen however, you stopped abruptly. 

Clark was at his desk, swiveled around in his chair, but that wasn’t the problem. It was her. Lois Lane who stood awfully close to him with a soft hand on his shoulder. She was leaning down to be closer to his ear, as she whispered something that Clark seemingly found really funny.

Not a problem, right, just two close coworkers you gulped, hoping to convince yourself you weren’t seeing what you thought you were.

And then Clark spoke, and though you couldn’t hear the words, you saw the shape they made on his lips: “I just don’t know how to tell her.”

Your blood had turned to ice. Her. You knew, with every fiber of your being, that her was you.

Lois had nodded, her expression one of understanding and sympathy. 

You’d backed away, your lunch meant to be shared suddenly feeling like a lead weight in your hands, and fled before anyone else could see you.

You stumbled home, the city blurring around you. The walls of your shared apartment felt like they were closing in. You made it to the bathroom just in time, sinking to your knees as your stomach revolted, heaving up nothing but acid and anguish. The cool tile against your forehead was a small mercy against the feverish heat of your heartbreak.

You hated this. You hated the jealous, paranoid person you were becoming. You hated the constant knot of anxiety in your stomach. 

But most of all, you hated the chilling clarity that was now staring you in the face. It wasn't just a feeling anymore. It was a truth you'd seen with your very own eyes.

You pulled yourself together, piece by shattered piece, scrubbing your face with cold water until the redness around your eyes was less obvious. You were just putting the abandoned, now-cold lunch in the refrigerator when you heard the key in the lock.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, thinking about how you could approach the subject. You wanted to yell at him and demand answers, and pray that what you saw was just a big misunderstanding, but another part of you just wanted to curl up in bed and rot heartbroken forever. 

Sigh, is it better to speak or to die?

Clark walked in, a tired but genuine smile on his face. “Hey, you.” He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling you into his arms and pressing a warm, familiar kiss to your lips.

You froze for a fraction of a second before forcing yourself to respond, the kiss feeling like a betrayal of your own crumbling sanity. It was stiff, unyielding.

He noticed immediately. Of course he did. He pulled back, his smile fading as his eyes searched your face, taking in the puffy eyes you couldn't fully hide, the tension in your jaw.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft with concern, his thumb brushing your cheek. The gentleness of it almost broke you.

You took a shaky breath.

His brow furrowed speaking before you had the chance to. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Yeah, Clark. Something happened.” You stepped out of his embrace, needing space to breathe, to think. “I stopped by the Planet today. To bring you lunch.”

The color drained from his face, because something must’ve happened on the way to him, seeing as you never made it to give him lunch.

“I saw you,” you continued, your voice trembling. “With Lois. You looked… very cozy.”

His expression shifted from concern to defensive panic. “Honey, it’s not what you’re thinking. Lois is just my friend, my work partner. We were just talking about a story.”

“A story?” you let out a bitter, broken laugh catching him in the obvious lie. “What story requires her to whisper in your ear and touch you like that? What story has you saying ‘I don’t know how to tell her’?” You threw his own words back at him, watching him flinch. 

“Who is ‘her,’ Clark? Am I the ‘her’? What is it you can’t tell me that you can so easily discuss with her?”

“I am not cheating on you with Lois,” Clark said, his voice firm, desperate. “I would never do that to you. You have to believe me.”

“Then what is it?” you pressed, tears welling up again. “What is the big secret? Because something is going on! You’re gone all the time, you’re distant, you have whispered conversations you think I can’t hear! And she knows! I saw it on her face! She knows whatever it is that you’re hiding from me! So just tell me! What does Lois Lane know about my boyfriend that I don’t? And don’t you dare lie to me right now.”

The plea was raw, ripped from the deepest, most vulnerable part of you. You were begging him to prove you wrong, to shatter this nightmare.

Clark looked torn apart. His eyes were wide with a mixture of love and sheer terror. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He was physically wrestling with the words, and losing. “I… I can’t,” he finally whispered, agony in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s… it’s not safe.”

The admission was a knife to the heart. You scoffed, the sound wet with unshed tears. “You can’t tell me. But it’s safe for her?” The pieces were clicking into a devastating picture. “So there really is something. And she’s in on it. And I’m… what? Not trustworthy? Too fragile to handle it?”

Your insecurities, fed by weeks of doubt, roared to the surface. “What is it then? Is she better at it than me? Is that it? Smarter? More exciting? Does she not ask questions when you run off in the middle of the night?”

Just then, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up. A text message preview from Lois.

Lois: Did you tell her yet?

The timing was so cosmically cruel it was almost funny.

You stared at him as he reached for his phone, your expression one of utter devastation. “Let me guess. Lois?”

Clark flinched, scrambling for the phone. “No—I mean, yes, but it’s not—she’s just asking about you.”

“Oh, wonderful!” you cried, your voice rising hysterically. “So you do discuss me! In between whatever other secrets you share, you give her updates on your clueless girlfriend! ‘No, Lois, not yet, she’s still blissfully ignorant!’”

Suddenly, Clark stiffened. His head tilted slightly, a familiar, distant look entering his eyes. The sound of distant screams, of crashing concrete, of terror, inaudible to you, flooded his super-hearing. 

Metropolis needed Superman. But you needed Clark. He was torn.

His face fell. “Honey, I… I have to go.”

The absurdity of it shattered the last of your composure. 

“Really, Clark?” you spat, the words dripping with venomous disbelief. “Right now? You’re going to run away from this? Of course you are. Go on. I’m sure Lois needs you more than I do right now.”

The words were designed to wound, and they hit their mark even if they weren’t true. He looked at you, his heart breaking in his eyes, wanting nothing more than to stay and fix this. But the screams in his ears were a siren’s call of duty he could never ignore.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the apology a tortured breath. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just… Please trust me.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the silent, suffocating apartment.

You stood there for a full minute, numb. Then, a broken sound escaped you, and you stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed you shared. 

Sobs wracked your body, great, heaving cries that felt like they would tear you in two. You cried for the trust that was clearly broken, for the love that felt like a lie, and for the agonizing, inescapable truth: the man you loved was keeping a world-shattering secret with another woman, and he had just chosen that secret over you.

When Clark finally returned, it was later in the evening. 

He was hoping that you would still be awake so you could finish the conversation, but the apartment was quiet apart from your soft breathing indicating that you were asleep.

Clark slowly creaked the bedroom door open and saw you were on top of the covers, still in your clothes sleeping on a wet, tear-stained pillow.

Clark’s heart dropped even more. It was all just a big misunderstanding that had spiraled out of proportion. He needed to fix this, and soon, before he loses you forever.

But the next few days after that you had done everything in your power to avoid him. You didn’t want to speak anymore, you just wanted to die.

The apartment became a minefield of silence. You slept on the bed, Clark claimed the couch only agreeing because he wanted to give you your space. You left for work before he woke and came home after you were sure he’d be out. Meals were eaten separately, the clinking of cutlery the only sound in the heavy quiet. When he tried to speak, you’d shut him down with a terse, “I’m not ready,” or simply walk into another room.

Your heart was a raw, open wound, and every look from him, every hesitant attempt to bridge the gap, felt like salt being ground into it. 

Against your will the image of him and Lois, their heads bent together in shared confidence, was burned onto the back of your eyelids.

The worst part was the logic that tried to break through the pain: Clark wouldn’t cheat. He said that himself. He’s not that man. But the secrecy. The intimacy with Lois. His refusal to explain. That’s what hurt.

He was still trying, in his own clumsy way. He left a single red tulip—your favorite—on the coffee table. He made your morning coffee just how you liked it, leaving it in the thermos for you to find. He’d look at you with those soulful, pleading eyes, full of a love that seemed so real it made the betrayal hurt even more.

“Please, honey,” he begged one morning, finally cornering you by the door as you tried to leave. “Just talk to me. Let me explain. It’s really not what you think.”

“Then what is it, Clark?” you asked, your voice flat, devoid of the fire from before. You were just so tired. “Unless you’re ready to tell me the actual truth, the whole truth, we have nothing to talk about. Your ‘explanations’ are just more lies wrapped in pretty apologies.”

He looked utterly helpless, his shoulders slumping. “I’m trying to protect you.”

A hollow laugh escaped you. “You’re protecting yourself. And you’re protecting her.” You shouldered your bag and left, leaving him standing there.

The chasm between you grew wider. You felt yourself shutting down, building walls around your heart to survive the constant ache. You were mourning the relationship while still living in its corpse.

It was on the fourth day of this frozen war that you decided you couldn’t live like this anymore. You needed to know, one way or another. The not-knowing was a special kind of hell. 

If he wouldn’t give you the truth, you would find it yourself. You could be an investigative journalist too. Besides, you were past asking for permission, past respecting boundaries that he had already shattered.

So, you waited until you knew he was at work.

With a resolve that felt like walking to your own execution, you searched the entire place. You started with his desk—drawers of pens, notepads, mundane reporter things. Nothing.

You moved to the filing cabinet, finding old tax returns and article drafts. Your hands were shaking, guilt warring with desperation. You moved to the bedroom, checked under the bed, by the nightstand. Nothing.

And then you saw it.

Tucked in the very back of his closet, behind his collection of identical plaid shirts. It was out of place, something red and blue peeking out. 

You gently pulled it out, unfolded it and paused.

It was a suit. But not any suit. A fabric unlike anything you’d ever felt, a brilliant, alien blue, with a familiar, unmistakable crest emblazoned on the chest. The S-shield.  

The symbol of Superman.

Your mind short-circuited. It rejected the information outright. This was a costume. A joke. A… a prop for a story?

But then your eyes fell on the boots beside it also poorly hidden, heavy, red, and undeniably real. And on a small shelf, tucked away in the back, a pair of old cracked lenses rested beside a small, lead-lined box.

The world tilted on its axis. The floor fell away. You gripped the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

The missed dates. The disappearances. The impossible strength. The whispered conversations. 

Oh, God.

It wasn’t cheating.

It was this.

Relief, white-hot and dizzying, washed over you for one single, blissful second. He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t lying about that.

And then the second wave hit, a tsunami of a far more profound and devastating betrayal.

Superman.

Clark was Superman.

The man you loved, the man you slept beside, the man you thought you knew better than anyone on this earth, was an alien hero. And he had never told you.

But he had told someone else.

The thought slithered into your mind, cold and venomous.

Lois knows.

You saw it all again, the scene in the bullpen with horrifying new clarity. Clark’s anguish wasn’t about an affair. It was about this. About his secret. 

And Lois Lane was comforting him about you. She was advising him on how to break the news to his poor, fragile, human girlfriend. She was in on it. She had been, all along.

How long? How long had she known? Since before you? During?

The relief curdled into something black and poisonous. This was worse. So much worse. An affair would have been a betrayal of your heart. This was a betrayal of your entire reality, of the very foundation of your trust. 

He had given the truth of himself to her and hidden it from you. He trusted Lois Lane with his universe, and he trusted you with… what? A carefully constructed fiction? A lie he came home to?

You heard the key in the lock. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You stood there, in the doorway of his closet, holding the blue suit in your trembling hands, the brilliant S-shield staring back at you.

“You…” you whispered when he finally stopped in front of you, your voice a broken thing. “You’re… him.”

He took a step forward, his hand outstretched, his eyes wide with panic. “Oh gosh, I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Clark starts taking in the room that was clearly searched.

“Please let me explain everything…”

“Explain?” The word was a laugh, a hollow, ugly sound. “Explain what, Clark? How you’re literally Superman? Or how about you explain why Lois Lane knew before I did?”

He flinched as if you’d struck him. “What? Lois… it’s not what you think, we’ve been over this.”

“Isn’t it?” you countered back, the sound tearing from your raw throat. You threw the suit at him. It fluttered to the ground between you, a banner of his deceit.

“How long has she known? Before me, right? Was I your little experiment in normalcy? Your pet human while she got to know the real you? The super you? Do you trust her more than me?”

“No! God, no!” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “It’s not like that! I was going to tell you, I swear! I just… I needed to find the right time. I was scared—”

“You were scared?” you interrupted, tears streaming down your face now, hot and furious. “You’re S-Superman! What could you possibly be scared of?”

“Of this!” he cried, his own eyes glistening. “Of losing you! Of seeing the look on your face that’s there right now! Of you being afraid of me!”

“You don’t get to say that!” you spat, advancing on him. “You don’t get to use your fear as an excuse! You’ve been lying to me every single day for almost a year! You looked me in the eye and you lied! And she knew! She knew every time you kissed me goodnight, every time you told me you loved me, every time you held me while you were living this… this double life! Did you two laugh about it? Did you tell her how convincing your clumsy farm boy act was?”

The words were vile, born of a pain so deep it had turned septic. You wanted to hurt him. You wanted to crack the invulnerable shell he hid behind and make him feel a fraction of the agony you were feeling.

He looked utterly devastated. “How can you say that? I love you! Everything I feel for you is real! Lois… she found out on her own. It was during a story, it was dangerous, it just happened. It wasn’t a choice!”

“But it was!” you shouted. “Every day after that was a choice! You chose to keep her in your confidence! And you chose, every single second of every single day, to look at me and lie! You chose her to be your partner in this! Not me! Never me!”

You were sobbing openly now, your body shaking uncontrollably. “I thought you were cheating. For so long, I’ve been going out of my mind thinking you were with Lois. But this… this is so much worse. You gave her your truth. You trust her with your life, with your secret. And you trust me with nothing. I’m just the girl you come home to when you’re done saving the world. I’m your… your cover story.”

“That is not true,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He took another step, but you recoiled as if his touch would burn you.

“Don’t,” you choked out. “Don’t you dare come near me.”

The pain that crossed his face was absolute. It was the look of a man watching his entire world crumble to dust. And a small, broken part of you, the part that still loved him, recognized that his anguish was real. But it was too late. 

“Go away,” you said, your voice suddenly quiet, drained of all emotion.

“Honey, please… we need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you stated, staring at a point on the wall behind him. “You made your choices. Now get out. Go to her. I’m sure she’ll know exactly what to say to make you feel better, Superman.”

He stood there for a long moment, a statue of grief and regret. You could see the war in his eyes, the desire to stay and fix the unfixable, warring with the respect for your wishes.

Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat and he walked out the apartment. The Man of Steel, brought to his knees not by kryptonite, but by the devastating consequences of his own secret.

You stood alone in the silence, surrounded by the artifacts of your broken life. The fairy lights he’d hung for you twinkled mockingly. The tiny stuffed bear from the fair sat on the shelf, its beady eyes oblivious to the cataclysm.

You had your answer. You had chosen to speak, and in doing so, you had killed everything anyway.

━━━━━━━

After kicking Clark out of your shared apartment, you had expected him to return. You were just hoping that when he did you would have processed everything a bit more than you have right now.

He came in late, probably flying around to clear his head, you thought now. Still such a weird thought to get used to. 

He sat down next to you on the couch but kept a distance, close enough where you still feel his large presence looming over you but far enough that no part of your bodies touched.

You spoke first.

“You came back,” you said, your voice flat.

“I will always come back to you,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion. “Always.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was different. The lies were out. The secret was exposed. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“Honey, I really am sorry.” Clark began.

“Lois found out two years ago,” he began, his voice quiet, forcing the words out. “A story we were working on… it got dangerous. I had to… intervene. She’s one of the best investigative reporters on the planet. She pieced it together. I didn’t choose her over you. The circumstances chose for me.”

He turned towards you, rising from the couch and standing in front of you now.

“Telling someone… it’s the most terrifying thing I can do. Every time, I risk everything. My life, their life, my parents' lives. With you… it was different. The thought of you looking at me like I’m a monster, or worse, a target… it paralyzed me. I kept waiting for the perfect moment that would never come because I was too much of a coward to create it.”

He sank to his knees on the floor before you. He looked up at you, utterly vulnerable, blue eyes watering. “I was wrong. So wrong. I thought I was building a wall to protect you, but I was just building a wall between us. I trust you with my life, honey. I trust you with my heart. I just… I forgot to trust you with the truth.”

Tears were streaming down his face now, tracing paths through the dust on his cheeks. He reached for your hands, and you let him, mainly because he was literally on his knees apologizing for you and the sight was pathetic (hot).

“The reason I was talking to Lois… the reason I said I didn’t know how to tell you… it was because I had finally decided to do it. I was asking her how she thought you’d react. I was scared and she was trying to make me feel better by joking with me. I was seeking advice from the only other person who knew, because I was terrified of losing you.”

“I love you. All of you. Not the idea of you. Not the normal life you represent. You. Your kindness, your strength, the way you hum when you make coffee at your shop, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. I love being Clark Kent because he gets to love you. And I am so, so sorry that I ever made you doubt that or my trust in you.”

You looked at him—this impossibly powerful man brought to his knees by his love for you. The anger was diminishing, nothing but a dull ache. The betrayal still stung. But the hollowness was beginning to fill with something else. Understanding. And a love so stubborn it had survived this.

You slowly lowered yourself to the floor off the couch, sitting before him, your hands still interlinked.

“You hurt me,” you whispered, the words finally feeling true without being venomous. “You made me feel small. And foolish. And… second best.”

“I know,” he breathed, his voice thick with regret. “And I will spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you. If you’ll let me.”

You looked at the suit, then back at his face—the face of the man you loved, now superimposed with the hero you admired. They were one and the same. The clumsy reporter who walked into signs and the god who caught falling planes. It was all him.

“You really aren’t cheating on me?” you asked, the last vestige of your insecurity needing to be vanquished.

A pained, genuine smile touched his lips. “The only person I’ve ever been in love with is you. Lois is my friend. But you… you are my home.”

You reached out and placed your hand on his face. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and strong and familiar, and he let out a shuddering breath, as if he’d been holding it for days.

“You have to promise me,” you said, your voice gaining strength. “No more secrets. No more lies. Even if it’s scary. We face it together. Or we don’t face it at all.”

“I promise,” he vowed, his eyes locking with yours, pouring every ounce of his sincerity into the words. “No more secrets. Just us.”

He leaned forward slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn’t. You met him halfway.

The kiss was nothing like the stiff, painful one from days before. It was soft, a little salty from tears, and full of a desperate, aching tenderness. I

When you pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his dropping your joined hands into your lap. “So,” you said, a shaky but real smile finally gracing your lips. “Superman, huh?”

He let out a wet laugh, a sound of pure relief. “Yeah. Is that… is that okay?”

You looked at your joined hands, then back up at him, seeing both the man and the hero, and finally accepting them as one. “It’s going to take some getting used to,” you admitted honestly. “But… yeah, Clark. It’s okay.”

He surged forward and kissed you again, this time with more passion. You responded in kind, your hands coming up to cup his face, pulling him closer. The world outside, with all its dangers and secrets, ceased to exist. There was only this. Only him. Only you.

And as he kissed you again, slow and sweet and full of promise, you finally understood the answer to your question.

It was always, always better to speak. Because on the other side of the painful truth was the chance for a love more honest, and more real, than you could have ever dreamed.

━━━━━━━

author's note: once again, thanks for the request and i hope it somewhat lived up to your vision!

as always, my requests are always open if you want to send me a message about a story you'd like for clark or lowk any other character, im happy to write it for you. thanks for all the love and check out my other work<33

[salem-s]

18+ mdni

STONEPIT FINALS AND SPRING CHAOS (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT

SYNOPSIS rafe's been your best friend since forever, and you thought he'd be ecstatic to see you after a three week trip; however, you overhear him telling his friends that it's been nice without you clinging to him every five minutes. so that's what you give him: space. every attempt to get you back falls short, and rafe's confusion only augments when he sees you running with a different crowd.

WARNINGS suggestive themes, language, half smut (??? everything's over the clothes, lowkey switch!rafe), swearing, angst and miscommunication but with a happy ending. 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 16.9k... That's genuinely not okay...

SONGS OF THE CHAPTER guilty pleasure by chappell roan | transparentsoul by willow | misery business by paramore. we're gonna pretend these are original songs by their band, alright?

“It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip.”

You've been replaying his words in your head all night.

Sure, you invited herself over with the intent to surprise him after being gone for three weeks. Coming home a day earlier than expected was a set in stone plan all along, and thought nothing of walking into one of his renowned parties like you always have.

The familiar crowd greeted you like an old friend, throwing around heys and you’re back already? and all the other surprise lingo. You truly did your best to smile and nod to all of them, however these people weren't really your friends, instead mere acquaintances in an adjacent social circle.

The one person you really wanted to see was, undoubtedly, out back smoking a joint or nursing a beer away from the crowd with his two close friends, so you knew exactly where to find Rafe Cameron whenever his six foot something height wasn’t peaking above the crowd.

So on you walked: through the yard, in through the kitchen, and out towards the back porch. 

Along the way, you bumped into his younger sister, Wheezie, who greeted you with a genuine hug and sigh of relief that, finally, she’d be able to tolerate any social gatherings held at her house, as long as you were there.

You mostly (always) sought out refuge in Wheezie's room when you didn’t feel like entertaining these rich kid assholes, or whenever you were getting bored with whatever conversations you'd been dragged into just for the sole purpose of keeping him company.

Wheezie, too, knew exactly where Rafe was and even grabbed your hand to lead you to him. 

"It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip. The clinginess has really been pissin’ me off. It's like she can’t do her own thing."

And of course, Wheezie heard it, too, gripping your hand tighter out of pity - or compassion - you couldn’t tell.

Before Wheezie could do anything, you slipped her hand away and took a step back. The young girl looked mortified at her brother’s words, her mouth gaping open and closed like a fish to attempt to defend his words or spin them to make them mean something different.

But you both knew her fruitless attempts wouldn't mean anything.

They were jarring, the words he spoke.

And, frankly, they really pissed you off.

You only stuck around his hip at these things because he always told you to beforehand, something about not wanting you to wander off into trouble (which you had a tendency to do), or because you always grounded him when he was overstimulated.

Rafe was the one who held you close at night, whispering sweet nothings in your ear when he’d snuck in through the window after particularly rough fights with his father. He was the one who needed to hold you, to tether himself to someone, to something, just to make it through the night.

So why the fuck was he talking about your clinginess as he's the one who couldn't go one night without you? 

You scoffed when you heard it because, pfft, he must’ve been talking about someone else, surely. There’s no way he said that to his friends, and had the audacity to join in with their laughter.

Oh, it pissed you off.

Because if he really wanted space, sure, you could do that. No problem.

If there's one thing you prided yourself over, it was your dignity and stubbornness. You could give him space. You'll give him all the damn space and go find your own thing. 

Which is what you did later that night. 

Rafe had advised against it when the proposition was broached to you a couple weeks ago: a music gig.

Here's the sitch: you had a voice people would stop and listen to – not that you particularly liked boasting about it. It just came to you naturally, and you liked producing in the quaint privacy of your bedroom, mashing songs and creating unheard harmonies on audio software for fun.

You didn’t participate in the school plays or drama programs because, no, those were too on the nose and not the kind of music you'd like to sing (in front of people, anyway). Plus, all of the theater kids in the area are even more annoying than the preconception of the stereotype. Your voice was mainly barricaded inside the shower tiles or sitting pretty in the passenger seat of Rafe's car, or occasionally when you found yourself alone at the beach or on a walk in the dark. 

After a particularly grueling and obnoxiously abhorrent gala earlier in the summer, you found yourself separated from the party and wallowing with a stolen drink in the back alley of the country club. Rafe was off entertaining whatever girl he had his eyes on for the night and Wheezie wasn’t feeling well so she didn’t attend.

You were bored, tipsy, and feeling pathetically lonely. So, naturally, you started singing softly to yourself in the quiet solitude of the alley, thinking you were alone.

What you didn’t know was that the staff – a group of Pogues who needed a quick cash grab in the catering gig – were having their smoke break, and conveniently needed a new lead after their old one transferred schools to the mainland. They were friends with Sarah, Rafe's other sister, who you haven't been close to since you were kids.

You were weary of their proposition, the group not normally being the kind of people you'd hangout with due to them being intimidating, almost too cool, to where you thought you wouldn’t fit in.

Oh, but you did. You did well. 

Rafe's overly protective words echoed in your head as you instantly beelined for the door despite Wheezie's pleas, leaving his home and immediately driving to the Cut.

You were told where they practice, a quaint house on the far side of the island where they could riff and rehearse without a noise complaint. You found herself standing in the garage with the mock stage, with a rising sense of pride and retribution.

You told them, fuck it, you were in, that you'd do anything to take the spot that was so graciously offered to you all that time ago, to contribute to their band and to the competitions held in the rough part of the island. 

And in you were. 

Meanwhile, Rafe had never felt so fucking lost in his life. 

Not when he got into earth-shattering arguments with his dad about his spending habits, his overflowing temper, or anything he did under the sun (because anything he did seemed to piss his dad off).

Not when he’d spent those months of endless fighting in a hole of self pity, drowning himself in partying and occasional lines to numb the phantom ache in his heart.

Not when he’d lose girlfriend after girlfriend because he was incapable of doing what was expected of a boyfriend, not what was expected of Rafe himself. 

He was constantly told growing up that feelings were weak, and wearing them on your sleeve was even worse. Being sad was just an excuse to get a pass, to draw attention to get people to feel bad for you. Being sad meant being weak. Being emotional meant being weak. Caring too hard about things meant being weak. 

Normally, Rafe was able to move past these episodes because he always had you to seek solace in. But he lost you.

And he had no clue fucking why. 

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone breathing that he’d been counting down the days until you arrived back from your trip, not even his closest friends that he clung to in your absence.

Because Rafe had a reputation to uphold, and revealing such strong feelings for his best friend would definitely damage his stone cold apparatus. People would see his walls broken down for you and they would assume they were entitled to the same treatment. 

No. Rafe liked being unapproachable. Feared, even.

He liked that you clung to him at parties, at the stupid gala events their families would organize to flaunt their money in expensive garb and even more expensive donations that they announce with a bullhorn and neon sign. He liked that you clung to him because he asked you to.

He always asked you to.

And you always complied. 

Deep down, Rafe knew that you'd rather go off and stir up some trouble instead, or not attend all together and get into even deeper shit somewhere else, but that meant that you'd be away from him, not under his protective eye, and that always stirred up something ugly in him.

Rafe had to come rescue you one too many times, most times you didn’t even need to ask.

He was just there, waiting for you to be done with whatever you wanted to do, then he’d drive you home and (almost always) stay over.

You would tease him relentlessly, you and your smart mouth riling him up to tremendous heights. But he relished in it. He craved it. Because he’d rather you drag him every time you opened her mouth instead of what you were doing now, which was ignoring him. 

And the radio silence was killing him. 

Rafe was ecstatic the day you got home, waiting in your driveway to bring you to school like always. But after waiting for what felt like ages, he found himself on the doorstep yelling at you to hurry up.

Instead of being met with your pretty, Rafe had to hear it from your fucking mother that you had already left, that you got a ride from someone else. 

That was just strike one. 

Arriving at school with a rise in his temper, Rafe was already having a bad morning.

He was irritated. All week he’d been texting with you about how you both were gonna get coffee and catch up in the car before parting ways for classes. It didn’t help that he was nursing a minor hangover, and he felt even more like an idiot bringing in your coffee that he’d gotten for you anyway. 

Strike two was when Rafe saw you in the hallway, and the weight in his chest immediately lifted at the sight of you, glowing with a new gleam in your eye that had him yearning to know more about what you were up to.

The prior anger fizzled away the closer you got. You were walking straight to him as Rafe grinned and stuck out the coffee for you.

But as you got closer, Rafe's smile slowly faded as he noticed you were looking beyond him, brushing past him with that beautiful smile – the smile meant for someone else.

He spun around to see who you were ignoring him for, and scoffed when you were greeted with open arms to his sister and her friend group of wannabe rock Pogues that pissed Rafe off at any chance they could. 

Rafe was confused and irritated, and he didn’t want to be holding your coffee anymore, frankly. You fit in with them in a sick way that had him aching. 

Without thinking, he said your name quizzically with a slight edge to his tone.

A warning, almost. 

You had turned around, surprised to see him. He wasn’t sure if you were feigning naivety or just pretending you didn’t see him to piss him off. “Oh, hey.”

He felt stupid, all of a sudden, with all the eyes of your new friend group on him, Sarah even tilting her head at him quizzically.

Rafe held out the coffee. “Here. You ghosted this morning.”

“Sorry,” you smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. He hated the way it looked. You took the coffee. “Thanks.” Then you flicked your gaze over your shoulder, at them, and turned back offering him a curt nod. “I’ll catch up later.”

You spun on your heel and joined the group, walking away down the hall sparking an animated conversation as if he was just a bump in the road. 

And that’s how it started. 

You slowly fizzled Rafe out of your life.

You slowly stopped responding to his messages, stopped showing up to his parties, stopped everything in your life that involved him and, god, it broke his fucking heart.

Every time he stopped over, your parents would say that you were out with friends and he would scoff, not that they would care where you really were. Sometimes they’d say you were upstairs studying, and when they would let Rafe in to go see you, he’d be met with an empty bedroom and slightly ajar window.

Pathetically, he’d stay in your room because he was usually too embarrassed to go back downstairs and show his face to your parents. Sometimes he slept there in the spot he always slept in on nights where he just couldn’t fucking bear to go home. Sometimes he’d just climb out through the window and leave. 

Whenever he’d see you in school alone, Rafe would jump at the chance to talk to you.

You would entertain him for a walk to class or a quick chat in the library, nothing short of politeness. But Rafe didn’t want polite. He wanted you, and you wouldn’t fucking come back to him.

Instead, you would just give him the same tight lipped smile you gave all the other rich kid assholes that you hated, and then go about your day. 

God. Rafe needed you.

He needed a friend, a real friend. Someone he could trust unequivocally, without hesitation. Rafe needed to hold you, and that realization made him want to throttle something.

To be so dependent on you felt weak. It felt horrible, really, to have it suddenly stripped from him with no warning. But the longer he went without you, the more he realized he needed you to hold him. That epiphany had him pissed off more than ever.

Naturally, Rafe resorted to anger because if he didn’t, he would just wallow in sadness and that scared the shit out of him. 

But an opportunity blossoms – a real chance – to get you talking to him again, even if it’s just for one night. 

The annual fall donation gala is tonight, and Rafe knows that you won’t be able to get out of this one due to your mother’s incessant inclination to attend as a family, to uphold your image, whatever the hell that means.

Each season the wealthy families on the secluded part of the island gather in their overpriced suits and gowns, flaunt their money, spew some fake bullshit on how much they love charity and specifically how much money they were going to spend towards renovating the rougher parts of the island and the public institutions, all while they down their drinks and snort lines in the bathroom and plaster on fake smiles of grandiose.

Your family and the Camerons go together every season, being neighbors and all, pairing you off with Rafe while Wheezie and his other sister, Sarah, would stick with each other.

Sarah, being just a year younger than him, mostly always brought a random boy as a date. Wheezie often soloed, but would steal you for a better portion of the night. Rafe normally allowed it, but tonight he refuses to let his sister have the time of day.

No matter how much shit Wheezie gives him, he has to have you all night despite her premature protests, which will probably be a lot given the circumstances from the past few weeks. 

That's another thing as of late: Wheezie's been uncharacteristically cold to him, making him do ridiculous shit for her to get back on her good side, like taking her out to eat or reviewing her essay or watching a stupid show with her that he never would agree to watch in the first place.

Sure, he’ll set himself back a few pegs with Wheezie, but he has to get you back tonight. 

But of fucking course you just have to look that beautiful, so it takes Rafe a while to even say anything to you besides a pathetic hello. 

As tradition, you and Rafe lock arms as you enter the gala. He notices that you don't hold him as tight. 

You notice that he’s clenching his jaw so tight it might break, probably pissed that he has to be here in the first place. 

You loathe the idea of coming to this pathetic excuse of class performance, but public appearances are the only thing your parents are interested in.

They’ve been lenient about how much you leave to hang out with “Sarah” when in reality you're high tailing it to the rough side of the island getting up to all kinds of trouble (also with Sarah, but that's besides the point). However, they started to get suspicious of where you run off to every weekend, and god forbid they find out you sneak out basically every single night.

Things with the band are going great, too good to jeopardize.

So you figure if going to this gala will satisfy your parents’ consciousness and keep their noses out of your business, then you'll be able to deliver with elegant poise and limited back talk.

It doesn’t help that you and your band have a gig later tonight. The gig. The Stonepit finals. It also doesn’t help that you're stuck here.

But you have a plan.

Since you're here, your bandmates take on the event's catering gig so you'll all leave together an hour before the gala is supposed to end.

It’s slightly embarrassing to be walking arm-in-arm with Rafe under their knowing stares, especially since they have a vague idea of what really went down between you and the Kook prince.

They’re familiar with the island royal because of Sarah anyway, and despite not entirely liking him due to Rafe's douchebag tendencies, they’re sympathetic to you for choosing to step away from someone you once called your best friend.

Your friends, your new friends, care for you and know the hurt that came with ending things with Rafe, even if you never explicitly cried or showed any ounce of emotion when it came to him. They can just tell. And it reflects in the music, much to your dismay. 

And sitting next to him all night doesn’t help.

You're polite, saying your please and thank yous. Rafe is quiet, especially with his dad sitting on the other side of him.

One thing you both unintentionally agree on, though, is the synchronized stifled laughter on the faux-emotional speeches the PTO housewives make about the charity of their choice. Rafe and you know of the falsehoods that run through this community, that it’s all a stunt for public decency, and you always bet each year how many times they shed crocodile tears before dinner’s served. 

The last ripple of applause begins to die down after the last housewife steps down from the microphone, her lip curled up from a previous sob reforming back to a nonchalant tight lip as soon as she’s out of the spotlight. You push food around your plate with your fork, stifling a cold laugh that will undoubtedly earn a scolding from your mother. 

“I counted seven,” you say softly, indulging. 

It surprises Rafe. Immensely. His brows raise at the jab and he looks over to see if you were talking to yourself or actually to him, to see you staring at him in anticipation for his response.

Rafe's heart does a weird thump. “One of the better years, for sure.”

You laugh quietly and Rafe nearly sighs at the sound. 

Noticing a few older couples heading to the dance floor, Rafe bites the bullet, clearing his throat to get your attention as he holds his hand out. 

“Dance?”

You dart your gaze between his hand, his eyes, and the dance floor, uncertain. This makes Rafe's heart thump even wilder, and he’s certain you can hear it through his all-too-expensive suit jacket. He notices your apprehension, and he pushes down the hurt that springs to his throat. 

Despite it, he chuckles nervously. “It doesn’t have to…mean anything. Just to get away from this.”

Rafe gestures towards their table, their parents having a little too much to drink and starting to ramble on about shit they don’t care about. Sarah’s off with her boyfriend, John B., who should be working but doesn't look the slightest bit concerned about slacking off, while Wheezie talks to one of her friends off to the side, rueing the day in pre-teen style.

As much as you want to say no and stay cordial to your dignity, you're starting to get a headache from your mother’s high-pitched laughter and dad’s intolerable business talk, so, reluctantly, you accept and takes his hand.

It takes everything in Rafe to not visibly sigh in relief as he leads you to the dance floor. Your friend, JJ, smirks behind the seafood buffet table, watching them. You throw him an eye roll that Rafe doesn’t see, to which JJ just shrugs and winks. 

Slinking your hands around his neck, your heart skips a beat at the close proximity. Rafe's hands settle on your waist.

It draws in a sense of comfort, of familiarity that he’s been yearning for all this time without you. He takes a deep breath, embarrassingly deep, because for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like he can finally breathe again despite the intoxication of your perfume and the stench of cigarettes wafting from the balcony. 

Rafe takes the time to study you up close.

You cut your hair in a more edgy way, drastically different from your previous untouched hair that he was used to twirling between his fingers under Egyptian cotton sheets. It’s different, but he likes it. You looks comfortable, like yourself. He also notices the excessive added jewelry that you've been wearing lately.

Although Rafe frowns after his inspection, noticing it’s none of the jewelry that he’s given you over the years. Your makeup is clean, effortless. 

Beautiful, he thinks. 

Fuck. 

He doesn’t realize you say something until you pinch his neck. 

“Hm?”

“I asked if you were okay. You were brooding,” you tease quietly.

It feels like old times again. “I don’t…brood,” he attempts to defend. 

You snort. “Sure.”

And that’s that. 

Rafe doesn’t really know what to add from that, nor where to start on what he really wants to talk about with you.

It takes everything in him to not scream in frustration. He’s not good with his words, he doesn’t know how to vocalize the sensitivity that he feels in fear of being perceived as weak. He’s only good at physically projecting his anger, his irritation, his emotions that make him feel strong or, more so, his actions that make people fear him and submit to what he wants.

It’s easier that way, to not have to use words to convey what he wants done and what he needs people to do. 

But not with you, never with you. 

“I…” he starts lowly, trying to calculate his thoughts but they’re just a whirlwind in his mind right now. “How have you been?”

Rafe cringes at himself. 

You frown, moving forward with caution at his uneasiness. The classical band plays something slow and melodic and so fucking romantic that it makes you want to throw up. “Good. Really good, actually. Been busy.”

“With?” Rafe attempts.

“With…stuff.”

He swallows. Of course you won’t tell him, why would you?

“How about you?” you ask timidly, noticing his sunken expression. “Are you okay?”

Rafe hesitates.

No, he’s been at his lowest. He’s been losing his mind without you at his side to anchor him to his real self. He’s been lost trying to figure out what you've been up to, why you've been running and hiding from him ever since you got back from your trip all those weeks ago. He’s especially lost in trying to figure out why you've been running with his sister and her annoyingly arrogant Pogue friends. 

Rafe assumes you tell them all your tidbits now, like what you did that day or what show you're watching, talking to them how you used to talk to him.

It makes him sick. He feels like a fucking idiot trying to figure out what he did wrong, always coming up blank on answers but never having the courage to just ask you what the hell happened that rendered such coldness from you. 

“Yeah. Been okay,” he settles on. 

Despite the strain on his voice, you manage to smile at him, but there’s an ounce of worry in your expression that throws him off.

He’s confused: do you still care about him? Is that still on the table? Are you really going to dance around the elephant in the room? Are you going to keep acting like nothing is wrong? Are you ever going to tell him what he did?

“It’s a busy time of year, I wouldn’t-” you start nonchalantly, but Rafe suddenly scoffs at your attempt to small talk with him. This earns a pointed glare. “Is something wrong?”

Rafe scoffs again. “Of course something’s wrong." No going back now. "Everything’s fucking wrong. We’re standing here making useless bullshit small talk as if you haven’t been ignoring me for weeks.”

Curse him and his temper, he wants to immediately apologize for his tone. But you frown even further and loosen your grip around his neck but Rafe tightens his.

“No. We're talking about this. Stop running for a second.”

“Running?” you hiss. “I’m not…I haven’t been-”

“Yes, you have,” Rafe says, trying to stay even but his voice betrays him as it shakes. “I don’t know what’s going on with you but I’m losing my mind because you won’t talk to me, shit, you won’t even look at me anymore.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. “I just…need to know.”

Your frown turns into a thin lipped line. Isn’t this what he wanted? Space? 

Your mind is reeling. On one hand, you're pissed.

How dare he act ignorant to the fact that he was bitching and moaning for some peace and quiet to his friends, how desperate he was to have some space from your oh-so-overwhelming clinginess, how you couldn’t even do your own thing due to how much you depended on him for everything: friends, a social life, style, a personality. Like, what the fuck?

But on the other hand, you sees Rafe. Your Rafe.

The Rafe who climbs through your bedroom window in tears from his father’s vocal bullets, searching for solace and warmth that he simply can’t get in the comfort of his own home. The Rafe who rarely knows how to express himself in anything other than rage because that’s how he was taught to deal with his emotions: through instilling fear. The Rafe who would truly do anything for you if you asked nicely. The Rafe who, behind closed doors, is kind, loving, and sweet when he cares, like getting you your favorite ice cream after you failed your exam or staying up until sunrise with Wheezie finishing the show she’s been raving about.

You sees Rafe, a boy who needs answers. 

“Please.”

His tone of desperation pulls you from your thoughts, a tone he only saves for late night confessions under starlight, just for you. 

You can’t help but teeter between the two hands. 

“Rafe,” you start carefully, “I came home a day early from my trip.”

He frowns. The music is too slow, too beautiful. He’s confused. “You did?”

You nod. “Yes. I wanted to surprise you.”

The gesture is so fucking sweet that it makes Rafe melt in agony. What did he ever do to deserve your love and friendship for as long as he had it?

“I walked around looking for you, and assumed you were in the back with Top and Kelce. You were, but I heard what you said. All of it.”

Rafe reels back in confusion.

What?

What are you talking about?

You notice his confusion and scoffs lightly, the sound heavy with hurt instead of bitterness. “Of course you don’t remember.” You take a breath, replaying the words that have been on repeat in the back of your mind for weeks. “‘It’s been nice to have some peace and quiet without her constantly attached to my hip. The clinginess has really been pissing me off. It's like she can’t do her own thing.’ You don’t remember saying that?”

What?

Rafe's mind is spinning because. What. 

“I…” he starts, but then stops, piecing it together. No, he couldn’t have. 

But you nod, confirming it. “I heard it. So did Wheeze. I didn’t want to make a scene and just figured it would be easier to give you what you wanted. So I backed off. Gave you your space. Found my own footing.”

Rafe stares at you in disbelief. The words come back to him, each one hitting him harder than the last. 

“It’s okay,” you say before Rafe can get a word in, noticing his internal conflict.

He hates the small, understanding smile you're wearing. You should be hitting him or cussing him out.

Instead you're fucking smiling at him, even though it's laced with sadness, it's still a smile. “I’ve…come to terms with it. I just wish you told me I was being too clingy instead of complaining to your friends about it. I would’ve backed off if you asked.” 

Rafe shakes his head, because of course you would do something if he asked you to without any hesitation.

He can’t believe it, how you heard him say something so horrible (and completely untrue) and aren't cursing him out or going around telling people his deepest darkest secrets and demons. He deserves worse. He deserves nothing good after making you feel so unwanted, like you had to completely remove yourself from his life in order to give him what he – seemingly – wanted. 

Rafe can only say your name.

“Really, Rafe,” you say after he can’t form the words he wants, “it’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not,” Rafe snaps, chest heaving. “It’s not fucking… I didn’t mean it.” 

Okay. Now you scoff and he frowns.

You're not gonna sit here and listen to him spew out excuses, bullshit excuses, so he can get back on your good side. You're not gonna forget how those words made you feel. If there's one thing bigger than your ability to hold a grudge, it's the need to defend your dignity.

“If you didn’t mean it, then you wouldn’t have said them – fuck – you wouldn’t have thought them in the first place.” You try to loosen your grip once more to escape but he holds you tighter. You huff. “Rafe, let go. Seriously. I said it was fine. Let me go.”

It isn’t fine, you both know that, but you personally don't want to entertain his fragment words.

But Rafe can’t let you go. Not like this. 

“No, I need to– fuck…” Rafe curses.

Why can’t he just say he’s sorry? Own up to it? Push his pride down? No, because that would mean admitting defeat. That would mean admitting something he’s tried to push down for years and years in fear of ruining your friendship. 

Well, he’s already ruined it, so what’s left to lose? 

You, he realizes. He’s losing you, and he’ll lose you forever if he doesn’t get his shit together at this given moment. 

His chest is heaving, he realizes.

His heart feels like it’s in his throat and he’s gripping you as if you're going to disappear if he lets go. Rafe doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that the world keeps spinning around them. Couples keep slow dancing, people keep laughing and drinking, the song still plays. No one knows what’s going on within your bubble right now, the emotional turmoil sizzling between you both speaking in hushed breaths. 

“I’m sorry,” he says low and heavy with emotion.

You take that as irritation. “You’re sorry you got caught.”

Rafe shakes his head, furrowing his brows as if that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “No. No. I’m sorry for saying that stupid shit. I didn’t mean it, Snips. Not really.”

The nickname makes your heart leap to your throat, but you swallow it. “Not really?”

Rafe curses. “No, I…fuck-”

“You what? What, Rafe?”

“I–”

“Wanted to impress your friends?”

He grimaces. “No–”

“Needed to brag about how I’m always at your beck and call? Your bitch waiting at your disposal?”

“No!”

You laugh humorlessly. “Then what-?”

“Because I need you more than you need me, and it scares the shit out of me.”

You freeze, your next retort dying in your throat as you look at Rafe's desperate expression.

His eyes bore into yours, those piercing bright blues, and you don't notice until now that his hands have been shaking, his chest is falling up and down rapidly, how the crease in his brow is more prominent than ever. You study him, looking for any signs of duplicitousness but coming up short.

Instead you see how broken he really is. 

Rafe notices your pity and hates the expression, so he shuts his eyes. “I…I think I said it to pretend it was the other way around. That…maybe if I said it and put it in words, I could pretend that you needed me in the same way. I hated the way I felt for those three weeks without you, and it scared the shit out of me.”

Silence. 

Your hand travels from the back of his neck to caress his cheek, which makes him open his eyes to meet your gaze. 

“It doesn’t make it okay,” he quickly adds. “What I said wasn’t okay. At all. I hate that you heard it.”

Rafe leans into your touch instinctively, your palm boring into his cheek. His heart thumps for a different reason now, for your silence. He doesn’t know what to make of it. The tension is thick and he hates the way you don't say anything.

Something foreign pricks in his chest, an unsteady murmur.

“Please, say something,” he pleads pathetically, feeling stupid at the desperation. 

You feel flustered from his words, speechless.

Your heart lurches in your throat at the confession that probably ached in his soul all these weeks, that gnawed at him every time you brushed him off or ignored his messages and did exactly what he was afraid of: leave.

What Rafe said was wrong, very wrong, you know. There’s no if, ands, or buts about it.

Your heart sinks, though, at the thought of him pushing down his feelings, his real feelings, so deep to the point where he was drowning in his own mind. This is the boy you grew up with, who held you when you were upset, who knew your every thought before you could formulate it, who begrudgingly took you to prom after your date stood you up.

Your Rafe, sharing something so raw and scary. 

You hold him with such lightness, such care, murmuring quietly, “Rafe–”

Suddenly, a throat clears next to you.

Rafe's anger flares back up when he sees fucking JJ Maybank looking at you, feeling tidal waves of stupidity and irritation that he confessed something so raw to you. He wants to rip you away from this crowd, from JJ, to talk somewhere in private, to even sit in silence if it means he can hold onto you like this for a little while longer.

Call him selfish. 

“Sorry to…interrupt,” JJ says, darting his gaze between the two of you, finally settling on you after a moment of taking in…whatever was happening here. “We gotta go. Now. Rumlow pushed our slot up.”

Your hand falls from Rafe's cheek and he gets even more irritated. What business does JJ Maybank have with you? Who the fuck is Rumlow?

You step away from Rafe and, this time, he lets you. “What? You’re kidding.” You groan and curse, “The whole deal about winning Greengate was that we’d get first pick of the Stonepit slot.”

JJ huffs. “Freddie slid him a fifty to make sure we go right after his band, so second to last.”

Band? Rafe furrows his brows. 

His confusion is put on the back burner as you ball your fists tight at your side. “Damn it.” Then, you take a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go out the back.”

JJ glances at Rafe wearily, whose stare couldn’t be more piercing. “Uh, what about your stuff?”

“It’s at the table. My mom will definitely ask too many questions.”

“Blame the period?”

You snort. “You still clearly know nothing about women. Not believable. Best chance is to just slip out. I’ll deal with my mom later.” 

JJ moves to leave, walking a few steps away until he notices you aren't following. You hesitate, looking up at Rafe who has been awfully quiet and confused, watching your conversation happen in front of him. His blue eyes bore into yours, a twinge of pain hidden within his features that makes your heart lurch.

You have the sudden inclination to grab his hand, to comfort him for a moment more. 

Silence. 

Clearing his throat once more, JJ rubs his forehead at the tension between the two. “Uh, I’ll give you guys a minute.” He shoots Rafe a warning glare, one that makes Rafe narrow his eyes, before turning his attention back to you. “Meet us out back when you’re done.”

And like that, JJ walks off the dance floor and disappears through the staff doorway.

His absence is felt, the air thick between you and Rafe as unspoken words yearn to come into fruition. The slow, romantic melody continues to play as couples sway around you and the emotion behind it makes your tummy feel weird. 

“You’re leaving?” Rafe manages to ask thickly, the words feeling like lead in his throat. "With...Maybank?"

You look up at him once more, and this time, you actually do grab his hand.

He gazes down at your intertwined fingers as your other hand comes up to graze his knuckles, fingertips smoothing over his rough, calloused skin in such a delicate manner it allows him to breathe for a moment. Your cool rings feel like ice against his hot skin, and he nearly flinches from the contrasting feeling. 

Your next words are cautious and slow. “You’re truly sorry?”

“Yes,” he immediately answers. “More than you’ll ever know. More than I’ll ever be able to say.” Rafe squeezes your hand. “Let me make it up to you. Please.”

You meet his gaze.

His pretty blues no longer glisten with sadness, but instead hold their own. Promising. Genuine. Home. You find herself suppressing a smile because, fuck, you missed him more than you'd like to admit. 

Glancing back towards the family’s table, you notice your parents are still talking to Rafe's, the waiter coming over to top off their drinks as they obnoxiously laugh over something that probably wasn’t very funny. Nevertheless, they’re distracted for the night and clearly not caring about the whereabouts of their children. 

An idea - a really stupid idea - pops into your head when you turns back to Rafe, a newfound determination gleaming in your eye that he only knows as trouble. 

“Come with me.”

Rafe's lips part in confusion. “You want me to?” Then, more uncertain. "With...them?"

Pushing down the impending fight night that'll probably happen between him and the Pogues, you quirk a brow as you teasingly squeeze his hand.

“Thought you wanted to make it up to me.”

“‘F course.”

“Then let’s get into some trouble.”

He finds himself narrowing his gaze, but there’s no real strictness behind it as he tries to suppress a smile. “Snips, what are you getting me into?”

You tilt your head to the side and bite the inside of your cheek, taking one last glance at your parents – more occupied than ever – before you start pulling Rafe off the dance floor, dragging him through the crowd and through the same staff door that JJ disappeared into earlier.

You don't let go of his hand as you swerve past the catering staff and waiters, beelining for the backdoor leading to the alley. 

Noses scrunch at the smell, reeking of garbage, cigarettes, and gas. It’s not the worst thing out there, no, because Rafe tries his best not to grimace when he sees your new group of friends, the Pogues he oh-so despises, hanging by their clown minivan as they all change out of their catering uniform into their own clothes, their performance clothes, just shamelessly half naked and laughing as if it isn’t ridiculously intimate. 

Sarah is slipping her ripped jeans on under her dress and shimmying on a tank, a cigarette poking through her plump lips. Kiara is applying lip liner in mirror, perched in the passenger seat. John B. finishes buckling his belt, taking the cigarette out of Sarah's mouth to take his own hit. Pope is sitting in the driver’s seat, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel and checking the time on his watch anxiously. JJ's putting on a shirt when he sees you and Rafe emerge, hand in hand. 

“Country Club, you comin’ with?” JJ teases as he throws his ratty t-shirt on, wearing a smirk that Rafe wants to smack off his stupid face. 

You speak before Rafe can start an argument. “Guys, Rafe's gonna tag along tonight. Any issues?”

Everyone stops what they’re doing to stare between you and Rafe, and he squirms under their judgemental stare. He knows he hasn’t been the nicest to them, and vice versa, as their social circles often clashed with ferocity. He also knows that they’re aware of the previous animosity with you based on the way the girls, Kiara and his own damn sister, are glaring at him with such a deep warning that it makes him shiver. 

It’s Pope who breaks the silence. “I don’t give a fuck if he shits gold. We need to go now if we want to warm up.”

JJ snorts. “We’d be lucky to make curtain call.”

“Have some hope, Jay,” Kiara mumbles to not mess up her lipliner. “Pessimism gives you crows feet.”

Sarah hums low as she steals the cigarette back from John B., who looks Rafe up and down. The two of them have had their fair share of qualms. Rafe truly can't keep track of how many times he's gotten a black eye from his sister's boyfriend, and vice versa.

But, no, he can't be getting into fights tonight. Not while he's on your probation.

Pope groans and rolls his eyes. “Crows can’t drive. Now, can we please all get in the car before that shitbag gives our slot away?”

It's muscle memory when Rafe lunches forward to snatch the cigarette from Sarah's mouth, throwing out the cigarette butt onto the concrete with a narrow gaze. She sends him an eye roll, but wordlessly climbs into the minivan with John B. behind her, and to Rafe's surprise, all of the back seats are folded down so they all sit in a circle in the trunk.

His mind races at the hazardous set up.

You notice his concern as you sit down next to him, stifling a laugh and squeezing his hand once out of comfort, pulling it back before Rafe can even process what is happening. 

“We throw all the instruments back here, so the seats stay down,” you say softly, just to him. Rafe straightens up a little, feeling a sense of pride that you're only talking to him. “You get used to it after a while.”

But that beaming pride doesn’t last long as JJ sits on the other side of you, a little too close for his liking, smirking at the two of you.

Rafe bites his tongue as the blond grins toothily at him. “Don’t worry, Country Club. You can hold my hand if you get scared,” JJ teases, wiggling his fingers at him. 

Rafe rolls his eyes and fights the urge to jump him right here and now. The only thing pulling him back to reality is the sound of your laughter.

“Fuck off, Maybank,” is all he manages to pathetically muster up in response. 

Pope drives sporadically, ranting about how they’re not gonna make it now that their slot is moved up, how the lights are never green when he needs them to be, how John B. didn’t fill up the gas tank since he was the last one to drive, and so many more complaints that Rafe loses count.

In the back circle, however, they’re talking business and spewing vocabulary Rafe's never even heard of.

John B. is going on about JJ needing to remember to wait a beat before the chorus on their first song, and how Kiara needs to be a second step harmony above you, not just one, and how he himself wants to remember one specific rhythm in a riff he’s been practicing.

Rafe feels a little outdated due to his outright confusion, feeling like he’s at a tennis match just watching them pull out notes back and forth and back and forth. 

It isn’t until Sarah tosses you a bag where Rafe truly short circuits.

Your confusion is apparent when you hold up the bag, raising a pointed brow.

Sarah gestures to the bag. “Change. You won’t have time when we get there. I put in some cute earrings for you.”

Such a Plan A girl, you think, smiling at her as you open the bag: a sultry tank top, black mini skirt, and your mile high boots that you know and love. At the bottom there’s a little baggie full of jewelry.

“Thanks, Sare.” You shuffle to slip your heels off, nudging Rafe's shoulder on accident as you do so. 

He nearly winces when you take the black mini skirt and starts to roll it on under your long, expensive dress, catching a glimpse of your dainty underwear. Next, you let the shoulder straps slip down your goosebump covered arms.

Then, with complete fucking nonchalance, you turn your back to Rafe, cheekily looking over your shoulder at him.

“Zip?”

Rafe stares wide-eyed back at you, his gaze flicking between your dress zipper and your smug expression.

His heart races in his ribcage at the thought of you changing in front of all of these people with no question. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but the fact that you're ready to completely undress in the back of this dingy van has his head spinning. 

JJ snorts, bringing him back down to Earth. “She asked you a question, Country Club. Angel, want me to do it?”

That snaps Rafe out of his trance. His nimble fingers immediately go to the zipper, delicately pulling it down. “Don’t play around, Maybank.”

“CC, you’re my favorite person to play around with.”

“Watch it.”

You roll your eyes at the two. “Alright, brats, let’s simmer. Now, I was thinking–”

Rafe tunes out the rest of what you say when you let your dress slip down off your shoulders, exposing a strapless bra barely fucking covering anything as your long dress pools down on the dirty van floor. Continuing to yap about whatever notes you have, you grab the sultry tank top from the bag and pull it over your head, not breaking your thought process while Rafe's thoughts have been completely broken to begin with.

He coughs quietly to himself to get his shit together, especially when you unapologetically adjust your bra and tank top to how you want it. 

Now dressed, you shift again to sit back down on your ass, brushing Rafe's shoulder once more.

But Pope takes a wild turn, everyone shifting from the force of it. John B. smacks his head on the window as Sarah plummets into him, JJ holds his own as he grabs onto the door handlebar, and you fly into Rafe's lap, his hands instinctively thrown up to catch you, or at least attempt to, as you scramble to get up. 

“Fuck, sorry,” you murmur, placing a hand on his thigh to push yourself up. “You good?”

But JJ's laugh interrupts. “Oh, he’s great.” He holds his fingers up to wiggle at Rafe again, wearing a shit eating grin that, pathetically, turns the tips of Rafe's ears pink. 

He ignores it. “You wanna see great?”

You sit back down on the floor in your original spot, sliding on your socks and boots. “Boys, play nice. You’ll have to get used to each other at some point because you’re both not going anywhere.”

Kiara pipes up from the front seat. “Maybe we can lock them in a closet together. That’s what John B. and Sarah do whenever they fight.” 

“Usually we end up fucking instead of actually making up, but, who knows? That could probably work for you guys, too,” John B. chides, earning a slap to the chest from Sarah.

Rafe rolls his eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine. 

He feels your hand brushing his thigh as you laugh and, despite his rising temper, it manages to relax Rafe just a fraction. Especially when you lean more into his arm. Christ, your perfume scent is the only thing he can think about. 

Then, Pope makes a screeching halt and everyone is thrown around once more. Before you can fly across the van into Sarah, Rafe grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against him.

Everyone waits a beat, then two, then sigh in relief when they realize the van isn’t going to be moving anymore. 

Pope turns around with a giant grin. “We’re here, andiamo!”

Everyone blankly stares at him, hair askew and clothes out of place. He frowns at the crowd. 

“What? At least I got us here with ten minutes to spare!”

It only takes one minute for shit to hit the fan. 

It’s already unnerving enough for Rafe to realize where they are: in a dingy basement nightclub in the shitty part of the Cut where he normally wouldn’t even think about coming to.

A slice of anger rises in his throat, to cuss you (and Sarah) out for being so reckless if this is where you've been spending all of your time, in a place that doesn’t feel safe to him in a part of town that isn’t meant for girls like you.

He hates thinking like that, knowing damn well you're capable of protecting yourself – Henry Kennedy's permanently crooked nose can attest to that – but there’s a sliver of primitive instinct in him that wants to constantly protect you, shield you from everything and everyone. If he ever found out something happened to you in a place like this, there's no question that he'd burn it to the ground.

Rafe's hand ghosts over the small of your back when they enter the venue, which earns a finger wiggle from JJ, teasing him. Thank god you don't see it, or Rafe would’ve really had to punch the fucker in the face. 

But the play time’s over when the group watches the slot before them get on stage, the Pogues (including you) collectively booing them and flipping them off. Rafe looks around to see if anyone’s pissed at the Pogues for, once again, creating a public disturbance, but they just sort of let it happen.  

You nudge Rafe, nodding to the lead singer who all but gropes the microphone. “That’s Freddie.”

Rafe studies Freddie: tiny, skinny, shaggy hair and a crooked smile that’s directed right to you. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he immediately straightens up protectively, sizing the scrawny guy up and down, narrowing his fixated gaze as Freddie grabs the mic and introduces their band with a deeper voice than Rafe expected to come out of him. 

“You know,” JJ nudges Rafe as if they’re best buds and he darts his gaze from the spot JJ nudged back up to the blond boy to try and find the audacity in the space between, “Angel here beat him up once. It was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen in my life. I won ten bucks out of it.”

Rafe quizzically looks between JJ and you, stunned. 

JJ laughs. “What? You didn’t think his teeth are naturally that fucked up, did you?”

But his attention leaves the nuisance and solely focuses on you. Rafe snorts, suppressing a beaming grin. “Snips, how hard did you hit the guy?”

“What?” You feign innocence, shrugging as if the thought of it doesn't make Rafe's head spin. “I hit him as hard as he deserved. He did touch my ass.”

Rafe stills. 

“He what?”

“Easy, Rafey. I took care of it,” you joke. Then you notice the stone cold glare in Rafe's eye as he sizes Freddie up and down, suddenly frowning and grabbing his hand to pull him out of the trance. “Rafe. Jesus. Don’t actually kill the guy.”

JJ's cackle just pisses Rafe off even more, especially when he claps a big, audacious hand on Rafe's tense shoulder. “You know, I wasn’t sure what part Country Club would play in our show tonight. But I think we just found our new bodyguard.”

You squeezes Rafe's hand once. Twice. He relaxes his shoulders, shrugging JJ off but still keeping his hold on you. 

The glue of the group, Pope, claps his hands together. “Personally, I don’t give a fuck about Freddie’s set. Before I get up there and strangle Rumlow myself for being shady, let’s go backstage to–”

All of a sudden, Freddie's band starts playing their set, and the first few notes cause the group to freeze, including you.

“Are they–?” John B. starts in disbelief.

Sarah gasps so dramatically it gives Rafe whiplash. 

Pope grips his hair so hard it might rip out. “I knew it. I knew something was up. Those cock sucking, donkey bastard motherfuck–” 

John B. slams his hand against the wall, cursing. Sarah tilts her head back in frustration. JJ and Kiara attempt to wrangle Pope from jumping on stage from throttling the lead singer. Each Pogue crashes out unexpectedly, though their actions and waterfall curses are drowned out by the amplified music. No one even bats an eye.

Rafe glances from the scene happening with your friends, to the stage, and down to you, brows furrowing in confusion as to why everyone suddenly started crashing out as soon as they stepped in the building, the band on stage playing a song he vaguely recognizes. 

“Uh, what’s going on?”

You watch the stage, unnerved. “They stole our set.”

Rafe follows your gaze beyond the stage, to a burly guy standing behind the curtain, shrugging at you mockingly in a way that makes Rafe straighten up and fight the urge to pull you to his hip.

“What?”

“Our songs. Fuck.” You curl your hands in a fist. “Of course Freddie paid for us to get bumped. He knew our setlist, and paid Rumlow to bump us so we wouldn’t have time to figure something else out.”

Rafe places a cautious hand on your shoulder, testing to see if you'll shake him off. You don't, so he keeps it there and gives a gentle squeeze. “Why would he…do that?”

“Because he’s an asshole, Country Club,” JJ jabs, walking into their conversation with a struggling Pope under his bicep in a headlock. “He knew we’d beat him so he fucked us over.”

John B. joins the circle, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What’s our play?”

“Kill Freddie with a gun,” Pope quips from his headlock, trying to break free but failing. 

Kiara places a hand on Pope's head and Sarah follows, as if they’re trying to summon something. “Use that brain of yours. Think about something other than murdering Freddie for one second.”

It’s JJ who speaks up. “What about using the same set from Greengate?”

“We can’t reuse those songs, Jay,” Kiara murmurs, lost in thought. “We’d get points off.”

“What about ‘I’d Rather Die’?” Sarah suggests, rubbing Pope's head like a crystal ball. 

Kiara's face upticks in disgust. “That song is way too outdated. The ratio between boys and girls is too drastic, we need more girls here for that song to hit.”

“Pink Floyd?” John B. suggests. “Or even Zeppelin. Something to get people on their feet.”

Rafe watches the group like a tennis match, gaze shifting from person to person as they spew out ideas that ultimately get rejected due to some reasonable excuse. He can feel their anxiety radiating off of them, bubbling in the air between them. He hates the way your brow is permanently furrowed, lost in thought yet pinched a fraction in worry.

Sure, he has no idea what’s going on, nor can he really offer any help, but he hates the dejected look on your face. 

Before he can speak and embarrass himself, Pope squeaks from underneath JJ's arm. 

“What about our originals?”

The group ceases their arguing, freezing as the only sound heard is Freddie’s not-so-bad singing voice, singing their songs. They gawk at each other, waiting for someone to bring up a counter argument but no one offers one.

Noticing the contemplation, Pope wiggles to free himself from the headlock and JJ eventually lets him, joining the circle and stretching his neck from the kinks. He shoots JJ a glare that has him throwing his hands up in surrender. 

“It could work,” Pope defends cautiously. “I have the hard drive with all the backing vocals on it. We’ll still have Sarah, Kie, and JJ on backup vocals, but I can relay Angel's adlibs and prerecorded harmonies during the performance.”

Pope's the tech guy, Rafe realizes. The guy behind the curtain, and it suddenly makes so much sense why his anxiety was severely heightened on the drive here: he has to manage the sound check, the back tracks, the entire performance. Despite the guy being a little crazy, Rafe can’t help but nod in respect despite the tense moment. The group is right to elect him as the brains of the group. 

You speak up so quietly Rafe barely hears you. “We’ve never shown anyone our originals.”

Nerves prick at your voice, straining it.

It doesn’t take an idiot to notice your apprehension, even Rafe, who has no idea what’s happening. You don't even want to look at him, at the concerned look you know he’s wearing.

There’s a lot of fear surrounding the originals, mainly because they’re your originals that you wrote sporadically in journals over the last few months, never expecting the words to actually see the light of day. Recording and creating their own originals was more of a passion project, something never meant for the general public to hear.

Especially when the words on the page were mainly about the guy standing next to you. 

What if they’re not as good as your friends say they are? What if the recordings don’t match up with the live audio? What if the judges and crowd hate it, ruining their chances of winning the competition and getting the money? 

Kiara is the first to move towards you, gripping your hand so tight it hurts. “We should. We all worked really hard on them.”

“Kie’s right,” Sarah pipes up. “Plus, it kind of gives us an advantage. Shows people we actually give a shit, and we’ll surprise them.” She leans against John B., who wraps an arm around her and holds tightly. 

Pope holds his arms out in a well? gesture. 

JJ beams, latching one hand onto Rafe's shoulder and the other on John B's, shaking them as he whoops.

Rafe almost shoves him off with his death glare alone, annoyed with his assumed immunity since you'd break up any sort of fighting that could happen. Plus, he's really trying to be on your good side, to get back in your good graces, even if this blond fuck is making it really, really difficult not to drop everything and deck him across the face right now.

“I’m all in. I vote we do ‘Guilty Pleasure’, ‘Transparentsoul’, and ‘Misery Business’. Those will get the crowd bumping.”

You snap her head up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And in that order.”

Pope nods. “That works. I can do that.” His anxious gaze darts from the stage and back to the circle. “I need to know right now so I can start setting it up. Pinkies?”

JJ holds his left pinky up first, his hand still resting on Rafe's tall shoulder. He attempts to tickle Rafe's ear until he gets shoved off. John B. holds up his pinky, actually sticking it in JJ's ear. Sarah and Kiara follow, wiggling their pinkies at you, who hasn’t held up anything yet.

With a sigh of great reluctance, your eyes meet Rafe's for a fraction of a second before you hold up your own pinky, grimacing when JJ whoops. 

“Country Club, you in?”

Rafe blinks out of his daze of staring at you, looking up to face the group who are all looking at him in expectation. His heart skips a beat. “Uh, wh–?”

JJ nods towards his hand. “Bodyguards get a say too. What’s your move?”

Rafe hates the way his face feels warm, and he thanks the world silently for making it dark in this venue. He clears his throat to push away the feeling, holding up his pinky without much convincing as he looks over to you, gazing up at him with your big pleading eyes that makes the room spin. 

Pope claps. “Okay. Good. You guys head back and go to our room, the guitars are in there and so are John B's sticks. CC, you stay with me.”

You grab Rafe's hand quickly, giving it a reassuring squeeze and you're not sure if it’s for him or yourself. Your palms start to grow sweaty due to the pressure of the upcoming performance, so you drop his hand as fast as you grabbed it. Rafe nearly whines at the loss. 

Everyone except Pope starts to move, and instinctively Rafe follows you like a lost puppy, but a strong hand backhands his bicep and Rafe stops, looking at Pope, the culprit who wears a confused look. 

“You’re CC now, you hear me?” Pope commands.

Rafe nearly laughs in his face at this five foot something spitfire barking orders at him, but his smirk slowly fades when he sees the craziness behind Pope's eyes.

He remembers the way he drove the band here, nearly killing all of them, as well as how he was seconds away from jumping the stage and taking out everybody in his line of sight, an aura of scrappiness surrounding him that makes Rafe believe he would rough up anyone in his path as a street rat would protect its food.

He decides that Pope is not the kind of guy you want on your bad side, not because of physical strength but because his mind would probably come up with something deeply concerning to torture you with. 

Rafe straightens, expression turning serious as he just nods stupidly.

That satisfies Pope. “C’mon. We need to set up.”

To say that the tech stuff is confusing is an understatement, it’s a foreign language.

But Pope seems to know what he’s doing, and all Rafe can do is watch, ask questions that he probably assumes are stupid due to the way Pope snorts as if there’s an obvious answer, and scan the crowd looking for you. He’s unnerved that he doesn’t know where you are, especially when he knows you've been hit on quite ferociously before, which makes his cheek hurt from the way he’s biting it. He doesn’t have a great view of the crowd but tries to crane his neck to see out from the side of the stage. 

All he sees is Freddie’s band exiting the stage, right towards them. His black beaded eyes meet Rafe's piercing blues, and he straightens up, fury bubbling in his chest after remembering what he did to you. His girl.

Freddie sleazily sizes Rafe up and down before clapping Pope on the shoulder. “You guys hire a guard dog?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Pope mumbles distractedly, his eyes not leaving his computer and sound board panel in front of him. “Nice set, by the way. Sounded familiar.”

“Ah, that old thing?” the douchebag laughs. “Came up with it all on my own. Just another stroke of my ingenuity.” He then pauses, noticing Rafe's button down rolled up to his elbows and dress pants, which makes him chuckle darkly. “Lookin’ pretty Kook-y for a lap dog. Wanna twirl for me, pretty?”

“Careful,” warns Pope, still fumbling with his sound board. “He bites.”

Freddie holds his hands up in surrender and it takes everything in Rafe not to knock the guy out cold where he stands. Noticing the gleam of unbridled fury in Rafe's gaze, Freddie takes a step back, partly in fear. “Alright, I’ll heel.” He finally looks at Pope as he stalks away. “Can’t wait to see what you guys planned.”

His words fade as he disappears into the crowd, Rafe noticing he's immediately handed a drink and a girl saunters into his other arm. He scoffs, fingernails digging so harshly into his palms he’s sure to draw blood.

The thought of that douchebag laying so much as a fingertip on you makes his blood boil, his heart lurching in his throat in regret that he didn’t lay out the bastard while he had the chance. 

“At ease, CC,” Pope murmurs. “You’ll get a crack at him one day. But not right now. Here, I need you to hold this button for me.”

After completing Pope's various tasks, the lights dim on stage. It piques Rafe's attention as he sees five silhouettes sneak onto the platform, noticing the glittery undertones of your top as you march right up to the mic.

The lights fade in ever so slowly, but the crowd recognizes them instantly as they begin to hoot and holler and cheer in a way that surprises Rafe. He reels and suppresses a beaming smile that, holy shit, his girl is…kinda famous? 

“Hi Gally’s,” you purr into the mic, the vibrato making Rafe's heart skip a beat. You look so goddamn pretty it hurts. “Didn’t expect to see us so soon, hm?”

The crowd jeers at your improv. You twirl the mic chord and whimsically stalks back and forth on stage, playing into the bit. 

“Now, I know you guys love to hear the stuff we usually play, and I only know that because of all the free drinks we get after we finish.” 

Someone in the crowd whistles, causing you to breathlessly chuckle into the mic. 

“And as much as we appreciate your love, we thought we’d do something a little different tonight. Instead of covers, we’ll be singing our own stuff. Hope you enjoy.”

Rafe catches a glimpse of Freddie’s face in the crowd and stifles a laugh. There’s no longer teasing amusement coating his eyes, instead it’s fear.

And if you're nervous, Rafe can’t tell because you carry yourself as a beaming enigma that can’t be brought down, a supernova. Your cheshire cat smile is enough to pierce through any heart willing to give into you. 

JJ's on guitar and he meets Pope's gaze, who counts down on his fingers, three, two, one, then Pope hits a button as JJ plays the opening notes to the song. Rafe realizes Pope cued backtrack vocals, a soprano yodeling fading into the audio. It starts slow, the spotlight beaming onto you as you start to sing low and sultry.

You get to a particular line that has Rafe raising his brows: “I fantasize what we would do, and how would it taste and the way you move–”

His breath hitches.

“--Oh, but some good girls do bad things too,” you sing slowly. 

Damn you, because you find Rafe's eyes and throw him a quick wink that has his knees nearly buckling.

You spin around to face the crowd as the lights beam on, coating the entire stage as everyone gets cued in. John B's on drums, Sarah's on backing vocals and keyboard, Jackie’s on his guitar, Kiara's on backing vocals and the bass. 

“I want this like a cigarette. Can we drag it out and never quit? And, oh my god, you are heaven sent with your dirty mind, yeah, you’re perverted.”

The song is good. Too good. The people in the crowd are feeling it, cheering and jumping and clinking beers. It could also be the way you're bending over and twirling on stage like you own the place, regardless of rhyme or reason or anything under the sun. 

Rafe watches you with a stupid grin that he can’t suppress, because here you are in all of your glory.

He can’t believe this is what he was missing out on, this is what you've been up to: looking too damn fine in a mini skirt and boots with a voice like honey, spice, and nothing nice, especially with that glint of trouble in your eye that means you're up to no good. 

“Feels like pornography watching you try on jeans,” you sing after the guilty pleasure chorus, and it has him reeling. 

You've totally been jean shopping with him before on multiple occasions. You always claimed to know what style was trending so you insisted on accompanying him whenever you felt his pants were getting a little outdated.

Rafe never thought anything of it, as you both went out and bought stuff together all the time, tried on clothes in the same dressing room, gave opinions on items and then went about their day as if nothing was intimate about it.

“You’re a pothead, you’re a cinephile, it’s been a while since you turned up the dial.”

Jesus, he knows he’s wearing a ridiculous expression on his face as his mind catches up to the notion that, shit, is there any way this is about him?

Rafe's head spins with two distinct things: is this about him, and if the answer is yes, then, holy shit, do you like him? Is he your guilty pleasure? Do you feel the same? Have you suppressed years of a school-girl crush like he has in fear of fucking up the one good thing in his life? Have you both been wasting all this time dancing around each other, caught up in the will-they, won’t-they?

Then he freezes. He doesn’t know if you wrote this one. It easily could've been Sarah or Kiara. Why would you? Why would he automatically assume that?

Rafe sucks in a breath of clarity. He shouldn’t assume it’s about him just because you're the one singing it. Maybe Sarah did write it about John B.. Disgustingly, Rafe wouldn’t be surprised, with the way that they look at each other. 

After a whole chorus of disassociated reeling, Pope nudges Rafe, shaking him from his trance as you keep on vexxing. "Chill. It’s about you. No need to stress.”

Rafe coughs, covering up his dumbfounded expression as he watches you in a different light now, a deeper one.

The bridge is just a vocal array of chaos, Sarah and Kiara and even fucking JJ belting yeahs as you fucking yodel, voice breaking in and out of pitch as you shut her eyes, avoiding looking in Rafe and Pope's direction. You belts your last hey, the chords in your neck prominent as you pour your soul into the note.

The backing vocals, the prerecorded harmonies, your powerful belt– it’s all too much and the realization hits him like a truck. 

He’s in love with you. 

You suck in a big breath after your long note, diving right back in. “You give me guilty, guilty pleasure.”

You repeat the line, over, and over, and over again until you build up to the end, “Pleasure, pleasure.”

Then you suck in a big breath, practically moaning, “Pleasure!”

The crowd wastes no time roaring their applause, hooting and hollering tremendously louder than they did for Freddie’s performance. You're spinning, as you can barely see three feet in front of you with the spotlight being so bright.

You instinctively looks backstage to Pope to see when he’s cueing the next song, but instead locks eyes with Rafe's piercing blues, wearing a smile so fucking big it makes your heart melt. You feel your cheeks burning red, that song written from the confinements of your journal, not that you'll ever tell him that.

But with the way he’s beaming, you have a feeling that he already pieced it together. 

You jump right into ‘Transparentsoul, starting off with a crazy drum riff that John B. formulated when he was drunk off three margaritas. It’s manic, but fuck, it works too well. You get right back into it, riffing and belting as if your life depends on it. John B's performance is one to note for the books, helping craft a nearly impossible song for drummers to replicate. He switches back and forth from double time, half time, and then free styling in the short breaks in-between right before the chorus. 

The three thumps of the drums and the lingering note from you end the song, sucking in a big breath to steady yourself. The crowd goes crazy, most people pointing to John B. and cheering for him. Sarah walks over to him, placing a messy kiss on his lips that leaves a red lipstick mark on his grinning smile, to which Rafe involuntarily rolls his eyes.

They take their places for the last song, ‘Misery Business’, and you nod to Pope to start the track that begins with a non-instrumental lead. 

Then JJ and Kiara jump into the riffs, this song being more punk rock that allows you room to show some attitude, and attitude you'll give as you see the dejected look on Freddie’s face, angrily sipping his beer with a blonde bimbo hanging off his arm. 

You wrote this one, the lyrics and melody originally being slower and more of a sad ballad.

Pathetically, it’s about Rafe and one of his past girlfriends that you just couldn’t fucking stand for the life of you. She’d ice you out, make you look stupid in front of your friends, belittle you, cling onto Rafe as if he was going to fly away with her and start a life in a different country.

She couldn’t handle being Rafe's second girl, so you showed her what it means to be his first choice, always.

It was originally slower, pitiful, and regretful. But when JJ read them during their pitch meeting, he said it feels angry, vengeful, hateful, and you liked the idea of making it a power ballad. Sure, it strains your vocals on the practical screams, but it’s all for the show. All to emulate the emotion. 

And, god, if Rafe doesn’t smirk the entire time.

He knows this one’s about him because you've fully said to him once that his misery business is finally over, when he told you that he broke up with Ada, his girlfriend of eight months.

Usually he’s the one dripping in jealously when it comes to you, shit, he could barely handle you spending all your time with different friends that weren’t him, but here you are – wearing green like it’s meant for you. And, dammit, if you don't rock green. 

They hit the bridge, and JJ and Kiara absolutely shred it for a few bars until you get real nice and close to the microphone.

“Whoa, I never meant to brag, but I got him where I want him now.” 

Your vocals riff up the line, throaty and raw and angry. 

Oh, and Rafe cannot wait to tease you about this one. He gets (and deserves) an eyeroll when he turns to Pope with a stupid smirk. “This one’s also about me.”

“Congratulations,” Pope deadpans before focusing back on the board. 

You belt out another note, then delivering your last line with that same sultry tone you began the night with. There isn’t even a moment of silence between the end of the song and when the crowd starts cheering – no – roaring in applause.

You linger in it for a moment, taking a breath of relief when you see that they like it. They actually like your stuff. You feels JJ clap a hand on your shoulder, shaking it back and forth in excitement, as Kiara comes up to bow while Sarah ambushes John B. 

You can barely see out in the crowd anyway, the spotlight being unbearable. Taking a step back from the front, you glance over to Rafe and Pope.

Pope prays up to the sky like he always does when he orchestrates another successful performance. And Rafe...

Rafe just stands there with his arms crossed, a cheeky smirk splayed on his lips. That dress shirt does him wonders, and you have to physically roll your eyes in order to tear your gaze away from him. 

Finally, finally, they exit the stage towards Pope and Rafe as the announcer comes up to say that there’s one more band going on before they pick the winners for Stonepit.

Rafe murmurs a good job to everyone – even JJ – as they pass by him. Realistically, he’s waiting for one person who happens to exit the stage last.

And for someone who was so confident and sultry on stage, you sure look sheepish as you approach him. 

Rafe tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, feeling a fresh sense of confidence that he certainly didn’t have before the performance.

“You could’ve warned me that you were some kind of rockstar.”

“Stop,” is all you can muster, fighting a smile. 

“What? Don’t get all shy on me now.”

You playfully shove him away, but you both know there’s no true malice to it.

The group walks through backstage back to their dressing room. Rafe trails you, this time firmly placing his hand on the small of your back as you weave through other bands and stage managers, and he admits the notion is nothing short of wildly possessive, but he doesn’t care.

You just sang about wanting him twice on stage, so, yeah, he’s gonna make sure they all know who it was all about. 

The group enters their private room, two giant couches and an open space with empty guitar cases and bags full of clothes and makeup. JJ puts his guitar back in the case and collapses on the couch with a dramatic sigh, his grin wide as day. 

Kiara sits next to him, nudging his dropped head so he can readjust for her. “We’re so fucking winning this thing!” she yells, JJ whooping and hooting next to her.

John B. and Sarah shack up on the opposite couch as she practically sits on his lap. Pope squeezes in next to them with an annoyed eye roll but knowing smirk. You move to sit on the couch with Kiara and JJ, and motions for Rafe to sit first since there’s only room for one more. 

So he does. And when you moves to sit on the arm, he grabs your hips so you're planted firmly on his lap.

You roll your eyes and smack his chest. The act is nothing short of normal, there’s been plenty of times where you've sat like this at one of his parties, at family gatherings, on his boat, you name it. But now there’s a new underlying meaning, especially with the way his fingertips are light as feathers against your hips, almost teasing you.

You decide this is your favorite place to sit. Your throne. 

John B. shamelessly fondles Sarah and no one bats an eye. “We have fifteen minutes until we find out. I dapped Sean up before we came in here, so he should be bringing us drinks.”

“Thank god,” JJ groans, letting Kiara mess up his hair and Pope's hair reluctantly. Her boys, happy as sinners in church. 

“You guys were fucking crazy,” Rafe finds himself saying before he can stop himself. You turn your head to look at him softly. “Way better than that piece of shit who went on before you.”

Pope snorts while everyone looks to Rafe in surprise for even saying anything, Sarah looking lovingly at her brother's words. “Country Club scared him away without needing to say anything.” He leans over Kiara to look at JJ. “JJ, I support your decision to elect CC as our official bodyguard. It was great. I didn’t even have to look up or throw a punch or take out my knife or anything. He just…fucked right off.”

JJ hums in satisfaction. “Ah. See, CC? You fit right in.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, but surprisingly there’s no poor intentions behind it. Just mild irritation and a bit of swelling pride. 

Suddenly, the door opens and in comes a buff looking guy with a platter full of beers, Sean, Rafe assumes. Sean sets the beer down on the table between the two couches, wordlessly dapping John B. up one more time before exciting the dressing room. 

You lean forward to grab two, one for you and one for Rafe, and his grip tightens when you bend down enough for him to see a sliver of underwear peeking through.

But you sit back within a second, back flush against his chest as you hand him a beer. He reluctantly takes a hand off of you to grab it, clinking the bottle to yours and taking a sip. 

The group gets lost in conversation about the show, but your gaze focuses on Rafe's, faces inches apart.

Despite the chaotic and irritatingly loud conversation happening in front of them, it’s as if you're the only two in the room.

You look into his piercing blues, his gaze softening when he realizes you're not gonna look away and contribute to your friends’ conversation. His hand is searing hot against your hip, especially when his fingertips play with the hem of your top with eased nonchalance that it makes your head spin.

It’s like a second nature to him, to touch you like this, like you're the only thing that matters in this given moment.

To him, you are. 

God, you missed this. It’s embarrassing how much you do. You know you shouldn’t have, but your dignity is already out the window because you, frankly, forgave him as soon as he brought you on that dance floor. 

“What’re you thinkin’, Snips?” he murmurs, a contrast from the yelling going on around them. 

You purr, the adrenaline from earlier starting to wear off. “I’m happy you came tonight,” is all you say without giving in that easy, even though he probably knows how much you missed him from that performance alone. 

His gaze alternates from looking into your eyes and your lips. He hums, almost distant. “Thank you for letting me. Thank you for sharing it with me, even if it’s just for tonight.”

Your posture straightens when you feel his hand smoothly running up your back, leaving your hip and making it all the way to your flaming cheek, brushing that stray piece of hair away from your face once more and tucking it behind your ear, careful not to brush against any of the piercings that he definitely hasn’t noticed before. Rafe's hand comes back down to ghost over your cheek, his palm barely caressing it, almost afraid.

But you lean into his touch, making the contact for him. He hums low in his throat, almost in praise. 

Rafe's next words send shivers down your spine. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight. Especially when you were singin’ about me.”

Your cheeks unabashedly turn a deep shade of red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Out of embarrassment because, fuck, you got caught, you go to pull away from his hold but he slides his thumb to your chin and grabs your face gently, holding your gaze to his. 

“Baby, if watching me try on jeans got you all hot and bothered, you could’ve just said so. Instead of, you know, writing a song about it,” he teases as you groan, trying to pull away again but he tightens his grip just slightly. Then, softer, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Probably had a girlfriend at the time,” you mumble right back, but a knowing smirk forms on your lips. “Wrote another one about that, too. Maybe you’ve heard it?”

Rafe hums in acknowledgement, running his thumb down your chin to the column of your throat, then back up to ghost over your bottom lip.

“Mhm. I have. Might need to hear it again, though. The girl who sang it kept distracting me the whole time. Could barely even think straight,” he admits, his eyes flickering to your lips for a fraction of second before meeting your eyes. 

“Yeah?” you challenge quietly.

“Yeah,” he confirms immediately. “Could barely even stand up knowin’ you feel the same way.”

You quirk a brow. “Hmm? And what way is that?”

“The way I can’t breathe when I’m not with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at the confession, the cool-girl facade fading as you take a second to look at him, to really look at him. Your brows furrow when you take note of the sincerity of his tone, or how his eyes don’t leave yours.

Or how his brow furrows and his lips barely part when he shifts his hips and you can suddenly feel him. 

Suddenly you're the only two people in the room, everything else drowning out besides the sound of your syncopated breaths and heartbeats thumping out of ribcages.

Rafe's hand lowers from your face and stalks down your spine, taking its rightful place back on your hip and squeezing ever so slightly. Your beer-free hand instinctively comes up to the back of his neck, fingers splaying on the nape to intertwine with the ends of his longer hair. His chest raises with a particularly deep breath, brushing against your ribcage for a fraction of a moment that sends a shock through your body. 

“Fuck, they’re starting the announcement,” Pope interrupts, causing you and Rafe to jump away from each other of surprise. 

Everyone in the group stands, excitedly bouncing towards the door and running out to the backstage. The last one to leave is JJ, who looks back to hold the door open for them but notices you and Rafe unmoved from your position, looking sheepish as if you've already been caught in a scandal.

After a moment of silence, JJ's face changes from confusion to understanding, and he barks out a short laugh. 

“Ahh. Okay. I get it,” he teases, quickly glancing at the group leaving before turning back to them with a wink. “I’ll put my sock on the doorknob.”

And with that, JJ shuts the door, leaving you and Rafe in the same emotional position as he did when he left you on the dance floor, the thick tension in the air growing between you as you take a moment to stare at the door, prolonging the inevitable.

Eventually, you move your gaze from the door back to Rafe, who’s already staring at you. 

You're nervous all of a sudden, the consequence of flirting and fooling around catching up to you. Months of assuming there were unrequited feelings – feelings you buried deep down to maintain the strongest friendship you've ever, and probably will ever, have – being disproved in the matter of the last twenty minutes.

But now he’s here, sitting pretty in front of you with such a serious expression on his face that it makes you suck in a deep breath at the intensity of it, the gravity of the situation and where it’s about to lead to.

Rafe notices immediately. “Hey,” he says softly, running the pad of his thumb over your hip bone, this time out of comfort. “We don’t need to do anything.” Then, he manages a genuine chuckle. “I just got you back. Being with you is enough f–”

He doesn’t get to finish before you're pressing yourself forward, taking the leap of faith and pressing your lips to his.

Rafe makes a noise of surprise, the words dying in his throat as he stays still for a moment, processing that, holy shit, this is happening. 

You, however, take his apprehension as rejection, and sheepishly begin to pull away.

But Rafe doesn’t let you as he leans forward to kiss you again, leaning far enough to place his beer on the floor without breaking contact. His new free hand allows him to caress your face, greedily pulling your body closer and closer to his to which you let out a noise of surprise.

He swallows the sound, his hand leaving your chin to slowly trickle down your arm and to your hand, where he takes the beer away and reiterates the same action he did with his bottle, allowing you to have your hands free to roam and touch and feel as you shamelessly make out like your lives depend on it.

Your fingers instantly grasp at his dress shirt, wrinkling the nice material as his other hand smooths up your thigh to grip the base of your ass, shamelessly fondling it like he has every right.

And, fuck, you whine so quietly that he barely hears it, but it makes him twitch underneath you.

The sound is music to his ears, so he does it again, and this time you lift your hips off of him, swinging your leg over to straddle and press back down against him, a sensation that sends warmth to your core and makes your eyes roll back. 

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs against your lips before hungrily taking you back in as he shifts underneath you. 

Hips stilling, you focus on kissing him fervently first, to which he gladly accepts. Rafe manspreads so god forsaken arrogant that it allows you all this room, but also forces your hips to spread wider.

You test the waters, gradually pushing your thighs down to further mold into his body. The act causes your skirt to push up your legs, your underwear shamelessly meeting his slacks right at the zipper as you grind down into him. 

You both moan at the sensation, you stilling with worry that you went too far.

But Rafe death grips your hips as he guides you down again, teasingly urging your body back and forth against him that has you quietly moaning into his mouth. He seizes the opportunity to slip his tongue to meet yours, kisses getting messy, sloppy, dirty. But neither of you seem to care, solely focusing on the high you're both chasing. 

Rafe grips your ass and hips so hard it’ll probably bruise, refraining from letting his hands do what they normally do and dive in recklessly.

He wants to do this right the only way he knows how – by slowing himself down. For you, he needs to be patient. The last thing he wants is to scare you off.

But you sense his reluctance, his hesitation, and nearly groan in frustration. You slow down your pace and find his right hand, putting your hand over his.

Rafe tenses in fear of hurting you, but instead you grip his hand and guide it up your body, over the curve of your ass, under your shirt and up your tummy, fingers splaying over your rib cage and, finally, just stopping under the swell of your breast. 

His breath hitches, then he hums quietly. “Gonna let me touch you there, baby?”

You nod against his lips. “Yes. Anywhere, Rafey. All yours.”

“All mine?”

You nod again, squeezing his hand to wordlessly assure him it’s okay. He mirrors your action, giving your breast a test feel and you sigh in relief.

Jesus. He nearly groans at the sound, the feel, the everything that’s happening right now. He doesn’t have a moment to process it because your hands are traveling further and further down his chest until they toy with the belt of his pants.

You tease him, running your fingers delicately under the waistline of his underwear, cool hands smoothing over his warm skin. Rafe unintentionally bucks his hips up at the sensation, his lips parting all pretty in a way that makes you cheshire-cat smile. 

“Am I yours, pretty?” you mumble, low and teasing, relishing in his fucked out gaze at the mere thought of you touching any lower.

He nods dumbly and you reel with the sight of it. It makes your tummy pool with anticipation.

“Will you let me?”

“Fuck, always,” he manages pathetically, chest heaving as he watches you undo his belt and zipper. Rafe nearly whines when your fingers ghost over his length, barely even touching him and you've got him a writhing mess. “Makin’ me go crazy, looking at me like that.”

You frown, feigning naitivity. “Like what?” you pout, pressing your thumb to his tip through his boxers that has him gasping in the shell of your ear. “Am I gonna have to ask nicely? Or will you be good?”

Slowly feeling him up over his boxers, Rafe bites his lip so hard he’s sure he’s gonna draw blood.

“You’re being a real fucking brat right now.”

“Hm? Am I?”

You squeeze around his length, causing him to huff, getting sick of the anticipation and just wanting to pin you down on this couch and make you eat your words. “Yes.”

Then you tilt your head so you can meet his gaze, taking note of his brows furrowed in frustration, and you can’t help but smile for knowing every trick in the book to push his buttons. 

“So punish me then,” you purr, sending chills down his spine. 

Before Rafe can pick you up and throw you down on the dingy couch, the door swings open and his irritation sky rockets as your friends hoot and holler obnoxiously, flooding the room.

Your pretty little fingers leave his boxers and settle on his tummy, your arm shielding the compromising hand placement.

Pope holds an envelope, undoubtedly filled with the money the first place winner is promised, while JJ thrusts a makeshift trophy in the air as if it’s the Stanley Cup. John B. holds Sarah bridal style, settling in on the couch across from you. Kiara runs over to the pair, ignoring the scandalous scene in front of her and gripping you by the shoulders and shaking you in such ferocious motion that it makes Rafe wince. 

“We fucking won!” she shrieks. “The whole damn thing!”

You beam, ignoring the fact that your skirt is pushed past your hips and that Rafe's hand is settled on your ass and how his belt is unbuckled. “You’re kidding?”

Pope waves the envelope in your face. “You should’a seen Freddie’s face. I wish I had a picture of it, I’d print it out and leave it on his doorstep every day for the rest of his life. Stupid fuckin’ prick.” He waves the envelope once in front of your face then in front of Rafe's face, then pulls back and starts doing it to everyone individually. 

What makes this whole situation worse for Rafe is that JJ decides to sit right next to you both, exhaling as if he’s had a long day at work.

In his nimble fingers, he admires the trophy that looks like a third grader made it, sighing and smiling. You make no effort to move or conceal what you were doing, so Rafe tries to push down your skirt to cover up a little bit with a huff, irritated even further that JJ's arm is brushing against Rafe's.

Oh, the audacity-

“Oh! Hey, guys. Didn’t see you here,” JJ says. He holds up the trophy. “You see this? Pretty fucking sick, right?”

“It would still be pretty fucking sick if you were three feet away from us,” Rafe spats, gripping onto you so tight to hold back from knocking his teeth in.

JJ pushes his luck by gasping and nudging Rafe's shoulder. “Aw? You like it, too? I knew you had a soft spot, Country Club.”

You laugh, chest bumping Rafe's in the process. “JJ, you could’ve at least knocked to let us know you guys were back,” you scold playfully, wrapping your arms around Rafe's neck and smushing your cheeks together, which makes the situation a little better.

Besides, it gives Rafe a better grip on your skirt, pulling it down over your ass successfully.

“Oh, please,” JJ chuckles. “No one gives a shit if you were fist deep in here. Sarah and John B. basically fuck all the time in front of us. We’ve seen more scandalous stuff than this, guys.” JJ gestures to their position. “Honestly, it’s a bit prude in comparison. We were brainstorming that there would at least be an ass in the air,” he teases, then wiggles his fingers at Rafe, “whose ass, we didn’t specify.”

Rafe seethes. “Anybody ever tell you to shut the fuck up and mind your own business?”

“All the time, actually.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and you hum in contentment, knowing that this is going to be their version of getting along from now on. 

The group lingers in the room for another hour or so, as you remain in your rightful place on Rafe's lap with the exception of getting up to use the bathroom with Sarah.

During your absence, JJ relentlessly teased Rafe when he fixed his slacks and belt to zip them back up. John B. jabbed that, hey, at least he was getting some, and for that he earned Rafe's slight respect.

Pope had complained that it wasn’t anything they weren’t used to seeing, then shooting John B. the most diabolical glare he could muster. Kiara had cooed that it was nice to see you so giddy and smiley, and Rafe liked the way it made him feel. 

Rafe can, truly, complain all he wants, but your friends aren’t that bad.

With the exception of JJ being the most annoying human being to grace the planet, but the others are situationally tolerable, including his sister who he (really) enjoys spending time with.

Plus, Rafe likes the smile that you wear when you're around them, a smile once reserved just for him. As much as he wants to be selfish and have it all for himself, he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one. It’s glorious. He likes that you share it with the people you care about, even though he really hates sharing. 

You come back with Sarah and retake your seat on his lap, Rafe wrapping his arms around your middle to pull you back flush against his chest. He places a gentle kiss on your exposed shoulder, relishing in the moment.

You turn to look at him, a soft look in your eye. 

“Hi,” you say quietly, bringing your hand up to brush some hair out of his face. 

“Hey, Snips” he responds even quieter, resting his chin against your shoulder. He notices your sleepy expression and manages a small smile. “Tired?” 

You nod slowly, mirroring his smile. “Had a long day, if you could imagine.”

He hums. “Hm. No. Wanna tell me about it?”

You yawn, and before you can say anything, someone claps.

“That’s our cue,” Pope interrupts, suddenly standing. “Everyone in the van.”

Everyone groans, JJ louder than everybody else. “No! C’mon, man we’re just getting–” he interrupts himself with his own yawn, “--started.”

Pope simply shakes his head.

Minutes later, they’re all in the car packed to the brim with bodies and equipment. A little while later, the van stops in front of your house, the low whir of the engine being the only thing heard on the quiet street. Pope shuts the lights off and puts the car in park, John B. opening the heavy door with ease. 

Pope turns around to look at Rafe awkwardly. “You, uh, going home? I can drop you off with Sarah.”

You stand and exit the van, speaking before Rafe can. “He's staying with me,” you say, shooting Rafe a knowing look. 

Rafe quietly sighs in relief, since the idea of going home alone crossed his mind more than once and he did not like the thought one bit. So, without further coaxing, he exits the van behind you and slides an arm around your waist. 

“Uh, congrats on tonight,” Rafe says awkwardly. “It was great.”

“Such enthusiastic words, Country Club,” JJ taunts. “We were serious about that bodyguard offer if you’re up for it. Unless you’re scared of jackasses like Freddie.”

“You just can’t get enough of me, huh, Maybank?”

You roll her eyes, lazily pushing Rafe towards your house. “Okay, recess is over. I’ll see you guys on Sunday for the fire.”

The group choruses a goodbyes to Rafe, goodbye Country Club to Rafe (along with a quiet yet grateful 'bye, Rafe' from Sarah), and the two of you head up the driveway towards your house. 

You both sneak in the way you've always snuck in, climbing up the porch gate and onto your balcony (with Rafe's help, of course), as you quietly slip into the confinements of your room. Granted, your heavily decorated bedroom is on the opposite side of the house from your parents’ but you're always extra careful to avoid any suspicion. 

Standing in the dimly lit room, you sigh and shut your eyes, fatigue coming over you more harshly than you'd prefer, swaying gently when you feel Rafe's cool hands steadying you on your hips.

Then, you feel him hug you, his broad shoulders caging you in as he rubs his hands up and down your back soothingly, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head. God, it feels so nice and your knees nearly give out at how much you missed this, missed him.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

You nod against his chest, drunk off the way you feel in his arms, letting him gently push you to sit on the edge of the bed while he grabs your favorite pajamas from the bottom drawer.

He comes back over to you, kneeling in front as he sets the pajamas down next to you. First he unzips your boots, delicately pulling your feet out of the shoe and rolling your socks off over her heel and past your toes. 

Once they’re off, Rafe gently taps her knee. “Hey. Your pajamas are ready.”

You pout. “Can you do it?”

Rafe lazily grins, his hands running up and down your thighs gingerly. “Of course, baby. Arms up.”

You do as you're told, raising your arms over your head as Rafe pushes your tank top up past your rib cage, over your bra, and up over your shoulders until it’s off. It leaves you in your bra, one that he caught a glimpse of earlier in the van, but he doesn’t move to pull it off.

Instead, Rafe grabs your pajama shirt, pulling it over your head and covering your torso protectively, then he reaches behind and unclasps the strapless bra, which falls into putty in his hands. He tosses it carelessly to the side.

Rafe pats your thigh gently. “Can you stand for a second?”

You whine in protest, but again do what you're told, pushing yourself up to stand while Rafe stays on his knees. He pushes your mini skirt down your thighs until it pools at your ankles, making him eye level with your core for a fraction of a moment. It doesn’t last long before he’s coaxing your feet to step through the pajama shorts, pulling them up your legs until they rest comfortably on your hips. 

He presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand before standing, making his way into your en-suite bathroom to rifle through the drawers, looking for makeup wipes. When Rafe finally finds them, he brings it out to you and gingerly rubs circles on your cheeks, forehead, neck, all over to get the remnants of tonight off your pretty face.

Discarding the wipe in your bedside trash bin, Rafe pushes stray hair pieces out of your face. “All done. You ready?”

You nod gratefully, crawling onto the bed and slipping under the covers on your usually side of the mattress. Rafe quickly undresses out of his dress shirt and slacks, leaving him in his underwear – his normal attire for whenever he sleeps over – turning off the bedside lamp before sliding in next to you, practically caging you in. 

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you hum when you notice the lights are off. Although the befuddlement doesn't translate, because Rafe settles in, wrapping an arm around you and slowly rubbing circles on your back as he slowly gets comfortable in a bed he missed so damn much. 

“Wait, hang on,” you murmur against his neck, “the light’s off.”

“And?”

“Well, I…”

“You wanna sleep with the light on?”

You nearly groan in frustration. “Are we not… finishing what we started earlier?”

Instead of initiating like you want, Rafe simply chuckles, the vibrato rumbling your nerves. He pulls you flush against his chest. “No, baby. Get some rest.”

“But…” You trail off pathetically, almost whining. “I want to.”

“You’re tired.”

You fight a yawn. “No, I’m not.”

“Snips,” he warns. “Sleep.”

“Ugh, Rafe.”

He says your name mockingly, his tone insinuating he’s wearing a lazy grin. 

Your shoulders sag against him as you huff, fanning hot breath over his chest. If you were standing, you probably would’ve stomped your foot, and he definitely would've poked fun at your desperation. 

But not tonight, because the way he’s holding you, shit, you can feel yourself sinking into the mattress.

Nonetheless, you reach out to press a palm on his chest, yawning once more but gently slapping him for emphasis on your next promise.

“Fine. But in the morning, I’m giving you the best head of your life.”

Rafe chuckles, amused at your determination. “Brat. Go to sleep.”

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni.

notes this was a long spiel of absolute brain garbage, genuinely. if you understood the snips nickname, shoutout. hope you somewhat enjoyed????