[geminiwritten]

worst way ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

notes: this fic took my soul... there's a piece of my soul in this??? so y'all better enjoy! no, but seriously, i can't wait to hear what you think! i giggled like an idiot when i came up with the idea, and throughout the entire writing process... so please, please let me know what you think! (also, i want to hear y'all chanting perv!bob from across the pacific ocean)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, fake marriage (is that a warning?), italics, seemingly unrequited love (but not really), tiny bit of angst, bob is a perv (i'm not sorry), reader is also kind of a perv (don't fight it), bob’s HUGE dick, and SMUT (male and female masturbation, heavy making out, female oral receiving, a bit of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, rough-ish sex, lots of praise) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 22467

Bob Floyd is an incredible husband. 

He’s sweet, attentive, and always knows exactly what to say to make you smile. He fills up your car before the gas gets too low—and checks your tires, too. He leaves sticky notes around the house with cute messages and gentle reminders. He goes with you to any appointment that makes you nervous—including the goddamn gyno. He knows your coffee order and wakes up early every Sunday to make you breakfast. 

He’s perfect. Literally. You couldn’t build a better husband in a lab, because Bob knows how to be an amazing husband better than anyone else on Earth. 

You almost feel bad for taking him away from his would-be soulmate. For marrying him out of convenience—for benefits over love. Not that you don’t love Bob Floyd—you do. Just… more like a best friend. A platonic soulmate. Someone you can rely on. 

You’ve known Bob since he was fresh out of flight school. You met him during his first assignment as a WSO to one of the strike fighter squadrons at Lemoore, back when you were still a civilian contractor in a lowly admin role with the digital systems department. 

For nearly two weeks, you went back and forth with him, troubleshooting and raising tickets with IT every time you found a new bug or glitch in the digital flight-planning or weapons-targeting software. He wasn’t shy, just quiet—and very sweet. He made sure you got recognised for all your work, and straight-up refused to deal with anyone else on the systems support team. 

Work discussions turned into coffee runs, which eventually became quiet moments amid the chaos of military life. You quickly became good friends, confiding in each other things you wouldn’t dare tell anyone else. You came to care for Bob more than you probably should have, and it wasn’t long before you started thinking of him as your best friend. 

Assignments came and went. He moved, you moved—but you always stayed in touch. Bob looked out for you in a way no one else ever did, even when he was halfway across the world. Eventually, you ended up back on the same base again—him crashing on your couch because he hated the barracks. 

You were burning out at the time. Your contractor status was fragile. Insurance was expensive. But you couldn’t even think about moving back home. One night, you were crying, spilling your guts to Bob, stressed out of your mind, when he said it—the two words that changed your life. 

Marry me. 

You said no at first, because of course you did. But after a long conversation and a few more tears… you agreed. Because it made sense. You trusted him—more than anything—and if he was okay with it, how could you not be? 

You promised that if he ever met someone he truly loved, you’d bow out and let him be happy. But every time you said it, he’d just shrug and say he is happy. That you make him happy. And that he’s just glad to be able to look after you. To know you’re safe and cared for, that you don’t have to worry about losing your job, or affording healthcare, or having somewhere to live. 

He just wants to be there for you—in every way he can. Including the benefits of a military marriage. 

So, now you’re here. On North Island. Because Bob’s special detachment just got commissioned as a permanent unit—which obviously means his wife would be moving to be with him. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bob asks, dark blue eyes wide behind his glasses. “I feel bad.” 

“Bobby, come on,” you sigh, propping a hand on your hip. “I’m a very capable woman. A few boxes aren’t going to break my back.” 

“I can call in sick?” he offers. 

You stare at him, deadpan. “Do not call in sick. Get your butt to work. I’m fine.” 

The new apartment is littered with moving boxes and half-assembled furniture. You’ve been here for two days already, but there’s still so much to unpack. Most of it’s yours. Bob barely brought anything from the barracks, but everything you hauled from Lemoore? Definitely not minimal. 

“It’s my shit anyway,” you say, walking him toward the door. “My responsibility to unpack.” 

He sighs as he steps into the corridor, turning back with a look you know too well. The one that says he’d set the sky on fire just to keep you warm. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” you say, exasperated. “Now go, or you’ll be late.” 

He hesitates—brows drawn, boots still planted. 

“Bob Floyd, go to work.” You lean in, hand on his shoulder, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Now.” 

His face flushes, lips twitching into a smile. “Fine. I’m going.” 

You watch him head down the hall toward the lift, cheeks still pink as he presses the button and waits. 

“Don’t lift anything heavy,” he calls, just as the elevator doors slide open. 

“I won’t,” you call back. “Leaving all the heavy stuff for you, my love.” 

He smiles softly, nods once, and steps into the lift. 

You roll your eyes and step back inside, shutting the door behind you. Then you lean back against it, staring out at the mess of boxes and half-built furniture. 

You’ve got the husband-and-wife act down pat after just over a year of marriage—although, at this point, most of it doesn’t feel like an act at all. Just genuine affection. Because you do love Bob. More than anything. And you don’t know what you did to deserve a best friend this goddamn sweet—all you know is that you’re beyond grateful for him. 

You linger there a moment longer, facing off with the chaos of cardboard and scattered tools. Then you take a deep breath, push off the door, and start tearing open boxes. 

You spend the entire day in the apartment—unpacking, sorting, putting things away. You leave most of the furniture alone. Not because you can’t build it, but because you know Bob would be mad if you did. He considers it his job every time you move, and honestly? You don’t mind. The fewer blisters you get from over-twisting stripped screws, the better. 

By six p.m., your limbs are aching, your head is throbbing, and your stomach’s growling so loud you're almost positive the neighbours can hear it. You still haven’t gone grocery shopping, which means the only things you’ve had all day are a coffee Bob made for you and a protein bar he picked up yesterday when he filled your car up. 

You dig your phone out from under a pile of packing paper and shoot Bob a quick text to let him know you’re heading to the store. Then you pull on a hoodie—or Bob’s hoodie, technically—and head out the door. 

The grocery store is only ten minutes away and easy to find. You park, grab a trolley, and start weaving through the aisles. Normally, you’d have some sort of list—scribbled on a scrap of paper or texted from Bob—but today, you’re winging it. On an empty stomach. Great. 

You’re only in the second aisle, gazing at the Pop-Tarts and wondering which flavour Bob would be the least disappointed in when— 

“Excuse me.” 

You whip toward the voice, eyes wide. “Crap. Sorry, am I in your way?” 

It’s a man—mid-thirties, probably—with pretty green eyes and a wide smile. He’s gorgeous in that obnoxious way that makes girls swoon—and yeah, he definitely knows it. 

“No, no,” he says, raising a hand. “I just—I have to ask. Do you always look this good in a grocery store? Because now I have to pretend I didn’t almost walk into a cereal display.” 

You snort softly. “Wow. Good one.” 

He lifts his brows. “Did it work?” 

You consider it for a moment, tilting your head and leaning a hip against the trolley. “Hm. No. Not really.” 

“Damn it,” he chuckles. “I’ve been trying to think of something to say for the last two aisles that wouldn’t make you immediately reject me.” 

You laugh softly, giving him a quick—but deliberate—once-over before meeting his gaze. 

“It’s not the line,” you say. “It’s the uniform. I don’t date military, sorry.” 

He frowns. “But I’m not wearing—” 

“Dog tags,” you cut in, eyes dropping to the silver chain peeking out from his shirt. 

“Shit,” he says, laughing. “You’re good.” 

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

“Really?” He steps aside to let someone pass, bracing one hand on the shelf beside you. “What else gave me away?” 

Your eyes flick down to his feet. “Boots.” Then his wrist. “Watch.” Then up. “Haircut.” 

He raises his brows. “Impressive.” 

“And your posture,” you add, gaze drifting across his broad chest. “It’s too straight. Too perfect.” 

His eyes narrow playfully. “Did you just call me perfect?” 

You roll your eyes. “I called your posture perfect, pretty boy. Now if you’ll excuse—” 

“So you think I’m pretty?” he interrupts, still not moving. 

“You know you’re pretty. You don’t need my validation.” 

He shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “Alright. What’s it going to take for you to get out of my way?” 

“A number,” he replies, too quick. 

You give him a flat look. “Okay. One. Now move.” 

He smirks. “Clever. But not the number I’m looking for.” 

“Then keep looking,” you say, gripping the trolley and stepping back. “Because I don’t date military. Trust me—it won’t end well.” 

Then you quickly steer around him before he can stop you, pushing the trolley down the aisle. 

“Won’t end well for you or me?” he calls after you. 

You glance over your shoulder. “Really want to find out?” 

“Can I at least get a name?” 

You stop at the end of the aisle, turning back with a small smirk. “See you around, pretty boy.” 

“Oh, you will!” he shouts, loud enough to earn a few puzzled glances from other customers. 

You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn your trolley into the next aisle. You catch glimpses of the man again as you shop, but you keep your focus on the task at hand—filling the cart with things you know Bob likes, and whatever you can throw together into a few easy meals. 

Still, you’re a little disappointed. Because that guy was hot, and he seemed like he could be a bit of fun. But you and Bob have one very strict rule: no military. 

You’re allowed to mess around with other people—because you’re both human, and you still have needs—as long as it’s casual and doesn’t put the arrangement in jeopardy. 

Hence, no military. 

It’s just too risky. Not that you ever really see the same person twice—because even that feels like a gamble—but especially not someone you might bump into at work. You’re still a civilian contractor, and if you hook up with someone and they recognise you on base? God, the whole thing could blow up. 

So you keep your hookups brief, occasional, and with people who have zero ties to the military. It’s just easier that way. Safer. 

Just as you reach the checkouts, your phone buzzes with a text from Bob: 

‘I’m home. Let me know when you are so I can come help.’ 

You smile and reply with a string of nonsense emojis. Then you pay, haul the groceries to the car, and head home. 

Bob is already in the garage when you pull in—because of course he is. He’s leaning against the wall, looking unfairly adorable in a pair of sweats and an old U.S. Navy hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. 

“Evening, Lieutenant,” you say with a grin. 

He steps up to the car, smiling softly. “How was your day?” 

“Productive,” you reply, popping the boot open. “Couldn’t you tell?” 

He chuckles. “Oh, you mean ground zero upstairs?” 

You nod. “Yep. That’s my organised chaos. Just you wait—by tomorrow afternoon, everything’s going to be perfectly put away.” 

He shakes his head, amused, and leans into the boot, loading as many bags as he can into each hand. When he straightens up, there are only two bags left—and it’s infuriating how easily he handles the weight of four bags per hand, like it’s nothing. 

“Show off,” you mutter, grabbing the last two. 

You head upstairs in comfortable quiet, neither of you feeling the need to fill the silence just for the sake of it. That’s something you’ve always loved about Bob—being around him feels effortless. He doesn’t expect anything from you. Doesn’t ask for more than you can give. 

You could sit beside him for hours and not say a word, and it would still feel like love—not real love, obviously, just the safe, platonic kind. The kind that doesn't get complicated. 

You’ve done things in front of him that would make other men blush. Cried with your mouth full. Passed out snoring on his shoulder during a movie. Gotten so drunk once that he had to wash your hair while you sat slumped in the tub, head in your hands. You’d been wearing your underwear, obviously, but Bob? He hadn’t even looked. Hadn’t dared. Just held the shower head and worked the shampoo into your hair like he was defusing a bomb. Gentle. Respectful. Sweet as ever. 

That’s the thing about Bob—he’s never once crossed a line. Never even hinted at it. You’ve been fake-married for over a year, shared hotels and couches and drunk stories and everything in between, and he’s never tried anything. Never looked at you like that. You don’t think he’s even thought about it. 

Which is honestly kind of a miracle. 

Any other man might’ve used this arrangement as an excuse to test the waters. A ‘harmless’ kiss. A comment. A suggestion. But not Bob. Bob’s too good for that. Too decent. He’s respectful to a fault. The kind of guy who would take a bullet for you but apologise if he got blood on your shirt. 

It’s why you love him so much. Not in a romantic way—just... as a person. As a partner. A friend. You trust him more than anyone. You’d trust him with your life, your secrets, your worst moments. And you know, without a doubt, that he would never do anything to jeopardise what you have. 

Honestly, if more men were like Bob Floyd, the world would be a better place. 

“I met a guy at the store,” you say, pausing halfway to putting the milk away. 

“Oh?” Bob replies, not looking up as he carefully arranges the eggs into the little plastic holder. 

“Yeah, but he was military.” 

“Damn,” he mutters, glancing up briefly. “North Island’s small. You’ll probably have to look further north for anyone not Navy.” 

You nod, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. “I figured. But he was hot.” 

Bob lets out a soft chuckle. “Really?” 

“Yeah. Bit cocky, but that can be fun sometimes,” you say, turning to unpack another bag. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just bugging ‘cause it’s been a while.” 

He hums in agreement, quietly focused as he lines the little spice jars up—in alphabetical order, of course—on the rack like it’s a puzzle that might save his life. 

You sigh, dramatic and long, as you drop a few bundles of fruit onto the bench. “Would it really be that bad?” 

He glances at you, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“A military hookup.” 

His eyes go wide. “Yes. That would be bad. Very, very bad. North Island is small. And my squad? We’re kind of... well-known.” 

“I’m not though,” you counter with a shrug. “I haven’t started my new role yet, but my desk is probably buried in the bowels of some overcrowded office. Who says I’d ever even run into you? Or anyone else?” 

Bob shakes his head, firm. “Still too risky.” 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing your hands up. “Fine. But if my vibrator blows up from overuse, I’m blaming you for cockblocking me.” 

He chuckles again, cheeks flushing pink as he turns away to continue putting away the dry ingredients. He doesn’t reply—but he doesn’t have to. You both know the conversation is over. 

And you know he’s right. It is too risky. 

Your marriage might be a secret for now—from his squad and from his CO—but once you start your new role, you’ll have to declare it. And then you’ll have to be even more careful. Not just about what you say. 

But who you do, too. 

- Bob - 

After dinner and an hour on the lounge—scrolling through your phones, only half-watching the Nat Geo doc on sperm whales that Bob put on—you sit up and yawn. 

“Okay,” you say, pushing off the couch. “I’m going to bed.” 

Bob nods, looking up at you with a soft smile. “No worries. Goodnight.” 

“See you tomorrow, handsome,” you call over your shoulder as you walk toward the main bedroom. 

Bob doesn’t mind giving you the bigger bedroom. He knows you like having an ensuite, plus you’ve always had more stuff than him. So every time you’ve moved, he’s happily taken whatever spare or second bedroom is left. 

He waits on the couch a little while longer, until he’s sure he can no longer hear you moving around. Then he quietly turns off the TV and pads into his bathroom. He brushes his teeth, removes his glasses, and steps into the bedroom across the hall from yours, where his mattress is still lying on the floor—he hasn’t gotten around to building the bedframe yet. 

He’s about to switch off the light when he hears it. That soft, familiar hum—barely audible, but impossible to mistake. 

Bob Floyd knows that sound. 

The sound of your vibrator, buzzing through the walls like a siren song. 

He groans low in his throat, flicks off the light, then drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He falls forward, burying his face in the pillows, and lets out a long, quiet sigh. 

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just waits—face pressed into the cotton, heart pounding, cock already swelling thick and hot against the mattress. 

Because he knows what’s coming. He always does. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, Bob knows exactly what happens next. And he lies there—unmoving, desperate, strung tight—just listening. 

It starts small. The shift of sheets. A soft sigh. The subtle creak of your bedframe as you get comfortable. 

Then the hum kicks in. Louder now. Higher. The toy you keep tucked in the top drawer of your nightstand—the one he’s heard more times than he’ll ever admit. 

He knows that sound like the back of his hand. Not from seeing it—God, he wishes—but from too many nights lying in the dark, counting every soft rise in pitch, every subtle shift in tempo like it’s a fucking metronome set to ruin him. 

Then your breathing shifts—sharp, shallow, soft. It’s quiet enough to pass for nothing at all. Quiet enough that you probably think no one can hear. 

But Bob hears everything. 

He bites into the pillow, hips slowly rolling down, the friction of the mattress nowhere near enough but still better than nothing. He grinds again… and again, slow and heavy, like he can’t stop himself—and really, he can’t. 

Because he can hear you. All of you. The way you sigh, that breathy little whimper as you press the toy closer. He imagines your thighs parting, your back arching, your free hand curling into the sheets. 

He groans into his pillow, hips pressing forward again—slow and deliberate—pressure dragging against his length while he pictures you wrapped around it. It’s not relief, not even close—but it’s something. It’s the only thing he has. 

And he knows he shouldn’t. God, he knows. This is fucked up. You’re ten feet away, touching yourself, slowly coming apart with no idea he’s lying here, rutting helplessly against his mattress like a goddamn teenager. 

But he can’t help it. He’s never been able to help it when it comes to you. 

Not when he can hear you biting back a moan, shifting your hips under the covers. And then—fuck—that tiny little gasp. The one that always gives you away. That last, wrecked sound you make when you come. 

He’s memorised it. Just like everything else about you. 

And the second it hits his ears, he knows it’s over—and he falls apart too. 

His body locks up, muscles tight, grinding hard into the mattress as his orgasm rips through him—hot, heavy, and overwhelming. He chokes on your name, burying it deep into the pillow like a secret he’ll never tell as he spills into his boxers. 

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s desperate. Messy. Shameful. 

And when it’s over, he just lies there—panting, trembling, sticky and spent. 

Shame curls in his stomach, guilt gnawing at the edges of his hazy thoughts. Thoughts of you, in your room, flushed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze. 

He hates himself almost instantly. 

But this is who he is. This is what he does. Not just since living together or being fake-married—no, Bob has been getting off with your name on his lips for years. 

Because the truth is—Bob Floyd is completely, helplessly, stupidly in love with you. 

God, he wishes he wasn’t. Or better yet, he wishes he’d had the guts to ask you out all those years ago when he first met you at Lemoore. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was too chickenshit. And now? Now he’s trapped in a fantasy you think is fake—wearing the ring, playing the role, losing his fucking mind. 

And he’s the idiot who signed up for it. Who offered it. 

All he’s ever wanted was to make sure you’re happy. Safe. Cared for. And if he couldn’t tell you the truth—couldn’t admit that he’s in love with you—then being your fake husband felt like the next best thing. 

Even though it’s killing him. Slowly. And ruining all his boxers. 

Because living with you, pretending to be married to you, is the hardest thing Bob has ever done—literally and figuratively. 

He likes to think he’s good at hiding it. Hiding how he really feels. 

But it’s getting more and more difficult every day, and— 

Fuck. He’s stupid. He left his goddamn bedroom door wide open. 

You could’ve walked out at any moment—you still could. To grab a drink. Check the front door. Or even adjust the thermostat. And the worst part? This isn’t even the first time he’s forgotten to shut it. 

Just like it probably won’t be the last. Because no matter how many times he promises himself he’ll stop getting off to the sounds of you touching yourself, he always lets those breathless little noises unravel him. 

Every damn time. 

After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity—and sticky underwear—Bob rolls off his mattress, grabs a clean pair of boxers, and heads into the bathroom. He cleans himself up in the dark, avoiding the lights—and his own reflection—before slipping back into his room and falling into bed. 

Sleep finds him quickly, despite the guilt lingering like static under his skin, and before he knows it, the sharp ring of his alarm is dragging him upright again. He groans quietly and moves through the motions the same way he does every morning. 

First, he makes a fresh pot of coffee. Then he showers, does his hair, changes into his flight suit, and heads back to the kitchen. 

Your door is still shut by the time he’s lacing up his boots. He can’t hear the shower running or the muffled sound of videos playing on your phone, so he figures you’re letting yourself sleep in. 

He fills his travel cup with fresh coffee before finding your favourite mug in the sink, giving it a quick rinse, and setting it beside the pot. Then he digs through his work bag for that little pad of yellow Post-it notes and scribbles out a message: 

Good luck today. Remember, the boxes are more afraid of you than you are of them. ♡ 

He sticks it to the side of your mug, checks his pockets for keys and ID, then slips out the door—making sure to shut it quietly—smiling to himself like a loser at the thought of the text you’ll send him when you find the note. 

He knows it’s ridiculous. He knows he shouldn’t indulge himself. But acting like a real husband is what keeps Bob from going completely insane. Kind of. 

Leaving you notes, bringing you flowers, doing all the little domestic things a good spouse might do for their significant other—that’s what makes Bob happy. And he knows it makes you happy too. So he’s not going to stop. Not until you tell him to. Not until you stop saving all his little Post-it notes in that journal you think he doesn’t know about. The one you keep in the top drawer of your dresser, hidden beneath your lingerie. 

And how does he know that? 

Well—spouses do each other’s laundry. It’s completely innocent. He has absolutely no hidden agenda when it comes to offering to do your laundry. It’s not like he’s ever gotten off into a pair of your panties before. 

That would be insane. Perverted, even. 

Bob wouldn’t do that. No way. 

“Hello?” Natasha waves a hand in front of Bob’s face. “Are you even listening?” 

He blinks, vision slowly refocusing on the brunette standing in front of him. He’s not sure when she walked into the briefing room—or when she even started talking. All he knows is that, before he started daydreaming about your lingerie drawer, he was the only one in the room. 

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?” 

She folds her arms and glances around, as if checking to see if anyone else can hear what she’s about to say. “How’d the move go?” 

Bob straightens a little, subtly shifting in his seat to check the room. Javy and Reuben have arrived and are seated at the back, talking about the flight schedule for the day. 

He turns back to Natasha and nods. “Good. She’s still unpacking. Won’t start on base until next week.” 

“You should tell Mav,” she says, sinking into the seat beside him. “You’re going to have to declare the relationship. It’ll be better coming from you. At least then you can ask him not to tell the others.” 

Natasha knows about you—of course—not because Bob told her, but because she saw his ring hanging beside his dog tags during PT one time. She also spotted the polaroid he keeps of you tucked behind the threat matrix card on his kneeboard, and she put two and two together. 

He hadn’t hesitated to tell her it wasn’t a traditional marriage—because he knew Natasha would understand. What he didn’t expect was for her to immediately clock that he’s in love with you. Or the way she sighed and shook her head when he told her that you didn’t feel the same and asked her to keep her mouth shut. 

He knows she wants to meet you, too. He’d even say she’s dying to. But that can’t happen yet. Not until you’re properly settled on North Island and his CO knows about the relationship. Then Bob will think about telling the rest of the squad. 

Or maybe he’ll just invite Natasha over for dinner and forget the rest of them entirely. Because you’re his secret—his favourite secret—and something about letting that out makes him feel nauseous. 

“Good morning, aviators!” Maverick calls as he walks into the room. “Nice to see that most of you care about being here early.” 

He drops his folders on the desk before powering up the digital display and pulling out his tablet. 

Natasha nudges Bob in the side and tips her head toward Mav. Bob hesitates, glancing over his shoulder to see that Mickey has joined Reuben and Javy at the back, but neither Bradley nor Jake are here yet. They’re not late—but they’re cutting it close. Which means Mav won’t start right away. 

Which means Bob has the perfect opportunity to speak to his CO about you. 

Natasha elbows him again, harder this time, her eyes wide with warning. 

“Okay,” Bob mutters, pushing up from his chair. “I’m going.” 

He walks slowly up to where Maverick is scowling at his tablet, tapping the screen harder than necessary. 

Bob clears his throat. “Mav. Can I talk to you for a sec?” 

Maverick glances up, brow furrowing. “Of course. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah—uh, yes sir,” Bob replies, dropping his voice low. “I just wanted to mention something before it comes up.” 

“Okay…?” Maverick says slowly. “Is this private? Do we need to leave the room, or—” 

“No, it’s okay,” Bob says, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “I mean, it is private, but before the others get here—um.” He clears his throat again. “My wife just moved here. She’s a civilian contractor, and she’s going to be working on base.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up, but his voice stays low. “Wife?” 

Bob nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Wow. Okay.” 

“I’d just appreciate if you could keep it quiet,” Bob adds. “We’re not really—” 

“Don’t worry.” Maverick drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “I get it. The squad doesn’t need to know. This is your life, your secret. Your wife.” 

God, Bob loves hearing that. His wife. 

“Just file the paperwork with HR, and let me know if there are any issues,” Maverick says, letting his hand drop. “If anyone questions it or gives you a hard time, send them to me. I’m not against a—um… convenient arrangement. So I’ll vouch for you, alright?” 

Bob’s cheeks flush. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” 

Maverick nods, and Bob takes the dismissal. He turns back toward the room and is relieved to find the others still deep in conversation at the back. Only Natasha is watching him, her eyes sparkling and lips curled into a knowing smirk. 

“What’d he say?” she asks as he drops into his seat. 

Bob shrugs. “Not much. He understood the situation.” 

“Oh?” Natasha raises a brow. “So he’s all over the fake-wife-who-you’re-secretly-obsessed-with thing?” 

Bob shoots her a sidelong glare. “Shut up.” 

She snorts quietly to herself but doesn’t say another word—just turns her gaze toward the digital display where Maverick is bringing up their latest sim stats. 

Eventually, Jake strides into the room, with Bradley not far behind. They drop into their usual seats, and Maverick launches into the day’s briefing—something about sim times, and how they need to be tighter. Bob tries to pay attention, but his focus is shot. He stares at the screen, nodding at the right moments, jotting down a few notes here and there, but his mind is miles away. 

With you. Wondering what you’re doing. Whether the unpacking is going okay. If you’ve seen his note yet. If you’ve texted him. 

He’s usually better than this—better at compartmentalising, staying locked in—but something about today feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re finally here. In North Island. In the apartment. In his everyday life, not just in his daydreams and text messages. 

He keeps thinking about last night. The way your shirt had ridden up while you reached to shove a box into the top cupboard above the fridge. The warm stretch of bare skin, the way your hips swayed without you even realising. Or the soft little moan you let out when you bit into your chocolate bar after dinner—like it physically hurt to taste something that good. Or the way your lips wrapped around it, slow and indulgent. He shouldn't be thinking about that. But he is. 

Mostly, though, he can’t stop hearing you. 

That breathy, broken little sound you made in the dark. The one that slipped through the walls when you thought no one could hear. When you were touching yourself. Coming apart. And he was ten feet away, grinding against his mattress, pretending it was you. 

God. What is wrong with him? 

He drags a hand across his jaw and tries to focus, but it’s useless. It’s like something inside of him cracked open during the special detachment—like the distance rewired him. Like missing you for so long left something raw and exposed, and now that you’re here, in his orbit again, he can’t think about anything else. 

You’re everywhere. In his apartment. In his bed—in a way. In his skin. 

And no matter how hard he tries to shake it off, you're still there. Taking up every thought, every breath, every beat of his heart. More than ever. And God, he’s not sure how to deal with it anymore. 

“Not hungry, Floyd?” Javy asks, pausing at the door with a small frown. 

Bob blinks, quickly glancing around the now-empty briefing room—except for Javy. “Is it lunch?” 

Javy chuckles. “Yeah, man. Where have you been?” 

Bob takes a deep breath and pushes out of his chair, gathering his things before following his very sceptical squadmate out into the corridor. 

By the time he reaches the mess hall, everyone has already grabbed lunch and settled around the usual table. Bradley and Reuben are deep in an argument about something Maverick apparently critiqued during their sim flight last week—not that Bob has any idea what it actually was—and Natasha is explaining to Mickey, for some reason, that possums do not, in fact, lay eggs. Why? No clue. 

“Okay, everyone shut up,” Jake says, dropping his tray with a dramatic thud. “I have an announcement.” 

The squad falls quiet—all eyes on him, brows raised, mouths shut. 

“Thank you.” Jake grins. “I just wanted to let you all know that I—Jake Seresin—met the love of my life last night.” 

Natasha frowns. “Are you talking about Penny’s new bartender? Because she literally told you to choke.” 

“Nope,” Jake replies, unfazed. “Different woman. Grocery store. Breakfast food aisle. She was buying Pop-Tarts but looking at me like I was the tart.” 

Reuben snorts. “That checks out.” 

“So what happened?” Bradley asks, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Did you talk to her?” 

“Yep,” Jake nods. “It was magical. She was so hot, and funny too. The chemistry was insane.” 

“Did you get her number?” Mickey asks. 

Jake sighs. “Well, no, but—” 

Bob frowns, leaning in. “What was her name?” 

“Didn’t get that either.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Hold on. So she’s the love of your life, but you don’t even know her name?” 

“We had a connection beyond this plane of existence,” Jake insists, eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you. It was spiritual.” 

“Is there anything you did find out about her?” Javy asks, clearly trying not to laugh. 

Jake shrugs. “Well, she clocked me for military pretty quick, and said she doesn’t date military.” 

Bob’s stomach drops. Panic creeps up the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand on end and his flight suit feel uncomfortably hot. 

“She wasn’t wearing a ring, was she?” Reuben asks, grinning. 

“Nope,” Jake says. “I checked. Not making that mistake a third time.” 

Bob exhales quietly, relief washing over him. He remembers—very clearly—seeing your wedding ring on your finger last night. He always notices when you're wearing it. He fucking loves seeing it on you. 

“Alright, Romeo,” Natasha says. “How exactly do you plan to find this mystery woman again if you don’t know anything about her?” 

“I trust the universe,” Jake says, leaning back with smug confidence. “I’ll see her again. Soon. It’s destiny.” 

Javy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, destiny. You might want to stop talking before someone calls medical and gets you checked for a head injury.” 

Jake just rolls his eyes and picks up his burger, eyeing the beef patty like it might be radioactive before finally taking a bite. 

There are a few minutes of quiet while everyone starts eating their lunch. Bradley grumbles about how he should’ve picked the burger instead of the sloppy joe, and Javy mutters something to Natasha about trading his vanilla pudding for her chocolate one. 

Then Reuben pipes up, loud and clear across the table. “So, Floyd… saw you whispering something real secretive to Mav this morning. What was that about?” 

Bob stiffens, nearly choking on his sip of water. “What? Oh, nothing. Just… work stuff.” 

“Oh yeah?” Reuben grins. “Looked like top-secret classified info. You trying to get reassigned?” 

“Probably just checking if he could skip night duty next week,” Natasha says dryly, without even looking up from her pudding. “Someone’s got laundry to fold and throw pillows to rearrange.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide. “I’m not—there’s no—” he splutters, flushing red as he waves a hand in mild panic. “It was literally just… paperwork.” 

Javy raises a brow. “Paperwork that makes you blush like that?” 

Bradley frowns, leaning forward to look at Natasha. “What are you talking about throw pillows?” 

She glances up, eyes wide and brows raised—the picture of innocence. “Hm? Oh, nothing.” 

Bob sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Can we just drop it?” 

“Ooh,” Mickey pipes up. “Maybe Bob has a secret love child we don’t know about.” 

Reuben leans in, eyes gleaming. “Blink twice if it was about alimony.” 

Bob lifts his head with a flat stare. “Do I look like I have time for children?” 

“Secret love child…” Jake says slowly—thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’d believe it.” 

“If Bob had a kid, don’t you think we’d know?” Bradley says, flicking a green bean across the table at Reuben. 

“Exactly,” Natasha grins. “If Bob had any secrets, we’d know. Right, Bob?” 

If looks could kill—or at least maim—Natasha would already be halfway to medical by now. 

“Right,” Bob mutters, jaw tight. 

“And if anyone had a secret love child,” she adds, gaze drifting across the table, “it’d be Hangman.” 

Jake scoffs. “Why me?” 

Mickey snorts. “Because you have the most sex, hands down.” 

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Reuben mutters. 

“Yeah,” Bradley smirks. “Seresin strikes out more than the rest of us combined.” 

“Well, yeah,” Mickey chuckles. “But only because he flirts with way more women than the rest of us.” 

“Again,” Natasha chimes in, “speak for yourself, Fanboy.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs interlaced with laughter as Mickey rolls his eyes, cheeks going just the softest shade of pink—but Reuben notices. The teasing quickly shifts to Mickey, leaving Bob staring down at his lunch with his pulse pounding in his ears. 

The next half hour passes in a blur while Bob does his absolute best not to think about you—which means, of course, you’re all he can think about. And then just as everyone starts rising from their seats, his phone buzzes with a burst of rapid-fire texts stamped with your contact name. 

‘The boxes are winning. If I don’t make it, tell my husband he was too good for this world.’ 

‘Oh, and he’s not allowed to move on for AT LEAST two weeks.’ 

‘P.S. your wife says thanks for the coffee. Might reward you later with some expertly folded laundry.’ 

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat while all the blood in his body reroutes south. He types out a quick reply: ‘What laundry?’ 

“You coming, Floyd?” Natasha asks, standing on the opposite side of the table with a frown. 

Bob looks up, dazed. “I—uh, yeah. I’m coming—I mean, you go. I’ll catch up.” 

“Okay...” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to follow the others toward the tray return. 

His phone pings again, lighting up with another text from you: ‘Found a pile on the floor in the bathroom and assumed it was dirty? Promise there was no creepy sniffing, and I definitely didn’t notice anything about your boxers!’ 

Bob lets out a strangled noise, drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, and buries his face in his hands. 

Right now, he wouldn’t mind if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Or if a rogue fighter jet spiralled off course and obliterated the mess hall. Or if a black hole cracked open beneath his chair and sucked all of North Island into oblivion. 

Except for you, of course. He’d want you to be safe. 

But aside from that, he’d gladly disappear right now. Some inexplicable catastrophe would do just fine—anything to keep him from going home and facing the woman who just washed his crusty boxers. Boxers that were only crusty because of her, anyway. 

And— 

Oh, God. Why is he getting hard? 

It doesn’t make any sense. One dumb joke about laundry and boxers and suddenly his body is acting like you sent nudes. He’s not even thinking about you like that—not really—and yet here he is, halfway to a full-blown erection in the middle of the mess hall with zero warning and absolutely no control. What the hell is wrong with him? 

He shifts in his seat, eyes wide and pulse thundering in his ears as his flight suit starts pulling taut in places it absolutely should not. 

If he doesn’t get moving, he’ll be late—and Maverick will ream him for it. But he can’t exactly stand up with a raging hard-on in the middle of the goddamn mess hall. 

With another strangled groan, Bob white-knuckles his lunch tray and holds it right in front of him as he shoves back his chair and stands. He beelines for the tray return, drops his tray without making eye contact with a single soul, and turns sharply toward the exit. 

Once he’s out the door, he yanks down the zipper of his flight suit and adjusts himself as quickly and discreetly as humanly possible. 

Mercifully, there’s no one within ten feet of him—but just ahead, where the squad is walking back toward the squadron building, Bob spots Reuben glancing over his shoulder. Brows drawn. Eyes wide. Curiosity written all over his face. 

And now Bob wants to die. 

Great. What a fantastic Tuesday he is having. 

By the time Maverick dismisses the squad at the end of the day, Bob can’t get out fast enough. He barely mumbles a goodbye before practically running out the door and across base. 

He flicks you a quick text to say he’s on his way, then jumps in his car. But instead of heading straight home, he makes a stop at the little florist he passes every morning and afternoon—the one he’s been wanting to visit for months. He’s been thinking about it since you agreed to move here, picking up flowers on his way home from work like some hopeless suburban husband. It’s dumb. Ridiculous, even. But he can’t help himself. He started doing it the first week you moved in after the ‘wedding’ and now it’s a ritual. A compulsion. 

He grabs a bunch of blood-red roses—because he’s romantic like that—and drives the rest of the way home, parking beside your car in the underground garage. His palms are sweating by the time he’s in the lift, and his heart won’t slow down. He feels twitchy. Wired. Like his whole body has been buzzing with anticipation since he last saw you—which, tragically, was only twenty-four hours ago. 

“I’m home,” he calls as he pushes open the door, trying not to sound breathless. 

The apartment already looks better than it did this morning. Fewer boxes now. The bookshelf is upright and full. The dining table is properly assembled—chairs and all. There’s a knife block, a roll of paper towel, and a candle on the kitchen bench. And right in the middle of the island—an empty glass vase. Almost like you knew. 

“Bobby,” you call, ducking your head out of your bedroom door at the end of the short hallway. “Just showered. I’ll be out in a sec.” 

His breath catches at the sight of you clutching a towel to your chest, damp skin glowing, droplets racing down your collarbones and disappearing between the curves of your breasts. Your hair’s wet. Your legs are bare. And for one unbearable, glorious moment, Bob forgets what language is. 

His cock twitches. 

“No worries,” he mutters, voice hoarse and a little too high. 

You’re already gone before he even finishes speaking, but you don’t fully close the door—and his pulse kicks hard against his ribs. Because fuck, you’re naked in there. 

He drops his bag like it’s on fire, kicks off his boots, and sets the flowers on the counter without even looking. Then he starts down the hall toward his room, right across from yours. His head is bowed like he’s deep in thought, but his eyes flick to that sliver of open door. 

And God—he sees you. 

Just a glimpse. Just enough. A stretch of skin. The slope of your back. And then you turn slightly toward the bed and—fuck. Your tits. Just there. Bare. Bouncing softly with your movement. 

He lets out a strangled sound and walks face-first into his closed bedroom door with a loud thunk. 

“Shit,” he hisses, clutching his forehead and praying to every saint he can think of. 

Your door swings open and you step out, now holding a sweatshirt to your chest. “You okay?” 

Bob can’t even look at you, his cheeks burning. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Wasn’t, uh… wasn’t looking. Just tired. Mav really pushed us hard. Long day.” 

“Mm,” you hum, clearly amused. “Well, Lieutenant, maybe wait until you’re in bed before you close your eyes?” 

He half-laughs, half-chokes, and gives you a quick salute. “Noted. Bed first.” 

Then he shoves his door open, stumbles inside, and shuts it behind him in one fast motion. He leans back against it, eyes squeezed shut, hands trembling. 

His cock is hard. Painfully, unreasonably hard. Pressed tight against his flight suit with nowhere to go. 

God, did you notice? 

He’s pretty sure you didn’t. Otherwise, you’d be freaked out. Right? 

With a deep breath, he drags the zipper of his suit down and wriggles out of it. He kicks it off his feet and leaves it crumpled on the floor before turning to face the door. Then he braces one hand against the wood while the other slips beneath the waistband of his briefs. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting his hard length spring free, skin slick with the heat of anticipation. 

His breath catches, shaky and uneven, as he wraps his fingers around himself. He drags slow, torturous strokes up and down, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the vivid, forbidden image of you—wet, vulnerable, just beyond that goddamn door. 

Each stroke draws a ragged gasp, the heat building low in his belly until it’s almost unbearable. His hips start to lift, chasing the mounting pressure, fingers tightening instinctively. 

He imagines your voice—soft, breathy—whispering something filthy in his ear, something that would have him leaking on the spot if he dared to imagine it too loud. 

His skin prickles, pulse pounding in his ears. The world shrinks until there’s nothing but his hand, the hard length in it, and this door separating you from him. 

He fights to steady his frantic breath as white-hot pressure builds at the base of his cock. And just as that delicious snap of heat tears through his body— 

“Hey, did you want the blue Gatorade or can I take it?” you call out. 

His whole body locks up, release spilling in hot, sticky ropes against the door. 

Fuck. 

“A-All good,” he croaks. “You have it.” 

He slumps forward, forearm pressing against the wood as his head drops with a soft thud. His dick twitches in his hand, still half-hard, still leaking. 

God, this has to stop. He can’t just jerk off every time he sees so much as your shoulder. 

Though, what he saw before was much more than that. But he was creeping—looking for it, trying to catch a glimpse. No, this all has to stop. Not just the wanking, but the perving too. Jesus Christ, it has to stop before you find out. Or worse—catch him. 

The thought makes his spine tingle—but... not in an entirely unpleasant way. 

Great. Now he’s turned on by the idea of you catching him in the act. 

Maybe he needs therapy. Or maybe he should be the one getting checked for a head injury—not Jake and his grocery store destiny. 

After stripping off his underwear—using them to wipe down the door, because he’s disgusting—and pulling on a pair of sweats, Bob finally steps out of his room. His cheeks are still hot, his pulse still hammering, but at this point, that’s just baseline when it comes to being around you. 

“You don’t have to keep getting me flowers,” you say, smiling softly as you arrange the bouquet in the vase like you’ve done it a hundred times. 

He shrugs. “Just being a good husband.” 

And trying to make up for jerking off to you like a goddamn lunatic. 

“Well,” you slide the vase into the middle of the kitchen island, “they’re gorgeous. Thank you.” 

He gives you a small nod, lips twitching like he might smile—but then he notices what you’re wearing, and it dies immediately. 

“Going out?” he asks, keeping his tone light. 

“Yep,” you reply brightly. “I’ve got a date.” 

His stomach drops. 

“Okay, not a date,” you amend quickly. “Just a hookup. Strictly sex. But I didn’t feel like I could show up in my sweats, you know?” 

Bob thinks you look stupid hot in your sweats. But right now you’re in a pair of jeans that cling to your ass and a shirt he’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, and his brain is starting to melt again. 

“Hence, the nice clothes,” you add, gesturing to yourself. “I shouldn’t be late. Probably won’t even eat. So… save me some dinner?” 

Bob frowns. “What dinner?” 

You roll your eyes, sliding one arm into your jacket. “Whatever you decide to make. Because you’re an amazing cook. And I know you’re going to make something, because you cook every weeknight except Fridays.” 

“What if I don’t feel like cooking tonight?” he mutters, feeling petulant and jealous and very much trying not to show it. 

You smirk. “Okay, grumpy. Then order me some extra takeout.” 

He doesn’t answer—just nods once and turns to the fridge, opening the door like whatever’s inside is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. 

“I’ve got my location on,” you say, stopping at the front door to slip your shoes on. “Just in case the guy’s a psychopath.” 

Bob glances over his shoulder. “Should I be worried?” 

“Nah,” you shrug. “He’s an accountant. Boring as hell. No military ties. Didn’t even know North Island was a Navy base—thought it was Air Force.” 

Bob’s eyes narrow. “You’re kidding.” 

“Nope,” you say with a laugh. “He’s up in La Jolla. I guess when you’re wealthy enough, you don’t have to worry about anything outside your little bubble.” 

Bob shuts the fridge and turns to face you, frown deepening. “La Jolla’s nearly an hour away.” 

“I know,” you say. “But no military, remember? Means I have to travel. And Bob, I know you don’t want to hear this—but I need sex. I’m dying. I’m falling apart. My vibrator can only do so much, but I need a real di—” 

“Okay,” he cuts in quickly, eyes wide. “That’s… enough. Just go. Be safe.” 

He steps up against the kitchen island, grateful that the counter is hiding his growing hard-on. Again. 

You flash him a grin and pull the door open. “If I’m not back by eleven, call the cops and avenge me dramatically.” Then you step out into the corridor, waving. “Love you! Bye!” 

“Love you too,” Bob mutters. 

The second the door clicks shut, he collapses forward, forehead hitting the cool marble benchtop with a groan loud enough that you might’ve heard it on your way to the elevator. 

Bob spends the evening doing everything he can not to be a creep. He cooks dinner, sets aside a container for you, and watches a documentary called Inside The Vatican—hoping some religious guilt might fix him. 

It doesn’t. 

After washing the dishes—and spending a concerning amount of time scrubbing your mug—Bob paces the apartment, trying desperately to think of anything besides jerking off. Then his eyes land on his mattress still lying on the floor, and he decides maybe building his bed will take up enough time. 

Again, it doesn’t. 

Once he hauls the mattress into the frame, he spends the next twenty minutes carefully rearranging the furniture in his room. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, phone in hand and stalks your location like a man possessed—willing it to move, craving nothing more than to see you heading home. But after ten minutes of nothing, he gives up. 

So he decides to wash his bedsheets. He strips the mattress, hauls the bedding to the small laundry room beside his bathroom, and shoves it all into the washing machine. Once the cycle starts, he checks the dryer—and immediately regrets it. 

Your bedding is crumpled up inside, still a little warm and smelling so strongly of you it makes his head spin. 

He tries—he really does—to pull it out and just dump it at the foot of your unmade bed. But no. He can’t leave it like that. He has to make it. It’s what you would do for him. Because you’re not just housemates—you’re friends, you’re a good fake husband and wife. Making your bed is just a kind, domestic gesture. 

That’s all. 

With a deep breath, he starts unravelling your bedding. He finds the fitted sheet and drapes it over the mattress, stepping carefully around the bed to tuck it in and smooth it out. His hands move mechanically, trying to focus on the task, willing himself to keep it together. 

Even though the scent of you in here is like a drug—sharp and heady, flooding his senses and making his sweatpants feel tighter by the second. But it’s fine. He’s got this. He’s in complete control. 

Once the fitted sheet is on, he picks up your duvet and throws it over the mattress before smoothing it down. Then he finds the two pillowcases, picks your pillows up off the floor, and starts shoving them in. 

He’s almost done—and almost proud of himself—as he drops one of the pillows at the top of the bed, closest to the side he’s on. Then he grabs the other one, leans forward to place it on the far side, and— 

His cock brushes the pillow. 

Just barely, but it’s enough. Enough to make heat pool at the base of his spine, to turn half-hard into fully, painfully hard in a heartbeat. 

His breath catches. His fingers twitch. He tries to pull back—he means to—but his body betrays him. His hips roll forward, dragging his length against your pillow in the most delicious, dangerous way. 

He groans. Loudly. And grinds down again—harder, deeper. His cock drags thick and aching against the pillow, trapped beneath the soft cotton and the cling of his sweatpants. The smell of you is everywhere—on the fabric, in his lungs, in his mouth—and it’s driving him fucking insane. 

He leans forward, spreads his legs, and humps the pillow like a dog in heat. Quiet, desperate thrusts. Every inch of his skin burning. His lips part on a shaky gasp as he picks up a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, rougher. 

His hands fist your duvet. The mattress creaks softly beneath him. 

He grinds harder, angling his hips until the pressure hits just right, chasing friction, chasing the fantasy. You, writhing under him. You, moaning into the mattress. You, letting him rut against your thigh like a pathetic, needy animal. 

His cock pulses hard against the pillow. He’s panting now, forehead damp, face twisted in agony as he thrusts deep into the softness over and over and over— 

And then he’s coming. Sharp and hot and shameful, grinding through it like he never wants it to stop. His sweatpants absorb most of the mess, but some of it seeps through onto your pillow, warmth soaking into the cotton. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters, scrambling upright. 

He snatches the pillow off the bed and yanks the cover off. There’s only a small stain on the pillow itself, barely the size of a dime. He’ll just flip it. 

He grabs the other pillow, strips its case, and bolts to the laundry, shoving both into the washer with his half-finished load. Then he makes a beeline for the linen cupboard and exhales hard when he spots a similarly coloured pair of pillowcases. 

Ignoring the mess in his sweats, he returns to your room and quickly finishes making your bed with the fresh covers—flipping the soiled pillow face down—before fleeing the scene and shutting the door behind him like it might somehow seal in his shame. 

He needs help. He needs therapy. He might even need religion. 

At this point, he’ll take whatever divine intervention he can get, because clearly he can’t be trusted not to hump your goddamn pillow like some desperate, fucked-up freak with zero self-control. 

What the hell is wrong with him? You’re his friend. His roommate. His fake wife. Not his personal fantasy to jerk off to in every room of the apartment. 

But no matter how many times he tells himself to stop, no matter how disgusted he feels afterward, it’s like his body won’t listen. 

It’s not just lust—it’s deeper than that. Obsessive. Addictive. He’s terrified you’re going to catch him one day and never look at him the same again. And that’s what really scares him. Not the guilt, or the shame, or even the twisted desire. 

It’s the thought of losing you. Because as much as he wishes he could compartmentalise the feelings from the hormones, it’s all tangled up now. He needs you like air—like water. 

Romantic or not, sexual or not—he just needs you. 

So he has to stop. He has to figure out how to act normal before he fucks this whole thing up beyond repair. 

After a cold shower—self-imposed punishment—and making his own bed, Bob flops onto the couch and hits play on a documentary about sea otters. Then he checks the time on his phone—and your location. Again. 

He tells himself it’s just to make sure you’re safe, but his heart still leaps when he sees you’re already halfway home. 

He tries to focus on the otters—really tries—but his eyes keep darting to the front door like you might materialise out of thin air. Which is stupid, because he knows exactly how far away you are. He’s watching your little blue dot crawl toward him on his phone screen like a stalker. 

Thirty painstaking minutes later, the dot pulses directly over his own. Right on top of him. 

He holds his breath. And when the lock finally clicks, he forces his gaze back to the TV screen—doing his best impression of someone who is totally, one hundred percent emotionally invested in a family of sea otters and not, in any way, pathetically desperate to see you walk through the door. 

“I’m back,” you mutter, shoving the door open a little harder than necessary. 

Bob frowns, eyes narrowing at your expression. You’ve come home from hookups before, and he knows what you look like when they’ve gone fine, or good, or even great—he hates that the most. But this? This isn’t any of those. 

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “You alright?” 

You scowl as you shrug out of your jacket, tossing it toward the dining table along with your keys. Then you kick off your boots and leave them lying haphazardly by the door. 

“No,” you snap. “I’m not alright. That was the worst experience of my life.” 

Bob’s eyes widen—and it takes everything in him not to smile. He shifts on the couch, making more room for you, and grabs the remote to pause the TV. 

“What happened?” 

You stomp over and drop down beside him, groaning as you fall onto your side into the throw pillows. 

“He opened the door shirtless,” you start, already exasperated, “which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t holding a protein shake—and if the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t, ‘Sup, babe.’” 

Bob’s brows shoot up, but he manages to not to laugh. 

“Then he led me straight to his room, which reeked of feet and Axe body spray. He dropped his fucking sweats, laid down on the bed, pointed at his half-hard dick, and said—” you hold up finger quotes, “—‘The weapon awaits.’” 

Bob snorts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. 

You sit up and glare at him. “Don’t.” 

He shakes his head. “Didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re thinking it.” 

“Thinking what?” he asks, all wide eyes and faux innocence. 

You give him a flat look. “That I deserve it.” 

He shrugs, fighting a grin. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“No, but you’re thinking it,” you mutter, settling back into the couch with your arms folded. 

He chuckles softly. “Maybe a little.” 

“Ugh,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “I just wanted to get laid, not be traumatised.” 

Bob snorts. “Maybe don’t trust what people say on dating apps. Or drive almost an hour to hook up with a guy you’ve known less than a day.” 

“I needed sex, Robert,” you say with a sidelong glance. “What else was I supposed to do?” 

His heart kicks against his ribs. He wants to say me. You were supposed to do me. Your best friend. Your fake husband. The guy with a perfectly functional—and admittedly impressive—dick that is quite literally always hard for you. 

He opens his mouth to reply—to say something he’ll almost definitely regret— 

But you cut in first. 

“He couldn’t even find my clit. I had to literally direct him—like a fucking traffic controller.” You curl your legs up beside you, muttering, “I faked it just to get out of there.” 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Faked it?” 

You nod, eyes still fixed on the frozen TV screen. “Yup.” 

There’s a beat—long enough for Bob to imagine every possible thing he could say next. 

But then you sigh—loudly. “I just want someone who listens. Is that really so much to ask?” You glance over at him, brows drawn. “I’m not expecting some expert sex god. Just… someone who pays attention. Enough to figure out what actually feels good.” 

Bob lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Imagine that. Someone who listens. Really pays attention. Makes sure you finish.” He shifts awkwardly, glancing down to check that the bulge in his pants isn’t obvious. “Multiple times, even.” 

“God,” you sigh. “Men like that must be a myth.” 

He clenches his jaw, biting back every smartass thing echoing in his head. Now isn’t the time to make you feel worse. And it probably isn’t the time to admit that he’s been secretly in love with you for years. 

Although, Bob’s not sure when the time for that would ever come. 

Right now, you just need a friend. Someone to complain to. Someone to remind you that it’s not you—it’s men. They suck. 

“Well,” you say, swinging your legs off the couch and pushing up. “At least I’ve got my vibrator to make up for that shitty experience.” 

Bob nearly chokes. 

“I’m heading to bed,” you add. 

“No worries,” he mutters, giving you a tight smile. “Goodnight.” 

“G’night Bobby,” you murmur, soft and sleepy, flashing him a small smile before turning away. 

And God—if that isn’t a shot straight to the heart. A kill shot, to be specific. 

Because you’re so warm. So sweet. And you love him so much—just not like that. He wishes it were enough. But more than anything, he wishes he could show you what you mean to him—because words wouldn’t even come close. 

And fuck, he really wishes you weren’t about to lay your head on a pillow stained with his cum. 

- You - 

By Wednesday afternoon, just about everything is unpacked. There’s a stack of broken-down boxes by the front door, a few rubbish bags full of packing paper, and one very exhausted woman lying on the living room floor—you. 

It’s only three p.m., which means Bob won’t be home for a few more hours, but after three straight days in this apartment alone, you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. Sure, you’ve seen Bob in the evenings—and there was that pathetic hookup last night—but aside from that, it’s been nothing but boxes and furniture and cleaning. 

You don’t necessarily need human interaction. You just need a break. A change of scenery. A coffee, maybe. 

With a deep breath, you push off the floor and grab your jacket from the rack beside the door—the one you just finished assembling. You slide your arms in, slip your shoes on, and head out. 

You’re not overly familiar with North Island, but you’re pretty sure you saw a nice-looking café a few blocks over. And you don’t mind a walk. 

You try to take in your surroundings as you go, but it’s hard not to check out every fit man you pass. Because God, you are horny. So horny that even two rounds with your vibrator last night did nothing to loosen the knot burning low in your stomach. You need dick. Real dick. Good dick. Something hard and decently sized, attached to a reasonably attractive man who knows how to use it—someone who can fuck you stupid so you stop eyeing every guy like he’s a walking, talking slab of prime beef. 

God. You don't want to admit it, but even Bob was looking good last night. With his flushed cheeks, soft messy curls, and those big blue eyes behind his adorable glasses. You were five seconds away from dragging him into your room and letting him ruin your freshly washed sheets—ones you’ll have to remember to thank him for getting out of the dryer and making your bed with. Sweet man that he is. 

But Bob is too nice for you to ask something like that of him. You don’t doubt he’d be decent—probably even good. There’s something about him that tells you he’s not quite as vanilla as people think. But he’s your best friend. You can’t risk ruining a friendship and a perfectly good fake marriage just because you’re desperate to come. 

Not that you think Bob would fall in love with you or anything. God, no. Bob doesn’t see you like that. You just know that arrangements like that get messy, and you love him too much to risk it. 

So for now, you’ll just have to keep looking for some decent dick—something to sate the white-hot need burning behind your hipbones. 

“No way.” 

Your thoughts scatter like a flock of birds, reality seeping back in as you blink toward the source of the mildly familiar voice. 

“Oh,” you laugh softly, cheeks already burning. “It’s you.” 

The green-eyed man from the grocery store grins—and it’s so bright, so wide, you almost want to slide your sunglasses further up your nose. 

“It’s you,” he echoes, just a little breathless. 

That’s when you notice what he’s wearing—a tight tank, gym shorts, running shoes. His tan skin glistens with sweat, chest rising and falling too fast. He’s on a run—or at least he was. 

You lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be at work? You know, protecting and serving?” 

He shrugs, bracing a hand on each hip. “My CO dismissed my squad early. Thought I’d get some PT in off-base.” 

“Isn’t this whole island a base?” 

He chuckles. “Technically, yeah. But I meant outside the hangar. With the ocean breeze, warm sun—” his gaze flicks down, then back up, “—pretty girls.” 

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because there weren’t enough of those at the grocery store?” 

You don’t wait for a comeback—you just flash him a small smirk and keep walking, gaze locked on the café at the end of the block. 

“Hey, wait a second,” he says, easily falling into step beside you. “You can’t just disappear again. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Monday night. I need to know your name.” 

“Since Monday?” you glance at him, brows raised. “Wow, is this your longest relationship, then?” 

He snorts but stays at your side—clearly undeterred. “Why do you assume I’m a player?” 

“Seriously?” You give him a flat look. “Look at you.” 

He grins. “And?” 

You huff a laugh. “God, you’re a piece of work.” 

“But I’m worth it.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just give me a shot.” 

You stop walking and turn to face him, arms folding tight across your chest. “Look. You’re hot—and you know it—but you’re also military. I have a strict rule, okay? Besides, I’m—” you pause, pulse quickening, “I’m not looking.” 

He frowns. “What does that even mean?” 

You glance down at your hand and instantly regret not wearing your ring today. Because as hot as this guy is—not exactly your type, but undeniably attractive—you just can’t do military. Bob would kill you. 

And what better way to scare someone off than with a wedding band? But no—you left it in your car. Like always. You only wear it when you need to, and usually ditch it when there’s a chance you might run into someone worth boning. Like at the grocery store the other day. Or now—even though that was clearly a mistake. 

You clear your throat. “It means thanks but no thanks. Now leave before I do something stupid.” 

He grins. “What if I want you to do something stupid?” 

“You don’t even know what stupid thing I’m talking about.” 

He shrugs. “I’m hoping it’s something along the lines of kissing me—or worse.” 

You roll your eyes again. “It’s definitely worse.” 

He opens his mouth to reply, but the shrill ring of his phone cuts in. He yanks the zipper on his pocket, pulls it out, and frowns at the screen. 

“You should get that,” you say, nodding to the phone. 

He looks up. “Wait, just—” 

“See you later, pretty boy.” 

You flash him one final smirk and turn on your heel, heading back the way you came—determined not to give him one more second to wear you down. You can just have coffee at home. 

And honestly, at this point, he’s kind of annoying. Too persistent. Too cocky. There’s something about him that feels like one giant neon warning sign—aside from the military thing. Something deeper. Weirder. Something that feels... dangerous. And not in a fun way. 

You take the first corner you reach, then the next, hoping that if you wind your way home along a complicated enough route, he won’t be able to follow you. Not that you think he would. You’re pretty sure he’s just a cocky boy—not a full-blown stalker. 

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment block, and you’re definitely feeling a hell of a lot better than when you left—coffee or not. Sometimes it really is enough to get some fresh air. Go for a walk. Touch grass. Remind yourself the world isn’t made entirely of cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. 

You ride the elevator up to your floor and walk the hall, chewing your bottom lip as you wonder what to make for dinner. Bob usually cooks, but every now and then, you like to return the favour—not that it’s ever quite as good. 

You slide your key into the lock, turn the handle, and— 

Freeze. 

A choked moan breaks through the quiet apartment. Low, needy—completely unfiltered. 

What the fuck? 

You ease the door open, step inside, and shut it quietly behind you. Bob’s boots are by the door, his duffel bag dropped beside the dining table, and there’s a bottle of wine on the kitchen island. 

He’s home early. 

Another groan curls through the air, thick and strained, and your breath catches. 

You should make a sound. Slam the door. Jingle your keys. Do literally anything except stand here like a frozen creep. But you can’t. Because your pulse is racing, your mouth is dry, and that ache low in your belly is pulsing hot. 

Then you hear it—soft and unmistakable—a whimper, followed by a choked, “Mmmf—fuck.” 

Oh God. That’s Bob. 

You swallow hard and step forward quietly. The closer you get to his bedroom, the louder it gets. Deep, unsteady breaths. The slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. A low gasp, a soft curse. The tiniest creak of bedsprings beneath a body working for release. 

And holy shit, you're already wet—your panties soaked and sticking to you, no match for how goddamn horny you are. 

You stop in the hallway, standing halfway between your bedroom door and his. The right thing would be to duck into your room, slam the door, and pretend you didn’t hear a thing. 

But it’s too late. You’re too far gone. Too turned on. Your pulse is pounding, your legs feel like jelly, and you can’t pull yourself away. 

Like a fucking creep, like a goddamn pervert, you lean forward and peer through the narrow crack in his door. 

And stop breathing. 

Bob is sprawled across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His shirt is bunched up around his ribs, sweatpants shoved low on his hips—just low enough for his hand to move. 

And fuck, is it moving. 

His knuckles are tight, forearm flexing, sinew rippling beneath skin. His chest rises and falls with every shallow breath, and his head is tipped back against the pillow, damp tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead. 

His lips are parted. Brow furrowed. Glasses pushed halfway up his forehead like he forgot they were there. 

You can see the muscles in his stomach twitch every time his hand drags up the length of his cock—thick, flushed, glistening with slick—and then back down again. Controlled. Focused. Like he’s thinking about something—someone—very specific. 

He lets out a groan. Soft. Broken. And fuck, it’s... almost your name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's not. You're just imagining things. You’re horny and delirious. 

And a total perv right now, but you just can’t find the will to move. 

You watch as he bites down on his bottom lip, hips lifting from the mattress like he’s chasing something just out of reach. 

Without thinking, you slide a hand between your thighs and press two fingers against your clit. The pressure sparks a jolt of pleasure up your spine, forcing you to bite back a whimper. 

This is wrong. So wrong. You’ve never even thought about Bob like this, let alone seen him. Well—okay, maybe you’ve almost thought about it once or twice over the years, but you’ve always been able to stop yourself. Because this is Bob. Your best friend. Your sweet, kind, too-good-for-this-world best friend who— 

“Sh-Shit—hnng, oh—fuck.” 

—who looks so fucking hot right now. 

You watch his hand speed up—just a little. Grip tighter now. Surer. He’s close, you can tell. You can see it in the way his thighs start to tense, the way his hips jerk up more urgently into his fist, how his breath starts to catch and stutter like he’s barely holding on. 

You press harder against your clit, your wet panties sliding as you move your fingers in slow, torturous circles. 

His back arches slightly. His other hand fists in the sheets beside him, the tendons in his arm straining. The room is filled with wet sounds and shaky breathing and the quiet thud of the headboard tapping rhythmically against the wall. 

Then his mouth drops open. His brows pull tight. 

You draw a shaky breath—almost silent, but not quite. Not that he could hear it over the sound of his own ragged gasps. 

A long, wrecked sound slips out of him—deep in his chest, low and guttural. “F-fuck—” 

Your fingers stop moving, and you just watch. Captivated. Hungry. Mouth watering at the sight you shouldn’t be seeing. 

He strokes himself faster, chasing the edge, working right up to it with almost painful precision. His eyes squeeze shut, a flush rising over his chest, his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

And then he’s coming. Hard. Head thrown back, neck arched, stomach flexing so tight you can see every line of muscle. His whole body locks up—frozen in pleasure—then shudders as thick ropes spill over his knuckles, striping his hand, his abs, the hem of his shirt. 

His hips twitch as he rides it out, groaning softly as aftershocks ripple through him. He slows his strokes, pumping himself through every last wave until he’s spent and breathing heavy, chest rising and falling like he’s just run ten miles. 

For a moment, he just lies there—limp and boneless. One hand still curled loosely around the base of his cock, the other pressed flat to his chest like he’s grounding himself. Sweat shines on his skin. His curls are damp. His glasses are crooked. 

He looks ruined. And completely, stupidly beautiful. 

He’s still Bob Floyd—your best friend, housemate, fake husband. But now he’s something else too. Something you can’t unsee, can’t stop wanting. And it’s making your head spin. 

You watch his eyes flutter open—and bolt. You slip into your room and ease the door shut, praying he doesn't hear the soft click behind you. Your breathing is ragged, your pulse is pounding, and you’re clenching around nothing. 

God. You need something. Now. 

You stumble toward the bed, stripping off your pants as you go, and drop onto the edge of the mattress. Then you yank open your nightstand drawer and reach all the way to the back—for the one toy you only use when you're desperate. 

Thick silicone. Eight inches. Subtle ridges and a realistically moulded head. 

Normally, it feels big in your hands. But after seeing Bob? Not even close. You’d always suspected he was packing—years of damp swim trunks and clingy grey sweatpants made it hard not to—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality. 

Because he’s big. Cross-your-heart and have-paramedics-on-standby kind of big. 

And God, you want it. 

With a pitiful whimper, you collapse back onto your pillows, knees falling open. You're breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, the image of Bob—sweaty, panting, coming hard over his own stomach—burned behind your eyelids. 

You drop the toy between your thighs and glide it through your slick. You’ve never been this wet in your life—you’re sure of it. You tease your entrance, chest heaving, every nerve pulled tight—then drag it over your clit— 

And moan. Loud. Raw. Desperate. 

But you don’t stop. Not even as your face flushes hot with embarrassment. Not when the ache between your hips is too sharp, too deep to ignore. 

You push the tip in, slowly at first, and let out a trembling gasp. It’s not him—not even close—but your body doesn’t care. Not when you’re this wet. Not when your head is full of the sound of his voice, his breath, the way he groaned like he was falling apart. 

You slide it in deeper. Your hips twitch. Your fingers tremble on the base. 

Your mind paints the picture so clearly it might as well be real—Bob above you, thick and flushed, eyes dark behind his glasses. He’d be gentle at first, probably ask if you were sure, if you were okay. You’d tell him to stop being sweet, and then he’d ruin you. 

You fuck yourself harder. 

The stretch, the angle, the slick slide of it—it’s good. Better than good. But it’s not enough. You want weight. You want heat. You want Bob’s hands on your hips, his mouth at your ear, telling you you’re doing so well. 

You twist your wrist and angle the toy up, hitting just the right spot—and stars explode behind your eyes. 

“F-fuck—” 

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Sharp and sudden. Your back arches off the bed, toes curling, walls fluttering tight around silicone. Your free hand fists the sheets. Your mouth drops open, and a broken sob of a moan punches out of you as you come. 

It rolls through you in waves. Shudders. A full-body collapse. 

You lie there for a few minutes—panting, legs still twitching, the toy slipping free as your muscles go limp. Your sheets are damp beneath you. Your chest is slick with sweat. And your brain is buzzing with images of Bob—ones you’ve never even considered until now. 

Well, shit. That’s new. 

With a heavy breath, you sit upright and grab the sticky toy. Guilt and panic twist in your stomach as you pad toward the ensuite—all the heat of the moment fading fast. 

You need a shower—a long one. With scalding hot water. And maybe a lobotomy. 

After cleaning yourself up, stripping your bed, and changing into pyjamas—it’s still early, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving the apartment again—you finally emerge from your room. 

Somewhere between washing your hair and scrubbing the shame from your skin, you decided that pretending nothing happened is the best way to go. Because technically, nothing did. You both masturbate. You’re both adults. Sexually active ones. There’s no evidence that says you were or weren’t thinking about each other. 

Well—you know Bob wasn’t. He thought he was home alone. 

Bob would never do something as perverted as what you just did. 

But he doesn’t need to know about it. So if you act normal, then there’s no reason for him to suspect anything. Right? 

“Hey,” you call lightly as you step into the kitchen. 

Bob glances up from whatever he’s slicing with practiced ease. His cheeks are tinged pink, eyes slightly wide, and there’s the faintest trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. But otherwise, he looks… composed. Relaxed. 

Well. He would, after a release like that. 

“Hey,” he replies, voice even. “Didn’t hear you come home.” 

Your cheeks flare with heat, but you wave it off. “Yeah, I ran straight into the shower. Went for a run and got a bit sweaty.” 

He raises a brow, clearly amused. You don’t run. And you both know it. 

"Right," he mutters, eyes dropping back to the chopping board. 

You clear your throat and square your shoulders, determined not to let this be awkward. 

“You were home early,” you say, leaning a hip against the kitchen island. 

He nods. “Yeah. Maverick let us go early.” 

“Oh, that was nice of him.” 

Your eyes drift to the ingredients spread across the counter—chicken breasts, halved baby potatoes, fresh rosemary, a bowl of mixed greens. It’s one of his go-to dinners, the kind he could make blindfolded with one hand and still have it taste incredible. 

And in the middle of it all, a bottle of wine. 

“I was going to offer to cook tonight,” you say, reaching for the bottle. “Did you bring this home?” 

He glances up again. “Yeah. Thought you’d like it.” 

You run your eyes over the label, nodding. “Looks good. Want some?” 

He nods once, without looking up, as you turn to grab two glasses from the cupboard above the bench. Then you uncork the bottle, let it breathe for a moment, and pour two generous glasses—sliding one across to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. 

The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden. The usual easy rhythm between you is strained, like you’re both circling something neither of you wants to name. 

Quiet tension stretches between you, filled only by the low hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of Bob’s knife. He doesn’t look up again, and you don’t dare look at him for too long. Instead, you swirl your wine and take slow, nervous sips until the alcohol starts to hum in your blood—and you decide to sit down. 

“I’m going to put a movie on,” you say suddenly, already turning toward the living room. “Any requests?” 

“I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Maybe something with action.” Then he drops his voice, low and half to himself—like he’s talking to the chicken. “And no sex scenes.” 

You choke on your wine, nearly tripping over nothing on your way to the lounge. 

You don’t respond. You can’t. What are you supposed to say to that? 

So you just drop onto the couch, set your glass on the coffee table, and start scrolling through streaming apps—skipping anything with even a hint of romance. 

- 

You barely speak to Bob for the next twenty-four hours—and you’re pretty sure it’s the longest you’ve ever gone without properly talking to him. 

It’s not that you’re avoiding him. Okay, maybe you’re avoiding him a little. But seriously, can you be blamed? You just saw your best friend’s huge dick—in action—and then proceeded to come so fast it was honestly kind of embarrassing. And now every time you blink, there he is again—sweaty, panting, flushed, wrecked. Fucking his own fist with your name almost on his tongue. 

Or at least, that’s what you like to imagine he was saying. 

But the worst part is the sudden, devastating realisation that Bob is hot. Not just cute. Not just objectively attractive. But actual, soul-shattering, knee-weakening, unfairly hot. 

When the hell did that happen? 

Maybe you’ve known it all along. Maybe you’ve just been ignoring it. Denying it. 

Because you’ve always known he’s good-looking. He’s tall and broad and has that stupidly nice face with kind eyes and a soft mouth he never quite knows what to do with. But you’d written him off early. Filed him under safe. Untouchable. Your best friend. Your fake husband. Too good, too sweet. Not for you. 

But now you’ve seen him. And it’s like the filter is gone. Like you’ve stepped on a landmine you didn’t even know existed and now your brain has been blown open by the truth. 

Bob Floyd is possibly the hottest man on planet Earth. 

He’s hot in a soft, devastating way. Hot in a slow-burn, bedroom-eyes, makes-you-feel-safe-then-fucks-you-stupid kind of way. The kind of hot that sneaks up on you. That lives under your skin. That ruins everything. 

And now he’s just... existing. In your shared apartment. Doing normal things. Breathing. And you’re in a constant state of barely holding it together. 

God, you’re an idiot. You need to sort yourself out—immediately—before Bob realises what a creep you’re being and everything blows up. 

But first… you have to tell your contract manager that you’re married. 

You’re awake before Bob’s alarm on Friday morning, but you don’t get out of bed. You just lie there in the quiet, listening to him move around, waiting until you hear the front door close behind him before throwing back the covers. Then you shower, make your bed, do your hair, and change into your clothes for the day. 

The smell of fresh coffee hits you the second you open your door. And sure enough, beside the pot—with a little yellow Post-it stuck to it—is your favourite mug, freshly washed. Just like every other morning. 

Made extra coffee. There’s banana bread in the fridge. See you tonight, Mrs. Floyd. ♡ 

Your heart kicks hard and heat swells through your chest. Everything feels different now. Heavier. Like you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life where every little habit, every small kindness, means more than it used to. 

Like you’ve been half-asleep this whole time and only just woken up to the fact that your dorky, sweet, thoughtful fake husband is also... kind of perfect. 

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to feel different. 

Your phone pings, startling you out of your spiralling thoughts. You swallow the lump in your throat and quickly check it—a text from your contract manager asking when you’ll be on base today. 

Shit. You probably should have told Bob last night that you’d be visiting base. But instead, you hid in your room pretending to be exhausted because you didn’t trust yourself to sit next to him without doing something weird. 

You type out a quick reply to let your manager know you’ll be there around midday. Then you tuck your phone away, peel the little note off your mug, and pour an exceptionally large cup of coffee—because that ought to help your nerves. Right? 

After coffee, banana bread, half a movie you barely register, and another coffee, you decide to go for a walk. Because you’re still thinking about Bob, and you still can’t figure out exactly what it is you’re feeling. 

You do the same loop you did two days ago—same turns, same streets, same houses—before returning home with zero recollection of it because all you can think about is Bob. He’s everywhere—in your head, under your skin, stuck between your ribs. 

You try to distract yourself by cleaning the already spotless apartment, but it’s no use. So by eleven a.m., you grab your wallet and keys and head out the door. Maybe you can go for a walk and get your bearings on base before meeting up with your manager. And maybe you’ll try to ogle a few other military men so you stop thinking about the one who sleeps across the hall from you. 

At this point, you’ll try anything. 

You go through all the usual checks when you get to base—signing in at the front office, getting your visitor’s pass, a quick vehicle inspection. Then once you’re cleared, someone calls your manager to let them know you’ve arrived, and the clerk hands you a little printed map, pointing out the best place to park for your building. 

Jeannie, your contract manager, is glad you’re early—which is good. That means less time alone to spiral. 

You find the building easily, and soon enough you’re sitting in a small conference room going over the details of your commencement next week. 

“So,” Jeannie says, shuffling her papers into a neat pile, “you mentioned there was something you needed to flag before you start?” 

You nod. “Yes—um, sorry if I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I’m married.” 

Her brows lift, as if to say and? 

“My husband is an aviator,” you add. “Here. On base.” 

“Oh,” she nods. “Right. That’s fine. Ideally, we’d have had it declared earlier, but it’s not a big deal. Since you don’t technically work together, and you're a civilian contractor, there’s no concern about rank. I’ll just get HR to send over the paperwork. You’ll both need to sign, as well as his Commanding Officer. It’d be best to get it squared away before Monday—do you know who his CO is?” 

You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck. 

“Maverick,” you reply quickly—without thinking. “Oh—sorry, I mean—” 

“It’s alright,” Jeannie says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I know who Maverick is.” 

You nod, pressing your lips together while she pulls out her phone and makes the call. As she speaks to whoever’s on the other end, you quickly pull out your own phone and type a text to Bob. 

‘Hey, really hoping you see this before I find you. I’m on base. Need you and Maverick to sign something. Please check your phone!’ 

Now you’ve done it. Not only are you on base without giving Bob a heads-up, but you’re about to have him formally acknowledge your fake marriage. A marriage his squadron doesn’t even know about. 

Fuck. 

“Perfect,” Jeannie says, setting her phone down. “We’ll have the forms in five. I’ll get you to read them over, then we’ll have someone escort you to Captain Mitchell’s squadron building.” 

You give her a tight smile. “Thanks, Jeannie.” 

She returns the smile and stands up, gathering her papers. “I’ll be back in a minute. Sit tight.” 

You nod, trying not to throw up the banana bread and coffee. 

“Oh,” she says, stopping halfway out the door, eyes sparkling. “A naval aviator—well done. Maverick’s squad... they’re kind of legendary.” 

You laugh softly, breath catching. “Thanks. He’s—um—he’s the best.” 

Then she’s gone. Out into the office, leaving you to sit and stew, staring at your phone, praying Bob texts back before you have to show up at his squadron building and ask him to declare your top-secret fake marriage in front of all his legendary colleagues. 

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. An HR rep shows up, talks you through the paperwork, and asks for all the details of your marriage—when, where, how—before a junior officer knocks on the door and announces he’s ready to escort you to the Dagger Squadron’s building. 

You grip the papers with shaky hands as you follow the officer through the building and out to a cart waiting by the curb. He doesn’t talk—thank God—just drives carefully across base while you sit beside him, looking like a seasick idiot on dry land. 

When the cart rolls to a stop, he glances over at you. “Here we are, ma’am.” 

You swallow hard. “Thanks. Do you—uh, do you come in, or...?” 

“No, ma’am,” he replies. “Captain Mitchell was radioed about your visit. You’re cleared to go in.” 

You nod once, breath coming in unsteady gasps as you force your feet to move. Force yourself out of the cart. Across the concrete. Toward the front entrance. 

You steel your nerves and step into the building, immediately hit by the cool blast of air. Bob always whinges about how hot the flight suits get, so it makes sense that they’d keep the buildings icy. 

There’s no chatter, no footsteps—just the low hum of ducted aircon and the faint rustle of paper. You follow the hallway toward the only open door in sight and quietly poke your head around the corner. 

At the front of the room stands a dark-haired man in a flight suit, flicking through a little notebook. He glances up almost immediately, green eyes pinning you in place. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, “I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m looking for—” 

“Floyd,” he says with a grin—a very charming grin. “Or Mrs. Floyd, should I say?” 

Oh. This is Maverick. 

You step into the room and straighten instinctively. “Yes, sir.” 

He chuckles. “Don’t bother with the formalities. I’m Maverick. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

He crosses the room with an outstretched hand, and you shake it with tight smile. 

“Your manager called ahead, said you’d be stopping by,” he says, gesturing toward the front row of chairs. “Not sure Bob knows, though. He didn’t mention anything. They’re all at lunch right now, but I could—” 

“Actually,” you cut in, settling into the seat beside him, “Bob doesn’t know I’m here. I forgot to tell him I was coming, and I honestly didn’t think I’d be delivering the papers myself.” 

Maverick’s brows shoot up. “Oh. So he doesn’t—?” 

“Nope.” 

“Alright then.” He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “Why don’t we say you’re from HR, updating his records? Think he’ll catch on?” 

You nod. “Works for me.” 

He grins again, and you hand over the papers, pointing out the sections needing his signature. He doesn't ask questions—just nods and signs, methodical and quiet. 

Once you’ve gathered the papers back into order, he leans back in his chair and just looks at you—like you’re easier to read than a children’s book being held wide open. 

“So, how’d you and Bob meet?” 

“Through work,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “He was first stationed at Lemoore, where I was in systems support. We got along well, and one thing led to another… now we’re here.” 

Maverick nods thoughtfully, eyes gleaming. “Been a few years then?” 

“Yep.” 

“And how long have you been in love?” 

Your heart jumps and you glance up, blinking. “Uh… well, since we started dating, I guess.” 

You’re pretty sure Bob said that Maverick knew the marriage wasn’t entirely legitimate. 

Maverick lifts a brow. “Dating?” 

You nod, but it’s not convincing. 

He tilts his head. “I didn’t think you two dated. From what I gathered, the marriage is—” 

“No way.” 

Your stomach drops. Your skin prickles. The hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

That voice is familiar. Sickeningly familiar. 

“It’s you.” 

You turn your head slowly, dread pooling in your gut. 

And there he is. The guy from the grocery store—sun-kissed and smug, all lazy confidence in his flight suit as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe. A group of aviators lingers behind him, peering into the room with furrowed brows and curious eyes. 

Your stomach lurches. 

“I knew it was fate,” he says with a grin. 

“What’s fate?” one of the others pipes up. 

“Move your ass, Bagman,” a woman’s voice snaps. 

Bagman? 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Your face is on fire. You can feel it—hot and prickling, crawling down your neck and up behind your ears. You try to speak, to move—to do anything—but your body has entered fight-or-flight mode and apparently chosen freeze. 

Maverick glances between you, brow raised. “You two know each other?” 

The guy—Bagman, apparently—just chuckles. “Yeah, we’ve run into each other a few times.” 

“Hangman, move,” says a tall, moustached man, shoving his squadmate aside. 

Oh no... Hangman? 

You know Hangman. Bob’s told you about Hangman. 

Cocky Hangman and his reckless flying. 

Womaniser Hangman with his endless string of conquests. 

Pain-in-the-ass Hangman—who just so happens to be a member of the Dagger Squadron. Bob’s squad. 

Holy fuck. How could you have screwed up this badly? 

“Hangman?” you echo, your voice cracking. 

He nods, green eyes gleaming as he steps aside to let the rest of the squad through. 

The moustached man—Rooster, you recognise—frowns at you, curiosity carved into every line of his face. A woman follows close behind, scowling at Hangman—you’re guessing she’s Phoenix. Then two tall men step in, both looking confused, followed by a shorter one bringing up the rear. 

And then— 

Bob. 

He steps through the doorway— 

And freezes. 

His eyes go wide. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit with a tranquiliser dart. The colour drains from his face so fast it’s a miracle he’s still upright. 

The silence is deafening. 

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out. 

Maverick slowly leans back in his chair. “Well, this just got interesting.” 

Hangman clasps his hands behind his back like he’s about to give a formal speech, stepping toward you with an oblivious smirk stretched across his face. 

“Phoenix and gentleman,” he starts, “I would like to introduce you all to my future wife.” 

Maverick chokes beside you. 

“A mere five days ago, I first laid eyes on this stunning woman in the grocery store. There I was, minding my own business, and boom—she appears. Like a hot, pissed-off angel, scowling at me because I interrupted her Pop-Tart selection process. And right then and there, I knew this was the woman of my dreams.” 

“You say that about every woman,” Phoenix mutters, rolling her eyes. 

Rooster smirks. “He hasn't said it about another woman since Monday, though.” 

“Exactly,” Hangman says. “Ask Coyote. This is the one. I felt it in my loins.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Phoenix sighs. 

The tallest one tilts his head. “Wait, wait, wait. Are we talking about the same woman you said was stalking you?” 

“She wasn’t stalking me,” Hangman says quickly. “That was a joke.” 

Phoenix scoffs. “It wasn’t funny.” 

“Everything I say is funny.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“I’m a delight, and I’ll have you know—” 

“Hangman,” Coyote cuts in, raising a brow. “Maybe... shut up for once?” 

You’re still frozen in your chair, eyes locked on Bob—who hasn’t moved a single muscle since he walked in. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t blinked. You might not have either. 

Your cheeks are burning. You can feel them. But Bob—Bob is going scarlet. 

It starts in his ears, then spreads rapidly down his neck and across his cheeks. He looks like a man being slow-roasted from the inside out. His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff beneath his flight suit—and when Hangman shoots you another wink and starts to open his mouth again—you’re genuinely worried he might blow his carotid. 

He looks furious. Downright murderous. 

At first, you thought it might be at you. 

But... his dark blue eyes are locked on Hangman. 

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Hangman says, stepping even closer as his eyes drag over you without a hint of shame, “are you free for dinner, or do you prefer a brunch-with-champagne kind of thing? Because I’ll happily rearrange my entire schedule just to watch you eat a strawberry.” 

You glance sideways—just in time to catch the tick in Bob’s jaw. His gaze hasn’t moved. His whole face is red now, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast, his hands curled into fists like he’s physically restraining himself. 

And something about it—about him—pulls tight in your chest. 

Because he looks... wrecked. Quietly, furiously wrecked. 

Not embarrassed. Not confused. Not oh-God-my-squad-found-out. But furious. At Hangman. For flirting with you. 

Your stomach swoops. 

And suddenly, you can’t breathe. 

Because Bob Floyd is jealous. 

The same Bob who brings you coffee every morning. Who washes your favourite mug. Who brings you roses and wine after work, just because. Who smiled so sweetly the day he suggested this marriage, like it was the easiest thing in the world to do for you. The same Bob who hasn’t blinked since Hangman called you the woman of his dreams. 

A small voice whispers in your head—he loves you. 

And for a second, you almost believe it. 

Your heart thuds loud in your ears. Your mouth goes dry. You want to look away, to break the spell, but you can’t. Not when the truth is burning so bright between you it feels like the rest of the room has fallen away. 

He loves you. 

“Listen,” you say, voice shaky as you stand up, “Hangman, I—” 

“Call me Jake, darlin’,” he cuts in, smooth as ever with that Southern drawl. “I never did get your name, though. Wanna finally tell me what it is?” 

There’s a pause—a brief silence. A collective held breath as the room waits for you to respond. 

You swallow hard and step forward. 

“Floyd,” you say, voice firm. “My name’s Floyd.” 

Hangman’s smirk drops. His brows pull tight, confusion flickering behind his green eyes. 

There’s a gasp. A chuckle. 

“Holy shit,” Phoenix mutters. 

But none of it matters. 

Because the look on Bob’s face is enough to make your heart stop. 

His eyes are wide and locked on you like he misheard—like he can’t quite believe what he heard. His lips part. His shoulders relax. He visibly exhales—only for his breath to catch on the way back in. His gaze darts to Hangman, just briefly, then snaps straight back to you. He closes his mouth, swallows hard, and unclenches his fists. 

He looks… nervous. Unsure. Like he wants to be relieved by what you just said, but doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what happens next. 

But you do. 

In three quick strides, you’re standing in front of him. You glance up, breath shaky, heart pounding. Your fingers curl into the collar of his flight suit—and you pull him down. 

His mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, and the world falls out from under you. His hands hover for half a second, like he doesn’t believe this is real—then they grip your hips, hard. Fingers digging in. Burning through the denim. 

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate. Messy. All heat and drool and pent-up longing—like months, years, of tension finally snapping loose in a single, earth-shattering moment. 

You gasp against him and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up to your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. 

Someone whistles. Someone else mutters Jesus Christ. But none of it registers. 

You’re already gone. 

Lost in the feel of him—his mouth, his hands, the warm solid weight of him pressed tight to yours. Your hands slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag another sound from his throat. He kisses you harder. Like he’s starving. Like he’s making up for every second he didn’t. 

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. 

Bob’s eyes are dazed. Wide. A little wild. 

“Wait,” one of the other men says—the shorter one, “Bob’s married?” 

The taller one chuckles. “Bob bagged a baddie.” 

“A baddie?” Maverick echoes, voice laced with confusion. 

“My future wife is... Bob’s wife?” Hangman says slowly. 

His friend—Coyote—snorts. “That’s not your future wife, man. That’s the mother of Bob’s children in T-minus nine months from tonight.” 

Your cheeks burn impossibly hot as you carefully untangle your limbs from Bob’s. He looks absolutely wrecked—but in a good way now. In a way that makes you want to beg Maverick to let him leave early. With you. So you can take him home and wreck him just a little more. 

Maverick clears his throat. “Well. Now that that’s all cleared up... Bob, you need to sign some paperwork to formally disclose your relationship.” 

Bob gives you a soft, dopey smile before heading over to where Maverick is. The loss of his heat leaves you feeling cold—almost empty—but you don’t have time to dwell on it because the rest of the squad immediately closes in. 

“I’m Fanboy,” the shortest one says with a brilliant grin. 

You smile and nod, still too dazed to speak. 

“Payback,” the taller one says. 

Then Phoenix steps forward. “You probably already know who I am.” 

You laugh softly, nodding again. 

“Coyote,” the guy behind her chimes in. 

“She was almost Mrs. Hangman,” Jake mutters, still sulking behind the group. “What could’ve been…” 

Coyote elbows him. “She literally never agreed to that.” 

“Details,” he sighs wistfully. 

Rooster slings an arm over your shoulder, leaning in a little. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll move on tomorrow night.” Then he flashes you a smirk. “I’m Rooster, by the way.” 

You blink up at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. “These are your callsigns, right?” 

Phoenix nods, opening her mouth to reply when— 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Bob says, cutting through the group and grabbing your hand. “She has to go now.” 

“Aw, no,” Fanboy whines. “I want to get to know Mrs. Floyd.” 

“Too bad,” Bob mutters, pulling you toward the door. 

You give them all a little smile, waving over your shoulder. “Bye. It was nice to meet you all.” 

There’s a chorus of byes and teasing words, but above the noise you hear Phoenix shout, “Thank you for embarrassing Hangman!” 

You snort as Bob leads you into the hall, stopping a few feet from the door. 

“I can’t be long,” he says, a little breathless. “So we can talk at home—yeah?” 

Your stomach twists—half-giddy, half-anxious. 

You nod. “Yeah. At home. Get back to work.” 

He nods, eyes flicking between yours and your lips. There’s a taut second of silence—nothing but the sound of your shaky, shallow breaths as you stare at each other. 

Then— 

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning in and kissing you again. 

And God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this—his mouth on yours. Soft but sure. Sweet but possessive. Like he’s claiming you, gently and completely. It’s nothing like you’ve ever felt before. And you don’t want to feel anyone else’s. You’d happily spend the rest of your life doing nothing but kissing Bob Floyd. 

He pulls away too quickly, and you lean after him a little—desperate for more. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll see you at home.” 

You swallow and nod. “Okay. See you at home.” 

Then he’s gone—and you’re left standing in the corridor of the squadron building, listening to his team tease him while your head spins, your heart hammers, and that ache between your legs pulses with every breath. 

- 

You don’t remember the walk back to the car. Don’t remember the drive home or climbing the stairs or unlocking the front door. It’s all a blur—just background noise to the steady thrum of want under your skin. 

Because now that you’ve had a taste of him—of his mouth, his hands, the sound he made when he kissed you like it hurt—there’s no coming back from it. 

You feel wrung out. Strung tight. One spark away from coming undone entirely. 

Bob Floyd kissed you like he meant it. Like he needed it. Like he’d been dying to. 

And now you can’t stop picturing it—his mouth trailing lower. His hands under your clothes. The way he’d sound when he groans your name against your skin. You wonder what his fingers feel like when he’s not trying to be polite. When he’s not holding back. When he’s desperate. 

God, you want him desperate. 

You want to see what happens when all that quiet control snaps. 

You want him panting and flushed, cursing under his breath as he pushes into you—slow at first, then rough, then reckless. You want to hear him fall apart. You want to make him. 

You want to pull his flight suit down and wrap your legs around his waist and feel him groan into your mouth as you whisper filthy things for only him to hear. 

You want to know if he’s loud. If he talks. If he begs. 

You want to be sore tomorrow. 

You want him sweaty and wild and undone. 

You want him to love you too. Soft and quiet. In the domestic, steady way he already does. 

But first—you want him to ruin you. 

Thoroughly. Desperately. Completely. 

After pacing the apartment for a good thirty minutes, you start busying yourself by preparing dinner—because it’s the only thing you can think to do. You decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, from scratch. Which means a good few hours of kneading dough, cutting pasta, rolling meatballs—not thinking about anything else—and simmering sauce. 

At six p.m., you get a text from Bob letting you know that he’s on his way home—and you panic. You jump in the shower, scrub yourself from head to toe, and change into the laciest pair of panties you own. No bra. Just one of Bob’s old sweatshirts and a pair of loose lounge shorts. 

Then you’re back in the kitchen, stirring the sauce, making sure it doesn’t boil, and pouring yourself a nip of whiskey. Or two. For the nerves. 

You set the table with matching plates, cloth napkins, two tall candles, and your vase of roses in the centre. The sun spills through the far window, bathing the whole open-plan living area in a warm orange glow, and then— 

You hear the lock click. And it feels like a powerline just snapped. 

You face the door, standing between the kitchen and the dining area, hands curled at your sides and heart hammering in your chest. 

He steps inside—and your breath catches. 

He’s so beautiful. And you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. 

Tonight, there are no flowers. No wine. Just Bob—in his flight suit—cheeks pink, eyes dark, something unreadable simmering behind them. 

“Hey,” you say, a little unsteady. “Hungry?” 

He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking toward the table, then back to you. 

“Starving,” he mumbles, dropping his bag to the floor. 

You swallow hard. “I know you said we’d talk about today, so I thought I’d set the table and—” 

“Talking’ll take too much time,” he says, voice soft, just a little rough. “I think I just better show you.” 

Before you can speak—before you can even breathe—he’s moving. 

Three long strides. One hand sliding into your hair, the other curling around your waist, and his mouth is on yours. 

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claim. Hot and desperate and all teeth and tongue, like he’s been starving for you and finally gave in. You can taste the whiskey you drank earlier on his tongue, and wonder if he does too, the way his mouth groans softly against yours. 

He kisses you like a man undone. Not rushed—but hungry. Like he’s trying to get closer than your skin will allow. 

Your hands fist in the front of his flight suit, dragging him in until there’s no space left between you. His lips part yours with ease, tongue sliding against yours with a low sound in his throat that sends heat pooling between your legs. 

His grip tightens at your waist. You gasp against his mouth and he swallows it, angling your face back, pressing closer—until the edge of the table digs into your hips. 

“You taste like whiskey,” he breathes, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours. 

You nod faintly. “Took a shot… before.” 

He huffs a half-laugh, his nose nudging yours. “Why?” 

“Nervous,” you murmur, cheeks burning. 

He lets out a broken little groan, then kisses you again, harder this time—deeper. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring you like he needs the grounding. You gasp into his mouth, gripping the front of his flight suit like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, as he crowds in, the edge of the table biting into your hips. 

His breath shudders. His forehead rests against yours for the briefest second before he says, low and wrecked, “I want you in the worst way.” 

Your stomach flips violently. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flight suit, grounding yourself in him—in this. 

He kisses you again—slower now, but just as deep. His hands are everywhere, mapping your curves like he’s learning them, like he wants to memorise the exact feel of you under his palms. The tension is humming in the air, sparking down your spine, and when his hands slide beneath the hem of your sweatshirt to knead at the bare skin of your waist, your whole body jolts. 

Then his lips trail down—jaw, throat, collarbone—and you whimper, tilting your head to give him more. But he pauses, mouth hovering over your neck, eyes flicking to the table behind you. 

“Do you wanna put away anything that’ll break?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You look at him—his swollen lips, his flushed cheeks, the raw need burning in his eyes—and shake your head. 

“No,” you whisper. “I don’t care.” 

That’s all he needs. 

He crashes into you again, mouth hot and hungry, pushing you back until your hands scramble for balance on the table’s edge. One of the cloth napkins slips to the floor. The candles rattle. The vase of roses wobbles precariously—but neither of you cares. 

Because nothing else matters now. 

His hands skim down your sides, then grip tight just below your ass. He leans in and kisses your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—lips dragging over skin like he can’t get enough—before he murmurs, rough and breathless, “Up.” 

You barely nod before he lifts you, strong arms sliding beneath your thighs to boost you onto the table like you weigh nothing. You scoot back instinctively, the wood cool under your skin, and his hands follow—pressing your knees apart as he steps between them, eyes burning. 

“You have no idea, do you?” he says, voice low and awed. “How long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no time. He’s already kissing you again, deeper this time, messier, until you’re dizzy from it—until a wine glass tips behind you and crashes to the floor. 

You flinch. He doesn’t. 

“Leave it,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. 

Then he drops to his knees. 

Your breath catches as his hands glide down your bare legs. He looks up at you like he’s about to pray—and maybe he is. Then one hand trails back up your thigh, slow and reverent, until his fingers hook beneath your panties and shorts and ease them down—so gently it feels like a sin. 

“Been thinkin’ about this for years,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Thought about it the second I first saw you.” 

His hands urge your legs wider. 

And then his mouth is on you. 

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back as heat blooms low and fast. He’s slow at first—teasing, licking—then deeper, hungrier. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waited forever for this moment. He moans against you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

He murmurs sweet, filthy things between licks—how good you taste, how soft you are, how bad he wants you to fall apart just for him. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, fogged at the edges, barely hanging on as he stares up at you with those wide, hungry eyes. His cheeks are slick with your arousal, his mouth wet and shining with it—and God, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.  

“You’re so wet,” he groans, voice muffled and wrecked. “Can’t believe this is mine. You’re mine, aren’t you?” 

And something about the way he says it makes your chest ache. It’s not just the heat or the moment—he needs to hear it. Needs to know that you’re his. That you belong to him. 

Your fingers sink into his hair, trembling. “Yes.” 

“Say it again,” he breathes. 

“Yours,” you gasp, legs shaking. 

“That’s right,” he says, mouth back on you, tongue pressing firm and flat. “That’s my girl.” 

Your back arches. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping just a little, and he groans—low and wrecked—like he loves it. Like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive. 

He keeps licking, firm and slow, then fast and relentless. A rhythm just for you. His tongue circles your clit, flicks it, presses flat and purposeful, then sucks softly—just enough to make your hips jerk. Your thighs tremble around his shoulders, your whole body coiling tighter and tighter, every nerve strung like wire. 

“Bob—” you gasp, hips tilting forward, chasing more, needing more. 

His hands curl under your thighs, anchoring you, holding you open like you’re precious—like he’s worshipping. His mouth never stops. He sucks, licks, flicks, groans, whispers your name like a prayer between filthy praises. And it’s too much. It’s not enough. 

The pressure builds like fire in your belly. Your legs start to shake. You feel it spike—sharp and blinding. 

You’re right there—right at the edge—and then he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, just hard enough. 

White-hot pleasure rips through you. Your body jerks, a strangled cry catching in your throat as you come apart against his mouth—shuddering, gasping, twitching, every muscle tightening then breaking. 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He licks you through it, slow and steady, his tongue gentle now but insistent, teasing more from you even as your whole body trembles. You’re whimpering, breathless and wrung out, your body slack and oversensitive—but not sated. Not even close. 

“Bob,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Baby.” 

Your hands reach for him, tugging at the collar of his flight suit, urging him up. He rises slowly, eyes never leaving yours—flushed and panting, his face slick with your arousal. His glasses are fogged and crooked, and you slide them gently from his nose, setting them aside before cupping his flushed cheeks. 

He looks wrecked. Worshipful. Dark eyes devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. 

“You still want—” he starts, voice hoarse. 

“I need you,” you breathe, cutting him off. “Now.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands fly to his zipper, clumsy and urgent as he peels himself out of the flight suit—shoulders, chest, hips—until he’s stepping out of it completely. His undershirt goes next, flung aside without a thought. 

You pull your sweatshirt over your head and toss it away. Nothing underneath. Nothing between you. 

He stares. 

For a moment, he just drinks you in, chest heaving, eyes glazed with disbelief and hunger. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “You’re so—fuck—” 

You don’t give him time to finish. You reach for him, pull him closer. He steps between your thighs, still in his briefs, and his mouth finds your breasts—soft, wet kisses and open-mouthed licks, tongue flicking over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. 

Your head drops back with a soft cry, fingers tangling in his hair again as heat coils sharp and fast inside you. His cock grinds against your soaked core, separated only by thin cotton, and you feel the sheer size of him even through the fabric. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Take them off.” 

But your hands are already moving—slipping between you, tugging at the band of his briefs. You shove them down, and he helps, kicking them away—and then he’s bare, hot, and hard and impossibly thick. 

Your breath stutters. 

Your fingers wrap around him, shaky and reverent—and you can’t even close them all the way. Your mouth goes dry. Your whole body tightens. 

“Oh my god, Bob,” you whisper. 

He leans in close, forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice raw and tender. “But you can take it. I know you can. You’re so fucking ready for me, sweetheart.” 

And you are—dripping onto the table, slick and aching and pulsing with want. You shift your hips, lining him up, desperate to feel him. Every inch of your body is on fire, begging for the stretch, the pressure, the fullness. 

He reaches down, one hand on your thigh, the other guiding himself to your entrance—and his tip just barely nudges against you, slick and hot. 

Your breath hitches. 

Your eyes meet his—wide, pleading. 

“Please,” you whisper. “I need you.” 

He groans—deep and guttural—and begins to push in. 

You gasp as the tip breaches you—hot and thick and already stretching you more than you thought possible. 

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so big—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath shuddering. “We’ll go slow.” 

And he does—inch by agonising inch, letting you adjust. Letting your body yield to him. 

Your nails dig into his back as you breathe through it, chest rising and falling with every trembling inhale. The stretch burns, pressure building low and tight, but it’s good. It’s so good. Too good. 

He’s panting against your neck, forehead pressed to your skin. “So tight, baby,” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.” 

He pauses, buried only halfway, chest heaving. You can feel him throbbing inside you, feel every twitch, every inch still waiting to sink deeper. 

“Can I keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked. 

You nod quickly—too quickly. “Please, Bobby. Need all of you.” 

He kisses you—slow and deep—and presses in again. 

You moan into his mouth, high and breathless, clenching around him as he sinks deeper, deeper still, the fullness dizzying. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your whole body shudders. 

“Almost there,” he whispers. “Just a little more. You’re taking me so fucking well.” 

And finally—finally—his hips press flush to yours. 

You both freeze. 

The air between you stills, hot and heavy. You can feel your pulse in your throat. Between your legs. Everywhere. He’s completely inside of you—thick and deep and overwhelming—and you’ve never felt so full in your life. 

You cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, heart pounding out of control. 

And then it hits you. 

The feeling. The weight of it. The way your body holds him like it was always meant to. The way your chest aches with something so fierce and raw it knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I love you,” you whisper—it slips out like a secret you’ve kept too long. “Oh my god, I love you.” 

He goes still—completely still. 

Your chest tightens. For one agonising second, you think maybe you’ve ruined it. 

But then— 

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the whole damn world. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathes. 

And then his hips draw back—and snap forward, hard. 

You both cry out. 

Your head drops back. His name spills from your lips in a broken moan. It’s too much and not enough all at once—him, everywhere, holding you, filling you, claiming you in the deepest, most perfect way. 

His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he needs to anchor himself inside you. And all you can do is hold on—eyes wide, chest split open, heart bared—because this? This is everything. 

He is everything. 

Your gasp tears through the air the second he thrusts in again, a raw, desperate sound as your back arches and your nails drag across his shoulders. The stretch is relentless, searing, addictive. You’ve never felt anything like it—so full, so deep, like he’s carved out space inside you and claimed it all for himself. 

“Jesus,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel unreal.” 

The table jerks under you as he pulls back, just an inch, then sinks in again. Slow. Measured. But it still punches the breath from your lungs. You can feel every inch of him, every thick pulse of his cock dragging against your walls, and it’s almost too much. Almost. 

But you don’t want almost. You want all of him. Ruin and worship. Love and filth. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Bob, please—don’t stop.” 

His mouth finds your throat, your jaw, your lips—kissing like a man gone feral. Like he needs you to breathe. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your thigh, pushing it up, opening you wider. The next thrust is harder. The table rattles. A plate clatters to the floor. 

“Gonna break the fucking table,” he mutters into your skin, almost in awe, like he can’t believe this is real. His voice is wrecked—low and ragged—completely undone. 

“Let it break,” you choke out. “Just don’t you dare stop.” 

He growls—growls—and his pace picks up. The sound of skin on skin is loud, messy, perfect. His pelvis slaps yours, the rhythm brutal and sweet all at once. Your slick coats him, soaking the tops of your thighs, dripping onto the damn table, and still—it’s not enough. You want more. You want everything. 

“Touch me,” you beg, voice breaking. “Bob, I—please—” 

His hand drops between your bodies instantly, fingers finding your clit like he was born knowing where to touch you. He rubs tight, filthy circles, and your vision whites out. Your head falls back. A loud moan rips from your chest. 

“That’s it,” he pants, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “Come on. Let me feel you. Let me have it.” 

The table shudders with every thrust. Something else crashes to the floor, but you barely register it over the thunder of your own heartbeat and the filthy, perfect sounds of him fucking you. 

His cock drags deep, perfect pressure against every spot inside you. And that heat—God, that unbearable, beautiful heat—builds fast. Sharp and coiled, like lightning in your spine. 

“Close,” you gasp. “I’m—I’m so close—” 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing the edge of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. “Always got you.” 

He’s getting close. You can feel it—his rhythm falters, his breathing shatters. And then his arms wrap tight around you, strong and shaking, and he murmurs into your hair, “Lay back for me, baby—just like that, I’ve got you.” 

He eases you down against the table—one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your thigh. The wood is cool against your spine, but his body follows, hot and heavy and trembling as he slides back in, deeper than before. A new angle. A devastating one. 

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he bottoms out—so deep it feels like he’s pressing inside your stomach. And then you feel it—his hand trailing down to your lower belly, palm flattening gently just above your pelvis. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s me, baby. Right here.” 

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “Bob—fuck—please—don’t stop—” 

“I’m not stopping,” he swears, voice low and cracked. “Not until I feel you fall apart around me. Not until I know you’re mine.” 

Your body arches, legs trembling, hips chasing his thrusts. His cock hits that spot over and over again, rubbing just right, the pressure building like a storm. His fingers return to your clit—slick and practiced—and that’s all it takes. 

The vase topples. Water spills across the table, soaking the cloth, flooding under your shoulders—but you hardly notice. All you can feel is him. All you can hear is your name on his lips, the slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the tile. 

“Come with me,” he grits, forehead against yours. “Right now. Let go for me—come on—” 

The coil inside you snaps. Your second orgasm tears through you like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out—shaking, clenching, blinded by heat. And a heartbeat later, he follows—spilling inside you with a hoarse, broken moan, his hips stuttering, his whole body seizing with it. 

The stove beeps. There’s a pop. Then a low whoosh. 

Flames flicker—and the smoke alarm blares. 

You both freeze—panting, sweating, still locked together—then slowly dissolve into breathless, messy laughter. He doesn’t move. Just leans in, presses a kiss to your damp forehead, and murmurs against your skin, “I love you.” Then another, softer kiss to your lips. “So much.” 

He pulls out—slow, careful—and helps you sit up. You glance over at the little fire crackling in the pot on the stove, eyes going wide. 

“Shit,” you breathe, still dazed. “We—We should fix that.” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, like it physically pains him to let you go. “Yeah, we should.” 

Stark naked, skin slick with sweat, and cum still dribbling down your sore thighs, you hurry into the kitchen. Bob is right behind you, sliding his glasses back on as he grabs a dish towel and tosses it in the sink. You try not to stare—try not to drink in the sight of him standing there like some Michelangelo sculpture come to life—but it’s useless. The way the light catches his bare skin, the way his muscles flex as he soaks the towel until it’s nothing but a dripping rag—it’s impossible not to look. 

When he turns, cheeks pink, lips glossy, eyes glazed—he smirks. Bob Floyd actually smirks. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice rough and teasing. 

You bite your lip, drop your gaze, then drag it back up, slow and deliberate. “Just my hot as fuck husband.” 

His blush deepens, and it makes you giggle. That man just fucked you so good your knees are shaking, but this—a compliment—makes him blush? 

“Watch out,” he murmurs, wringing out the towel. 

You step aside as he lifts the pot lid and smothers the flames. Then he checks the oven, flicks off the stove, and turns back to you, smoke alarm still blaring overhead like it’s part of your own personal soundtrack. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, even as a grin tugs at your lips. “Want to get takeout?” 

He shakes his head. “I think I’d rather have something else.” 

Before you can blink—or even breathe—his hands are on you, sliding under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly until you’re perched on the cold kitchen counter. The marble bites into your skin, but you don’t care. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your slick core pressing to the heat of his stomach. Your bodies flush together, skin igniting where you touch. 

You card your fingers through his damp hair, eyes locking on his behind smudged glasses. “I have to tell you something,” you admit, butterflies swirling fiercely in your stomach. 

His brows pull together. “What is it?” 

You swallow. “I—um, I saw you the other day. When you thought you were home alone... jerking off.” 

His frown fades, but his face stays carefully blank—too blank. Not scandalised. Not surprised. Just watching you. 

Then he nods. “I thought so.” 

You blink. “You’re not creeped out?” 

“No,” he says simply, shaking his head. 

“Even though I made myself cum after watching you?” 

His laugh is soft, low. His breath ghosts across your skin as he ducks his head, hiding his smile in the curve of your shoulder. “I’m not creeped out.” 

His lips brush your neck. “There are things I want to tell you too,” he murmurs, then leans back, eyes piercing. “But first…” His hands tighten on your hips. “Let’s see how much love we can make.” 

Then he’s on you again—lips, tongue, teeth, hands—everywhere. He kisses like he’s starving, touches like he’s claiming. And though you’re aching to hear what he has to say, to dig into all that’s just erupted between you… right now, none of that matters. 

Because Bob Floyd—your best friend, your fake husband, your everything—is about to ruin you all over again. 

And you’re going to let him. Happily. Absolutely. Again. And again. And again. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[superbassbuck]

Call Me Maybe !

pairing: neighbor!bucky barnes x f!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, fluff, sexual tension, reader is a college student, age-gap (reader is early twenties, bucky is presumed mid 30s) voyeuristic and exhibitionism, homoeroticism, "slut" "good girl" "whore" public sex, fingering, dry humping, groping, dirty talk, degrading, size difference, mechanic!steve, slight steve x reader, reader is a pervert but bucky is too highkey, player!bucky, bisexual awakening!!!!

word count: main masterlist

a/n: happy pride month!!! if it wasn't obvious enough, yes, it is based on the song call me maybe by carly rae jepsen. real ones know the parodies to this song on youtube. wasabi productions ifykyk. gif by sebstangif

synopsis: There’s a new guy who moved in right across from you. He’s a total mystery, but his looks certainly aren't. Since he's subtly trying to get your attention, how could you not entertain him? Especially when you have your best friend, Steve, in your ear telling you to go for it.

Hand washing the car on a hot summer’s day was something you would never normally do.

You always let your dad handle a job like that. He’d always tease you for being ‘spoiled,’ always hitting you with the typical line of, “What happens when I’m gone? How will you take care of yourself?”

And every time he hit you with that line, without fail, you would find yourself grabbing the plastic bucket, soap, and sponges out of spite, just to prove a point.

Now, you were outside, drenched in a mixture of sweat and water as the sun beamed down. You were splayed over the hood of the car in a way that looked anything but sexy. You had on a tank top and shorts—natural, given the heat—but despite the porn director approved outfit, you looked anything but pornographic.

Matter of fact, if someone were to come up to you now, they would probably lose interest instantly.

“Hey there,” a familiar, deep voice called from behind you. “Looking pretty hot.”

Normally, you would scramble to make yourself look at least somewhat decent for anyone who approached you in this state.

But it was your best friend—so who cares?

“Steve,” you huffed, raising a leg to balance yourself on the hood of your dad’s car. “Are you going to help me or just taunt me?”

Steve crossed his arms, watching you slip and slide all over the green station wagon that looked like it was ready to fall apart at any given moment.

“Has your dad seen you like this yet? I’m sure if he saw what a poor job you were doing, he wouldn’t ask you to clean it again.

You puffed a strand of hair out of your face. “The reason I’m cleaning in the first place is to prove to my dad that I’m perfectly capable.” You mumbled under your breath, “… He called me spoiled.”

Steve chuckled lightly. “Can’t say I disagree.”

Sneering, you spun around and hurled your wet, soapy sponge in his direction. It landed right in the center of his chest, dampening his snug t-shirt with a dark spot that began to spread. He laughed, catching the sponge before it hit the ground.

“Get off the hood before you hurt yourself,” he grinned, taking a step closer.

You grunted as you slid off the car. As you stood up, your eyes trailed past Steve’s shoulder—something unfamiliar catching your attention.

The house across from yours had been unoccupied for months, but someone had recently moved in. Days had passed, and you hadn’t seen the new neighbors yet. But for the first time since the ‘FOR SALE’ sign was removed, you were finally seeing the man who lived there.

He was tall—maybe around Steve’s height. He had dark hair that fluffed messily at the top, and he was covered in dirt, looking as though he’d been doing yard work all morning. The sun hit his eyes, and he squinted, shielding them with a large hand.

As he looked up, his gaze drifted across to your lawn, and his eyes met yours for a long moment.

A warm, friendly smile tugged at his lips, and he waved. You blinked, a light smile forming on your own face when you realized he was waving at you. You waved back shyly, and his smile grew wider.

“He waved at me,” you pointed out.

Steve, curious, glanced over his shoulder. When he caught the man’s eye, he gave a quick, short nod—a casual greeting between guys.

“He seems nice,” Steve shrugged. “Your new neighbor?”

You nodded, stealing a few more seconds to look at the man across the street. He bent over, his large traps tensing against his cotton tank top as he shoved a pair of gardening gloves over his rough hands. He crouched, his dirty boots and jeans digging into the soil as he began to pull at stubborn weeds.

A man. Hard at work.

The best kind of man.

“He is,” you breathed, looking back at Steve. “And he’s hot, too.”

Steve huffed a laugh, stepping out of your way and towards the car, sponge in hand. “You trying to make me jealous, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a spare sponge from the soapy tub. You stepped up to the opposite window from Steve and began to scrub.

“You know, I’ve seen this play out in movies and stuff—” Steve shouted from the other side of the car. “The girl who washes her car and catches the eye of the conveniently attractive neighbor across the street.”

You quirked a brow. “In movies, or in porn?”

Now, it was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Point aside, you should go for it.” He peeked at you over the roof and nodded in your neighbor’s direction. “You’ve been single for quite a while now. It wouldn’t hurt to dip your toes back in the dating scene.”

You snorted. “Whatever happened to you being jealous?”

Steve shook his head at your comment. “I’m just saying—you’re young and pretty. You could grab that guy’s attention if you really tried.”

Pausing your sponge, you glanced over your shoulder, catching your neighbor’s gaze again. He had been staring at you—for how long, you didn’t know. Either way, your heart did a little flutter in your chest, your face warming at the thought of him watching you.

“You really think so?”

Steve hummed. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Since that day, and with the help of Steve’s encouragement, you found yourself spending more time outside just to catch your neighbor’s eye.

Most mornings, he was already out there working on the front of his house—mowing the lawn, painting fences, or tending to the plants.

The job itself didn’t matter. It was the man behind it all who suddenly made this boring, textbook suburban neighborhood interesting.

Despite only a few days passing since you last washed the car, you miraculously decided to wash it up again the day Bucky was working on the front of his house. How convenient!

Grabbing your tools while wearing a tank top—thinner than the last one—and shorts that rode so far up they were bordering on a wedgie, you stepped out with a confident stride that immediately caught his attention.

He glanced at you from his spot on a ladder, squinting as he smiled.

“Good morning!” you chirped.

“Morning,” he shouted back, nodding to the same car parked on your driveway. “Cleaning again?”

“Oh, yeah,” you smirked, motioning to your bucket. “Just something I like to do every few days.”

If Steve or your dad were here, they would be laughing in your face.

The man’s eyes slowly raked over the car—taking mental note of just how pristine and shiny it already was—before trailing back to you. “Must be a high maintenance girl, huh?”

It was just something about the way he said it—his voice deep and textured with a rasp that made every syllable sound flirtatious. You chuckled softly, your face warming.

“Something like that.”

He chuckled in return before getting back to work.

You dunked the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and got to work. Most of your time was spent focusing more on suggestive poses than actually getting the car clean. You stretched your arms high to reach the roof so the hem of your tank top rode up, then leaned low over the hood, letting your short shorts ride up to reveal the curve of your ass.

It didn’t take long for your clothes and skin to be covered in soap and water. The sun was in your favor today, catching the water as it glistened on your skin and the soap as it trickled down your thighs.

One quick glance over your shoulder made your heart stutter.

You knew you were doing it right because he was looking right at you.

He slowly began to descend the ladder. Before you knew it, he was walking in your direction, crossing the street until he reached your driveway. You had to bite back a smile as the sound of his boots scuffed closer, stopping just behind you.

“I believe we haven’t properly introduced ourselves,” he called out to grab your attention.

You didn’t turn around right away, careful not to make it too obvious. You glanced over your shoulder first, your back arching in a way that felt a bit of a strain—thanks to your usually terrible posture—then slowly stood up, trying not to groan at the sudden soreness.

“I don’t believe we have,” you said, setting the sponge down and wiping your wet hand on your damp shorts. Good enough.

You extended your hand and gave him your name.

He returned the gesture with a smile, his grip warm and rough—the hands of a working man.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bucky,” he huffed. “Bucky Barnes.”

He looked around, appearing almost skeptical to be standing in your driveway. “You look young,” he pointed out. “Are your parents home? I’d like to introduce myself, being new to the neighborhood and all.”

“They’re on vacation,” you explained. “I’m a student over at Jepsen University.”

“A student, huh?” He rubbed his chin with his left hand. No ring. “A pretty thing like you oughta’ be careful at Jepsen. There are a lot of nasty frat boys roaming around campus.”

You chuckled, a light sway in your movement. “You went there?”

He nodded. “Graduated top of my class.”

Even though there was no ring, you still needed verbal confirmation before throwing yourself at him.

“How are you and the family liking the neighborhood so far?” You tested.

Bucky took it upon himself to lean against your car, making the frame creak slightly. He didn’t seem to care about the soap dampening his jeans.

“Well, me and my girl are liking it so far,” Bucky said. “It’s quiet, and plus, I get a good view across the street.”

You made a face at his explanation. My girl. He had a wife? Or a daughter? He was deliberately flirting with you, wasn’t he?

Bucky caught your expression and laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively.

“My girl Alpine,” he clarified. "She’s the cat loafing on the windowsill in my living room, always staring out.”

You felt your face warm, and your posture eased up instantly. Not only was your neighbor hot as hell, but he was single—and a cat dad! There was a bit of an age gap, but that wasn’t something you couldn’t handle.

You crossed your arms, the movement accentuating your breasts beneath the thin tank top, and jutted your hip out to emphasize your curves. You smiled pridefully, watching as Bucky’s gaze traced a slow path from your eyes down your body.

“Like father, like daughter, then.”

His grin widened handsomely. “What can I say? We like looking at pretty things.”

You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. He was such a natural flirt—and despite all your attempts to grab his attention, your words suddenly failed you when the time came.

Bucky glanced around the driveway as if he were still searching for someone. Then, he asked, “That guy who usually comes over to help you out—” he brought up slyly, still looking around, “he your boyfriend?”

You blinked at his question. The way he was subtly trying to fish for information made your stomach do a flip in celebration.

“Steve?” you asked, your voice coming out breathier than intended. A small, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”

You noticed the way Bucky’s shoulders relaxed slightly at your words. He was jealous.

“He goes to Jepsen, too?” He questioned.

“Yeah, he’s my senior.”

“Ah,” Bucky drawled. “A frat boy, then?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his endless questioning. “I wouldn’t call him that. He’s my best friend,” you reassured him, watching the way his blue eyes searched yours. “He just comes over sometimes to help out—or more like he comes over to make fun of me while I do all the work.”

Bucky chuckled a deep, gravelly sound that was effortlessly charming. “Best friend, huh?” He pushed himself off your car, taking a step closer to you. Fuck, he even smelled good. “Well, I can’t say I blame him for wanting to hang around. Though, if you ever need a man who’ll actually help instead of just laughing at you, you know where I live.”

He tilted his head toward the house across the street, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again.

“You said your parents were away on vacation?” he asked.

You nodded.

“For how long?”

“Just for a couple of days,” you replied.

Bucky hummed, an amused smile playing on his face as he looked at you. He leaned in, his voice releasing a low murmur as his warm breath tickled your skin.

“A couple of days, huh?”

You caught his gaze tracing a path down your tank top before he met your eyes with a devastatingly slow smirk. If he had this much confidence at his big old age, he was definitely a troublemaker when he was in college, that’s for sure.

“Would you look at that? That’s plenty of time for us to get well-acquainted.”

He watched the way your breath hitched and smiled, looking satisfied. He pulled away and turned back towards his side of the street. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he heard a small whine escape you.

“See you around, neighbor,” he called over his shoulder with a charming smile, sauntering down your driveway and back towards his own.

As he walked off, your heart was beating with excitement—beating far too fast to keep up. And the only thing you could think about was how much you were going to gloat about this to Steve later.

You sat across from Steve at the same dingy diner where you two met every Thursday for brunch.

While you sat cross legged on one side of the booth, Steve sat opposite from you in a crisp navy blue collared shirt with a name tag that read HYDRA’S MECHANIC! and the name Steven on the top right.

“He has a cat, Steve. A cat!” You smiled, dipping your toast into a pool of egg yolk. “Her name is Alpine—and he called her ‘his girl.’ Isn’t that so sweet? I nearly had a heart attack right there in the driveway.”

Steve held a coffee mug in his hand, watching you. He was supposed to be heading into work in twenty minutes, but he was currently occupied with the girl in front of him—and her endless rambling.

“And he’s single,” you continued through a mouthful of toast. “No ring, no wife—just a gorgeous, ripped cat dad with a voice that sounds like it came straight out of a smutty audiobook.” You paused, taking a quick sip of your drink. “I mean, yeah, he’s definitely got a few years on me. He’s a little older, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. It just makes him more…” You sighed dreamily. “Capable.”

Steve didn’t say a word. He set his coffee cup down, picked up a fry, and dipped it slowly into a side of ranch with a lopsided smile.

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you caught his grin.

“Nothing,” he said simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Steve. I know that face,” you pointed out. “That’s your ‘I’ve got something to say, but I won’t’ face mixed with something else. Come on, tell me! What are you thinking?”

Steve chuckled, wiping his hand on a napkin before leaning back in the booth. “I don’t know how I feel about you going after some guy who’s that much older than you. He seems like the type of guy you have fun with—not someone you bring home to your parents.”

Your eyes went wide. “What? You encouraged me to go for it!”

Steve held up his hands defensively. “I know, I know! It’s just… I don’t know. Can’t a guy worry?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his bashfulness. “Aw, you’re worried over little ol’ me, Stevie?” You tilted your head, taunting him.

He rolled his eyes. “You know what? Forget I even said anything—”

“No, no,” you leaned in, resting both arms on the table “Okay, fine. I’m hearing you. What can I do that’ll make you more comfortable in this situation?”

Steve shrugged, lifting the coffee cup and bringing it to his lips. “Could start by meeting the guy, I guess.”

“Okay,” you agreed casually. “He did mention you, actually.”

Steve quirked a brow, eyeing you over the rim of his mug. “Did he?”

You nodded. “He asked if you were my boyfriend.”

He scoffed a laugh. “Boyfriend? He’s already getting jealous? God—how old is he again?”

You gave him a look. “He was just curious, Steve.”

“Sure, and I’m a superhero fighting crime in New York.” Steve set his mug down, dipping another fry into ranch and plopping it into his mouth. He gathered his phone and wallet, quickly tucking them into his pockets. “I gotta go. Shift is starting soon.”

“Wait.” You sat up straight. “My dad won’t stop texting me asking if you can fix the wagon—it keeps making this weird noise and he won’t leave me alone until you look at it.”

“I’m free tomorrow after work. I’ll swing by then. I’ll consider this—” he motioned to the table, where the bill sat squarely in the middle with your name on it, “—payment for the repair.” Steve pushed himself out of the booth, licking the ranch off his thumb before pointing a finger at you. “I’ll text you. And don’t screw the guy ‘til I meet him.”

You couldn’t even get a word in before Steve was already rushing out the door, the bell jingling after him.

“Yeah. Okay, Dad.”

After paying for brunch, you drove home feeling giddy.

Turning the corner onto your street, you spotted Bucky right outside his house, mowing the lawn. This time, he was shirtless.

You purposefully slowed down to get a good look at him, but the moment he looked up and spotted your car pulling into the driveway, he smiled—aiming it right at you through your fishbowl wagon on wheels.

Parked in the driveway, you took a quick look at yourself in the pull down mirror, checking to make sure there weren’t any crumbs on your face or a stray strand of hair sticking out. Smoothing down your top and adjusting your shorts, you stepped out of the car—aiming for casual. But with the way your heart was beating, you were anything but.

Bucky had killed the mower engine and was wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked hypnotizing, his chest and stomach glistening in the afternoon sun.

“Eventful day, I take it?” He nodded towards your car. “Noticed your wagon was missing from the driveway this morning.”

He had noticed you were gone? You tried your best not to smile.

“Oh, yeah,” you leaned against trunk nonchalantly. “I went to have brunch with a friend.”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest—a move that did very interesting things to his biceps that were hard to ignore—and leaned his weight back on one leg.

“Let me guess,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Steve?”

After Steve’s comment about Bucky being jealous, you couldn’t help but bask in confidence. You quirked a brow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Are you jealous?”

Bucky tilted his head, pretending to contemplate the question as he looked you up and down.

“Only a little,” he admitted with that handsome smile of his.

You grinned. “Well, there’s no need to be jealous, I assure you,” you explained, pushing yourself off the car.

Taking a step back, you gestured vaguely to his yard. “I’ll let you get back to it, though. You look pretty busy,” you said, despite how much you actually wanted to pull up a folding chair and just stare.

You turned to head towards your front door, but you didn’t get far before his voice stopped you.

“You know,” Bucky called out as he began crossing the street. “Your car is looking a little dirty.”

You stopped and turned back, your breath catching as you watched him make his way onto your driveway. Shirtless and confident, he looked even more imposing standing on your property than he had the other day. He came to a halt beside the green wagon, glancing at the circle of bird poop sitting right on the roof.

Then, he looked back at you with a smile—as if he already knew you wouldn’t say no.

“Need some help cleaning?”

“I…” Your eyes trailed to his bare chest slicked with sweat. You didn’t know how you were going to control yourself, but despite it all, you swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”

Minutes later, you found yourself grabbing all the supplies needed to get the car cleaned. Bucky stood by the bucket, holding the hose as the water filled the plastic. It took everything in you not to stare at the way the sun was shining down on his tanned skin, sweat and water glistening down the hard lines of his stomach.

His jeans sat dangerously low on his hips, the hem of his briefs peeking out over the top. He hadn’t even started cleaning the car yet, but he already looked hotter just standing there than you ever felt trying to look appealing while washing the wagon.

When the bucket was full, he lifted it by the handle without much struggle. You watched as his biceps and forearms flexed against the weight of it. His eyes caught yours, and you swallowed hard, quickly forcing your gaze away.

Bucky stepped to the passenger side, opposite where you were standing. He didn’t seem bothered by your staring.

Actually, he seemed to be feeding off the attention, especially after catching you several times.

“This is a nice car,” he commented, dunking a sponge into the soapy water. “Vintage. I’m surprised she’s still kicking around.”

While Bucky scrubbed down the passenger side, you kept trying to sneak glances through the untinted windows. From where you stood, you had a perfect view of his chest muscles and his stomach pressing against the glass as he worked.

“Uh—yeah,” you cleared your throat, forcing your focus back. “It’s from the sixties. It’s my dad’s, actually. Steve just helps me fix it up.”

“Your friend Steve,” Bucky mused, peeking at you over the roof. “He a mechanic?”

“Yup,” you nodded. “So if you hear loud car noises coming from across the street tomorrow when he fixes it, you can blame him.”

“This Steve guy sounds like a total catch,” Bucky said with a light laugh. “You sure you’re not dating him?”

You weren’t sure why Bucky was so insistent on you having a secret relationship with Steve. You had your fair share of insecure men who were jealous of you hanging around with someone like Steve Rogers, and you figured that habit died out once men hit the age of twenty five. But with Bucky standing across from you, poking at your relationship with Steve, you were starting to think that wasn’t the case.

“I swear, I’m not dating Steve.” You raised a pinky so he could see it over the roof. “Besides, he’s like an older brother to me.”

Bucky blew a raspberry.

“Poor kid,” he chuckled. “But really, I’m surprised he hasn’t made a move on you.” He bent down to clean the rim right above the tire, letting his eyes trail over your body through the window. “If I had a pretty girl like you in my life... we wouldn’t have been friends for long.”

You felt your heart stutter.

What did that even mean?

Did he mean he would make you his girlfriend?

You wanted to hear him say it—to blurt out the answer himself.

You dumped your sponge in your bucket, letting yourself get damp with the soapy water.

“Is that so?” you challenged, trying your best to play it cool. “And what would we be then?”

He stood up with a low groan, looking at you over the roof. He began making his way towards your side of the car, moving purposefully slow as he dragged his sponge across the hood—hardly even pretending to clean it anymore.

“After watching you wash this car—looking like a woman straight out of my dreams? We’d be a lot of things,” he said smoothly, locking eyes with you as he reached the corner of the bumper. “But ‘friends’ sure as hell isn’t one of them.”

You grinned, allowing him to be the one to approach you as you continued scrubbing.

“So,” you kept your voice playful, a little teasing. “You’ve been watching me?”

Bucky didn’t bother denying it.

He stopped just inches away from you. He let his tongue run slowly over his bottom lip, his eyes traveling shamelessly down your body. He was mesmerized with the path of the soap bubble trickling down your collarbone, sliding between the curve of your breasts before disappearing into the thin fabric of your tank top, where your perky nipples were poking right through.

It was hard for him to ignore. They were practically begging to be licked.

“Hard not to,” he rasped, stepping closer until he was standing directly behind you. He propped one strong arm against the roof of the wagon, locking you in. “Especially when you’re giving me a view like that from across the street.”

You let out a shaky breath—one that you hoped he didn’t catch, but he did. You stared at him through the reflection of the window, and his eyes were on you—tracing your face, leaning in to smell you.

It was this very moment that made you remember the age gap, because he was moving and talking so smoothly, like it was all natural to him. As if he had been swooning women like you for years.

But you weren’t going to let that shake you up.

You pushed your hips back subtly, letting your damp ass press against his hips. You tried not to gasp at the straining bulge that was waiting for you between his legs.

“Well, I’m right here,” you said quietly, staring at him in the reflection. “So, what then?”

Bucky looked around, his gaze sweeping across the street to make sure no one else was near.

With one hand still propped against the car, the other found your hip, giving it a firm squeeze to keep you right where you were with your ass pressed tight against his cock.

“Do you want to know what I love most about being in this neighborhood, aside from the fact that I have a super attractive neighbor living across from me?”

He rocked his hips forward, letting his hard bulge nestle perfectly between the curve of your bottom. His cock was fighting the restraint of his jeans, and just from that small movement alone, you could feel how big he was.

Bucky pressed his lips against your ear, murmuring low and tickling your skin with his warm breath. “I love how quiet it is. There’s rarely anyone outside, or even driving by... so when I touch you like this...” His hand slid up from your hip to cup your breast through your tank top. “No one will even notice.”

You gasped as he fondled your tits, his rough fingers flicking the sensitive peak of your nipple. As he dampened your shirt with his wet hands, the water seeped through the thin fabric, making every bit of friction feel even more sensitive than the last.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Oh,” he let out a low, rough breath. “You’re so reactive. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

Bucky’s hand left the roof of the car to wrap around your eyes, pulling you even closer against him. He rocked his hips—back and forth, in a steady rhythm—dry humping you right there against the green wagon in your driveway where anyone could see.

The friction of his denim against your damp, thin shorts made a warm heat pool in your lower belly. Every grind of his hips was met with a hard twitch in his jeans, making your body ache for more.

His hands were everywhere. One hand gripped your hip, tickling the skin beneath the fabric as he gave your flesh a possessive squeeze.

The other continued to fondle your tits, tickling your nipple through the wet cotton. His thumb and forefinger would catch your nipple, rolling it until you were arching your back and whimpering his name.

“Cute noises coming out of you,” he murmured against the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make if someone were to drive by and see what I’m doing to you?”

You shuddered as his hands roamed lower, his fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. He undid the button with just one hand, letting his fingers trace the skin of your mound, grazing low until he found your clit—lightly rubbing the nub of his finger against it.

A moan left your lips as you arched your back deeper against him. He groaned as your ass rubbed against his throbbing cock.

While Bucky’s fingers toyed with your clit—rubbing in deep, circular motions—he rocked his hips, seeking pleasure of his own. You were moaning, breathing hard as you stared down at him playing with you.

“Bucky… I… mph—” you moaned, your voice pitched high. You ground your hips against his hand, fucking yourself onto his fingers.

With Bucky standing right behind you, he looked down at the soapy water trickling over your chest, his cock growing harder by the second.

He wasn’t lying when he said you looked like a woman straight out of a dream. He wanted nothing more than to tear your clothes apart—which he could do easily—and fuck you right on the hood of the car he’d been watching you parade yourself on for the past few days.

He was so horny, he needed to sink into you—fast.

But first, he needed to see how much of him you were willing to take, starting with his fingers.

“Gotta test you, baby,” Bucky rasped against your ear. “See how much your little pussy can take.”

His hand traced down from your clit to your folds. He groaned once his fingers made contact with your slick heat. You were so wet, so easily riled up, and so ripe for the taking, yet he wanted to make this last.

Bucky glanced around one more time—the coast was clear. He shoved your shorts down, exposing your ass to the cool air, and pushed your lace panties to the side. He probed his middle finger against your entrance, dancing his digit in a curling motion to prepare you.

“So wet,” he murmured, grinning at your little gasps and mewls. “Could easily slide my finger right in.”

His middle finger slowly eased into your pussy, the warm flesh of your entrance accommodating him smoothly. There was a bit of a stretch, sure, but he could easily finger fuck you right now with no struggle at all.

“How many can you take?” he asked.

You felt your face warm at his question. “… Two.”

He hummed against your ear. “Two, huh?”

Without warning, his ring finger took a quick drag against your entrance—already stuffed by his middle finger—and slid in slowly. Your mouth dropped as a broken gasp tore from your throat. The stretch was burning. His fingers were long and thick, and having two of them inside was enough to fill you completely.

“Fuck—Bucky!”

Bucky didn’t give you a chance to fully adjust to his two fingers before he started moving—thrusting in and out, curling deep inside you as he searched for every sensitive spot. With his free hand still clamped onto your hip, he humped you from behind, groaning as his denim jeans grew even tighter around his throbbing cock.

He was so hard it was painful.

His need to sink himself inside you was spiraling out of control as he felt his pre-cum soaking into his waistband. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he watched the way your ass bounced against his hand, swallowing his fingers with every move.

“Christ,” he hissed against your neck. He slowed his hand just enough to hook a third finger against your entrance, probing the tight and overtaxed muscle. “You’re squeezing my fingers so tight, baby.”

He looked at you through the reflection of the window, and you stared back, caught in his dark gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nodded with a whimper.

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and without warning, he pressed the tip of his pointer finger against your stretched entrance.

Your eyes flew wide at the sensation as he slowly began sinking that third finger in, forcing you to press your tits and hands into the glass window for support.

“Bucky,” you gasped. “What are you—!”

“Think you can take three?”

He couldn’t even sink his third finger in all the way, your body simply wouldn’t allow it.

The stretch was a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure, your hips going stiff as you struggled to take him in. He was breathing hard against your ear, and you could feel every heavy throb of his cock right behind you.

“Oh my—fuck, Bucky! It’s too much, I can’t—”

He continued rutting his hips against yours, silently encouraging you to accommodate all three fingers. You could tell he was trying to hold back. His fingers stayed there, unmoving, while his hips did all the work.

“Shit,” Bucky cursed, his hand stilling completely inside you. “Three’s a little tight, huh? Come on, baby. Try for me. If you can take three, then you can take my cock with no problem.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to relax the muscles that were fighting him.

Slowly, you began to push back, easing yourself onto those three thick fingers and sinking down until you felt the base of his hand press against your folds.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he felt your tight cunt finally give way to accommodate him. He was hard as hell, his balls growing heavier and his cock thickening against your lower back with every heavy breath he took.

“Fuck. That’s a good fucking slut,” he hissed, his hips rutting in an uneven motion. “Taking all three fingers—God, you’re being so good for me.”

His teeth traced the column of your neck, biting gently to make you gasp. His lips closed against your skin, sucking and marking you as he murmured filth in your ear.

“So fucking tight,” he whispered. “Been watching you for days, thinking you were going to be untouchable—just eye candy for a man like me living across the street.” He curled his fingers, hitting your sensitive spot and making you cry out his name. “Who knew I’d have you right here, pinned against your daddy’s car, being stretched out in broad daylight.”

You watched him through the reflection, your pussy clenching around his fingers at the dark way he was staring at you.

“Oh, you’re such a little slut for your neighbor, aren’t you?”

Your cunt fluttered around him, his fingers fucking you so thoroughly you felt like you could cum.

“Bucky,” you whined, your hips twitching as you tried to clench your legs together. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

“No,” he grunted, his voice deep and rough. “Not yet.”

If he had fucked you for even a second longer, you would have cried out in pleasure and came right there in your driveway.

But instead, he abruptly yanked his fingers out, the vulgar squelch sound following after. You let out a cry of frustration, your body slumping against the window as he left you feeling cold and aching.

Behind you, Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours in the window’s reflection as he slowly licked your juices off his fingers. The act was so unapologetically filthy that your face burned with embarrassment.

“You even taste sweet, too,” he murmured.

He took a step back, his hands fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. He gave himself a quick squeeze through the denim before finally freeing himself.

You couldn’t help it. You looked over your shoulder and your breath hitched.

Now, you understood exactly why he wanted you to take three fingers first.

His cock was massive, thick and pulsing for you. He stepped back into the space between your legs and slapped his cock against your lower back. It was hot, hard, heavy, and already wet at the tip where he leaked pre-cum. His breathing was labored as he grabbed his shaft, rubbing the tip against your bare ass—smearing his slickness and marking you from behind.

Bucky moaned at the sight of his pre-cum glistening on your soft skin.

“What a pretty, pretty whore,” he cooed. He leaned over you, his thick arm hooking around your waist to bend you over while your hands pressed against the window.

He couldn’t wait any longer. He slapped his cock against your wet pussy, making you wince as your body hummed with anticipation.

“Your pussy’s all stretched out now, ready to take me.” He grabbed his shaft, positioning the head right at your entrance.

The tip of his cock nestled perfectly between your wet, aching folds. Just the sensation of it alone was enough to make him groan in pleasure.

It felt as if your entrance was giving him warm, wet kisses, welcoming him home.

“So, it should just slide right in,” he rasped, slowly drawing his hips forward and beginning to sink into you. “Fuck.”

He couldn’t even make it past the head because of how tight you were squeezing him. His face scrunched in a twist of pleasure and pain, his arm wrapping you tight as he fought for control. You mewled and whined so sweetly—the sound of it should have made him feel bad, but it only made him want to tear you apart more.

“Fuck—how the hell are you still so tight, even after everything?”

Every time he tried to draw his hips forward, your body buckled and clamped down, refusing to give an inch more than the head of him.

“God,” he hissed, forehead dropping to the back of your neck as he struggled to breathe. “What a tight pussy fuck.”

He tried to rock into you again—slow and agonizing. He was gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, his cock pulsing as your cunt fluttered around him, desperate to stretch around his size.

“F—fuck, Bucky, I’m trying—” you whimpered.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped, rocking his hips and trying to find pleasure from what little was already inside you. “I already stretched you out. I know you can take me. You’re just so fucking small.”

You looked at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. His face was twisted. He looked almost angry—snarling from how difficult this was for him.

You tried pushing your hips back, wincing from the delicious stretch.

“Is this hurting you, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out more timid than you’d like. “Are you hurting because I’m so tight?”

A raspy, deep groan tore straight from his throat. You were asking out of genuine concern, but he took it as a challenge.

“God—you fucking—are you trying to test me?”

Bucky kicked your legs wider, his hands clamping down on your waist. He hauled your body back into his, then completely sheathed his cock into your tight pussy.

The air left your lungs the minute your ass pressed against his pelvis. His dark curls were hot against your skin as he finally, finally buried himself all the way inside you. He was in to the very hilt, but you were still so tight that moving was nearly impossible.

He stayed perfectly still for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he let the sensation of your tightness settle.

In the window’s reflection, it looked as filthy as it felt—a large, shirtless, and sweaty man mounting and rutting into you from behind like an animal, his broad shoulders swallowing your frame as his heavy arms circled you, keeping you pinned close and tight.

“Fuck,” he choked out. “There it is. There you are.”

After a moment of adjustment, he began to rock his hips. He drew in and out slowly, fucking you with deep, hard strokes that made the car creak.

“Christ, look at you,” he hissed, his eyes fixed on your reflection over your shoulder. “Stretched wide open—fucked like a whore for the whole neighborhood to see. You’re taking every goddamn inch of me, aren’t you, baby?”

Your face twisted in pleasure, your bottom lip hanging open as you moaned a litany of words. “Don’t stop... Please, Bucky, please.”

“This was why you were putting your body on display for me, huh? Hoping I’d finally cross the street one day and fuck you.” He fought for his breath as his hips increased the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, relentlessly making you his. “You’re a smart cookie, too. Made sure your parents were out of town so you could act like a total slut.”

You moaned, eyes rolling back at his filthy words as your body clenched in reaction. “Yes! Yes, Bucky! I’m a slut for you!”

He groaned as he tilted his hips, forcing himself even deeper into your abused pussy.

“Squeezing me so tight... I can only imagine how you’d react if your parents were to drive down the street right now. Imagine them seeing their precious daughter getting split open by her older neighbor—a man they haven’t even met yet.”

He felt your body begin to tremor, your walls fluttering around his pulsing cock. He leaned in even closer, his hot, raspy breath dancing against the shell of your ear.

“Now, what would happen if your poor best friend—Steve, was it?—drove down here expecting to fix your car, only to find you with your tits pushed against the glass, stuffed full of my cock? How would you react then?”

Your knees wobbled and your eyes rolled back at the image. Your body convulsed, your pussy squeezing him impossibly tight at the filthy thought of it.

“Oh, my god—S-steve...!”

Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh, followed immediately by a deep, guttural groan at the sensation of you clenching around him. He didn’t even care that you moaned another man’s name when he had you stuffed.

“Fuck, so goddamn tight,” he rasped, his arms wrapping around you tighter as you shook. “Shit, you like it, don’t you? The idea of getting caught by your best friend? Fuck—what a goddamn nasty whore you are.”

His hips began to blur against yours as he fucked you harder, the car creaking and groaning with every thrust.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how you’re clenching around me just at the thought of him. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him?” He leaned over, biting your shoulder to stifle his own grunt. “Would you let your best friend watch me split you open like this?”

You nodded frantically, sweat beading at your temple from being used so thoroughly. The talk—the idea of it was filthy, a dream that you would’ve never considered doing, but Bucky was fucking you so good that anything he said at this point was hypnotic.

“Yes, yes, Bucky, please! You both can take turns using me!”

“Nasty little slut,” Bucky hissed, his teeth biting gently at your skin again. “Fuck. I’m getting close.”

You nodded hard again, your knees nearly giving out if it weren’t for his big hands holding you back. “Me—me too, shit—!”

Bucky’s grip on your body tightened, pulling you close against his bare and sweaty chest.

After three hard thrusts that bottomed out against your womb, he let out a deep grunt against your neck, his body going stiff as he finally came.

His cock pulsed as cum began to spill out of his tip, pumping you full of his seed and staying completely stuffed inside you until you were filled to the brim. Your head tossed back as a cry left your throat, your overworked pussy clamping down on him and pulsing in a way that milked every last drop out of him.

He held you tight, breathing deep into your back as you both fought for air. “Fuck—you’re draining my balls dry, sweetheart.”

You both started to laugh—deep, tired, and rumbling laughs at everything that had just transpired out in the open, right in your very driveway.

Bucky looked down, pulling out slightly and watching with blown out pupils as his cum trickled out of you and onto the concrete, where it mixed with the soapy water.

“Dirty, dirty girl.”

You spent the following afternoon in your room, going through lectures, though you were hardly paying attention to them. With your cheek resting on your palm, your eyes kept drifting to the open window that gave you a perfect, convenient view of the house right across the street.

Bucky’s house.

The driveway was empty, and the lights inside were off. The blinds were pulled open though, and you could see Alpine—the little cat he mentioned—loafing on the windowsill and staring back at you.

In that moment, the two of you were exactly the same.

Just waiting for Bucky to come home.

The silence of your bedroom was overtaken by the rumble of a truck engine. Sitting up and peeking out the window, you recognized Steve’s battered pickup truck turning into the driveway before the engine cut out.

Steve climbed out of the driver’s seat, looking as exhausted as ever, but he had still shown up for you.

You smiled, racing down the stairs to meet him outside. In the driveway, it was clear that his shift at Hydra’s mechanic shop had done a number on him. His navy blue collared shirt was stained with sweat and motor oil, with dark streaks smeared across his jaw and down the length of his thick forearms.

“Steve,” you breathed with a smile. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Steve shut the door, the truck shaking from the force. “Could never forget about you. Work was just running me late.” He reached for his tools in the flatbed with a tired groan. “How’s your car holding up? Been using it since we had lunch yesterday?”

Your face warmed at the question.

Using it wouldn’t be the right term for it, you thought.

“Not really,” you said, trying to hide the bashful expression on your face.

“Still making that weird creaking noise?” he asked, walking over to the front and popping the hood.

You bit your lip and nodded. “Yep.”

Steve stood over the engine, glancing at wires and mechanical parts that were completely foreign to you.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, hovering over his shoulder.

He didn’t look back as he lifted a straining wire with his pointer finger, examining it closely. “Looks like she’s been through it.”

You had to bite back a snort. You would’ve complimented him on his sense of humor—if only he had known any better.

“Thanks for doing this, Steve,” you said, giving him a pat on his sweaty back. “My dad’s going to be real grateful.”

Steve nodded. “How are you and that neighbor doing?” He still kept his focus on the wires, his voice casual and unassuming. “You two didn’t screw each other after my warning yesterday, right?”

You were so glad he was focused on the engine—the face you made would’ve given it all away.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” you scoffed playfully, crossing your arms defensively.

Steve glanced up at you with a chuckle. “A good one, I hope.” He brought his tools to the edge of the car, rummaging through the kit. “You two exchanged numbers yet?”

“Do I have to?” you shrugged. “He lives right across the street.”

Steve tilted his head, agreeing. “You make a good point.” He looked back at the engine. “When are you going to introduce me to the guy?”

You leaned against the car with a roll of your eyes. “Steve, you’re sounding an awful lot like my dad. And why are you in such a rush to meet him, anyway?”

Steve shrugged, pulling a wire stripper out of his toolbox before setting it back down on the ground. “I’m your best friend, alright? It’d give any man peace of mind to know what kind of person you’re talking to. Hand me a wrench, would you?”

Crouching, you dug into his toolbox until you found something that resembled a wrench. You handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the tool from your hand. His brows furrowed as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt, the muscles in his forearms and biceps flexed hard, giving you an up close and personal view of a working man.

After the filthy things Bucky hissed in your ear yesterday, you couldn’t help but stare. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him? Even worse was the memory of what you cried out in response. You both can take turns using me!

You wanted to slap yourself for the secondhand embarrassment you were giving yourself.

You wouldn’t consider it—no, you couldn’t. Steve was the person you grew up with, the one who fended off your bullies in kindergarten. Steve was the one who drove you to school every morning in high school. Steve was the one who took you to prom when no one else did.

Steve was family.

But as he stood there, covered in motor oil and sweat, you finally understood why a man like Bucky would be jealous over you hanging out with a man like Steve Rogers.

The wrench slipped, clattering against the frame of the car before hitting the driveway with a noise that made you flinch.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He bent down to pick it up. He stood up straight—reminding you all over again of just how big he was compared to you—and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

While you were having filthy thoughts about your best friend, he was standing there in an increasingly sour mood. Between the long shift at Hydra’s and the oppressive heat of the bright afternoon sun, he looked completely spent.

You didn’t know the first thing about wire strippers or engine blocks, and you felt useless just hovering over his shoulder.

“I’m going to go make you a lemonade,” you said, giving his shoulder another supportive pat. “I’ll be back, okay?”

Steve didn’t say anything. He just gave a single, firm nod to let you know he heard you.

As you retreated inside, a car that Steve didn’t recognize pulled up to Bucky’s driveway.

It was a sleek, black convertible sports car. Steve couldn’t help but clench his jaw at the sight of it. Of course Bucky drove a sports car.

He stood no chance against his rundown pickup.

Bucky stepped out of the vehicle, running a hand through his hair. As he turned to glance at your driveway, expecting to see you, his blue eyes landed on Steve instead.

For all that talk about wanting to meet him, Steve really only cared to do it if you were there, bridging the gap. So for now, until you returned with his lemonade—which he was sure would make Bucky jealous—Steve tried to keep himself too occupied to notice him.

But he kept catching movement in his peripheral vision. Then another. Then another. A stupid, persistent movement that wouldn’t go away, like a goddamn fly.

Steve finally lifted his head and saw Bucky still in his driveway, waving.

Waving?

At what?

Steve turned around, expecting to see you standing right behind him with the lemonade, but you weren’t. The porch remained empty—meaning Bucky was waving at him.

“Need any help there?” Bucky called out from across the street, resting his hands on his hips.

Steve pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “I’m good!” he called back. Short, straight to the point, and friendly enough.

He looked back down at the engine, but it didn’t take long before a bright spark jumped from the terminal with a loud popping sound. Steve jolted back with a hiss, snapping his hand away from the burn. “Shit!”

Across the street, Bucky was already making his way over with a smug grin that Steve caught—and one he especially wanted to wipe off.

Jesus. Where were you?

“Here,” Bucky finally reached him, occupying the small space between the car’s engine and where Steve was standing. “Let me help you with that.”

Before Steve could fight for his spot, Bucky was leaning over the hood, adjusting the wires in a way that made Steve—the man wearing an actual mechanic’s uniform—feel like a fool.

Steve stepped up to the hood, propping his arm against it as he looked the man over. “So, you’re the new neighbor that moved in not too long ago, right?” He already knew the answer, but this was at least him trying for short conversation.

Bucky looked up at Steve, his eyes slowly tracing over his uniform. Steve felt his eyebrow twitch.

Was Bucky silently insulting him?

“Yup,” Bucky drawled with the pop of the p. “And you must be my pretty neighbor’s best friend. The one she always talks about.”

It was getting harder by the second for Steve to go along with this. Bucky acted like the very frat boys at Jensen that Steve had warned you to avoid at all costs—and this man was in his mid-thirties, for crying out loud.

“Yeah. That’s me,” Steve mumbled.

Bucky stood up straight, extending his hand for a shake. “Bucky.”

Steve was wary, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the offered hand before finally reaching out to take it.

“Steve,” he replied with a firm grip.

Bucky stared at Steve for a moment longer—as if studying him—before looking back down at the engine with a huff of laughter. “You know, for a guy who works at a mechanic shop, you’re struggling pretty bad with a simple alternator issue.” He bent over the engine again, examining it. “Are you trying to actually fix the car, or just trying to impress your lady friend?”

Steve let out a dry laugh as he pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “It’s been a long day, alright? I’ve been dealing with different cars all day, the sun is giving me a headache, and now I’ve got my best friend’s neighbor to worry about—”

He stopped himself before he could spill too much, but Bucky caught it anyway. He chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he looked up at Steve from where he was bent over. “You’re worrying about me?”

Steve swallowed hard, trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m just looking out for her. New guy in the neighborhood, it’s just a habit.”

Bucky hummed, a small, knowing grin resting on his lips as he turned back to the engine block.

He leaned further under the hood of the old sixties station wagon, his fingers moving towards the distributor cap and the fraying ignition wire Steve had been struggling with. Bucky repositioned the stubborn ceramic boot, adjusting the distributor to ensure the connection wouldn’t spark again.

He wiped his hands on his thighs as he stood up straight.

“Since it’s an older model, you’re going to need to buy a specific point and condenser set for a sixties Ford wagon. But this should hold her over for now.” Bucky looked over at Steve. “You got a piece of paper so I can write down the part number you need?”

Steve blinked, surprised and undeniably impressed by how easily Bucky had handled it.

“Oh. Y-yeah, hold on—” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a small, worn notepad and a pen, handing them over.

Bucky took them, resting the pad against the car’s fender as he scribbled down the specifications. Steve glanced up, watching you through the kitchen window where you were completely oblivious, still focused on making the lemonade.

Surprisingly, he actually liked the guy. Despite the age difference, he could see potential in Bucky. He was handsome, owned his own house, drove a nice car, and was clearly respectful and handy. He was exactly the type of man your parents wouldn’t pass out at the sight of.

He was a good man for you—regrettably so.

Bucky finished writing, flipping the notepad shut and handing it back to Steve along with the pen. “Here you go.”

Steve smiled, and this time it was polite and genuine.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.” He held up the notepad with a slight nod. “She’ll appreciate this. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

Bucky’s smile widened just slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, catching your silhouette through the kitchen window where you were still occupied with the lemons. His gaze lingered on you for a split second before he looked back at Steve, his expression unreadable.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky said smoothly, giving Steve a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Remember, I’m right across the street if you ever need help.”

He gave a parting nod before turning on his heel, brushing past Steve to head back to his side of the street.

Steve watched Bucky disappear past his front door. By the time the door clicked shut, you had finally stepped out onto the porch with two glasses of lemonade in your hands. Perfect timing.

“Sorry I took so long,” you said breathlessly, walking down the steps and handing him a glass. “It’s been a minute since I last made it from scratch, so…”

“You just missed him.”

You raised a brow in confusion. “Sorry?”

Steve brought the cold glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tart drink before nodding towards the house across the road.

“Bucky.” He let out a satisfied exhale, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. “He was just here—helping me with your car, actually.”

Your eyes went wide, your head snapping towards Bucky’s house—though he was nowhere to be found. You reached up, trying to smooth down your hair.

“He was? Is he coming back?” You asked, sounding too excited for your own good.

Steve shrugged, taking another sip. “Probably not. Seemed like he had other things to do.”

You looked at Steve, your eyes narrowing skeptically.

Steve caught your look and let out a soft laugh, adjusting the cold glass against his palm. “What?”

“So…” you teased, swaying back and forth subtly. “I assume you two talked for a bit then? How was he? What do you think of him?”

Steve shrugged again, a genuine smile breaking through the tired expression he had on before. “Alright, alright. You know what? He’s not a bad guy. He actually helped me fix your car. I like him.” He handed you back the empty glass, flipping through the crumpled pages to find the note Bucky had left. “He even told me what part we needed to order to get this thing fixed up and working again—”

He froze in the middle of his sentence. His eyes went wide, staring at the page as his words got lost in his mind.

You raised a brow, confused with Steve’s sudden change in demeanor. “Well? What part is it? Is it expensive?”

When he didn’t answer, you took it upon yourself to step closer and peek your head over his arm to look at the notepad. What you saw made your breath hitch, and your own eyes went wide.

There was no part number.

Written in bold handwriting, on the paper was a phone number, Bucky’s phone number, followed by a little message in black ink.

you’re gonna have to call me if you want that part number. xoxo, buck.

Your jaw hung so loose, a fly could’ve flown in at any moment. Steve didn’t know what to say either—if anything, he was standing there frozen, waiting for you to say something first.

“Oh my god,” was all that managed to leave your mouth. You looked up at Steve, your wide eyes meeting his. “Is Bucky…?”

Steve, poor Steve, who remained completely oblivious to the fact that you and Bucky had fucked just yesterday on this very driveway, only felt confusion and secondhand guilt.

He glanced across the street at the sleek, clean Mazda resting in Bucky's driveway, specifically staring at the custom vanity license plate on the back that read ‘BIGBUCK.’

Steve swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing with a rosy shade of pink. Though, he could easily excuse it for the sun.

“Of course,” he mumbled to himself. “He drives a Miata.”

── ✉︎ a message from pauline .ᐟ

if you were curious to know why a mazda miata specifically, you can thank r/askgaybros for that when i was conducting my research.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

Gentle Monday 🤍

safe distance. l Holland March

Holland March x Reader

warnings : one missing person; one desperate detective; several terrified employees; fluff

note : shopping has become a search for a missing person

[Ryland Grace masterlist][main masterlist] [gentle monday series]

Holland had lost you.

And what was even worse, he had lost you in a supermarket the size of a small state. His brain immediately stopped functioning rationally. At first, he wasn't worried. You'd disappeared before, only to reappear a few minutes later carrying something neither of you needed. So Holland waited patiently in the pasta sauce aisle.

Five minutes later, he moved to the next aisle. And then the next. March pushed the cart in front of him, scanning the shelves and corners, but there was no sign of you anywhere.

"Huh." A strange feeling of panic settled in his chest.

It was a hot, lazy afternoon, oddly similar to the day he'd lost Holly years ago. Back then, he'd panicked a lot more. Maybe he was more experienced now. But when yet another aisle turned out to be empty, which meant you weren't there either, he decided drastic measures were necessary.

A young employee, painfully skinny and slightly terrified, looked up to find a man leaning against the customer service counter.

"I need help."

The kid swallowed. "Of course. What can I do for you, sir?"

"I lost my girlfriend."

The employee blinked. "Here? In the store?"

"Where else would I lose her?"

The employee stared at him. Holland stared back, frighteningly serious. A long silence followed before the teenager spoke again. "Sir, she's an adult."

"I know that."

"So she'll probably be fine."

"That's not the point."

"What is the point?"

Holland sighed dramatically. "The point is that I miss her."

The teenager looked completely unprepared for this conversation. No part of his training had covered this. "Okay..." he groaned. "What exactly are you expecting me to do, sir?"

"Can you make an announcement?" 

The employee immediately shook his head. "No."

"Please."

"No. She's an adult and…"

"Please." Holland somehow looked even more desperate.

"Sir. If this were a child... or someone who required assistance..."

"She's funny," Holland said. As if that settled the matter.

The teenager blinked in confusion. "W-What?"

"She's funny and smart and she stops me from buying things I don't need," Holland explained quickly. "And I think I accidentally wandered into the gardening section. I didn't like it there."

The employee pinched the bridge of his nose. Somehow, through a combination of persistence, charm, and what could only be described as emotional harassment, Holland eventually found himself standing beside the customer service desk.

A woman handed him a microphone. "Keep it brief."

"I can do that."

She looked unconvinced and she had every reason to be. A moment later, the store speakers crackled to life. Shoppers all over the building looked up. And then…

"Attention shoppers..." Holland cleared his throat. "This is Detective Holland March speaking."

The woman behind the desk immediately regretted every decision that had led her to this moment.

"If a beautiful woman currently wandering around this store happens to be looking for a slightly distressed private investigator..."

The employee covered his face with both hands.

"Please know that he has checked six aisles, three displays of patio furniture, and one area that may have actually been a warehouse by mistake."

Several nearby customers were openly listening now. The entire store seemed to freeze.

"He would also like to apologize for getting distracted by discounted coffee."

The woman reached for the microphone, but Holland leaned away before she could grab it.

"And if said beautiful woman could please report to aisle fourteen, customer service, or honestly anywhere visible, it would be greatly appreciated because he misses her and is beginning to panic."

The microphone was confiscated immediately. The announcement ended, but people were still standing there looking bewildered. The woman behind the desk stared at Holland.

"What is wrong with you?"

Holland considered the question, then he shrugged. "A lot of things."

Five minutes later, he was still standing there when a familiar voice spoke behind him.

"Holland?"

He spun around. There you were. Holding a bag of oranges and Holly's favorite chips, smiling as if absolutely nothing had happened.

"Oh, thank God," he groaned.

Before you could react, he wrapped both arms around you. You nearly dropped everything.

"Holland!"

"You found me," he sighed dramatically.

"You were the one who lost me," you pointed out. "You were moving through the store like a confused deer in traffic."

"Unimportant detail."

You laughed into his shoulder. A few nearby shoppers were smiling now. Someone shook their head in disbelief. The employees looked exhausted and defeated. You pulled back just enough to look at him.

"I didn't think you would terrorize the store employees to find me. You're supposed to be a detective."

"I am," he replied immediately.

"You couldn't find one woman in a store."

He pointed at you. "This was a new investigative technique."

You tossed your shopping into his cart and folded your arms. "Okay. I'm listening."

He nodded seriously. "I announced my location."

"And?"

"It worked. The missing person came directly to me. Entirely on her own."

You laughed so hard you had to look away. Holland looked absurdly pleased with himself.

"Besides," he added, immediately taking your hand as if you might disappear again, "you found me, didn't you?"

"Unfortunately."

You both headed towards the checkout. His grip never faltered, as if afraid that if he lost you again, you'd be lost forever. After a moment, you looked down at your joined hands.

"Babe. You can let go now."

"No."

You rolled your eyes. Holland squeezed your hand tighter. Then he said, more quietly this time. "I didn't like it. I kept turning around to tell you things."

A small smile touched your lips. "Like what?"

"I don't remember."

For a moment, he simply looked at you warmly. Like seeing you again had fixed something. Then he gave your hand another squeeze and in a voice soft enough that only you could hear, he said: "Don't leave me forever, okay?"

Your expression softened immediately. "I wasn't gone forever. Just twenty minutes."

"I know." He smiled, a little sheepishly. "A very, very long twenty minutes."

You stopped and pulled him closer, kissing him lightly. Damn, you'd fallen for that guy a long time ago. And for the rest of the shopping trip, Holland wouldn't let you have more than four steps between you. It was a safe distance.

thank you for reading <3

[lostinwildflowers]

Ryan Gosling Masterlist

The Gray Man - Sierra Six

❈ Trust Me (14.0K) - ❤✨ - You and Six have a long history. When things go awry on an unusual mission, rooms are tight and tensions run high.

❈ The 4 Times Sierra Six Almost Kisses You, and the 1 Time He Does (14.2K) - ❤✨ - Sierra Six almost kisses you on four separate occasions. However, one time is different, and you both know it.

❈ Timing is Everything (1.5K) - ❤ - Sierra Six + "Are you asking me out on a date?"

❈ The Gray Scale - Series Masterlist - ❤✨ - Six has escaped his life at the CIA with you and Claire beside him. What would happen if he got the chance to settle down like he and Fitzroy always dreamed? What if he got to have his domestic, happy, slice-of-life kind of ending?

❈ I Wish I May, I Wish I Might (4.2K) - ❤✨ - You and Six find yourselves abandoned in the vast expanse of Russia's wilderness after a mission goes wrong. What happens when your misconceptions and the cold of the starry night stand between you and survival? -> “Where do we go from here?” + “Hopefully to a better place.”

❈ Wonderful Tonight - Series Masterlist (62.1K) - ❤✨ - When you and Six are asked to go undercover for a high-stakes mission, you aren't quite sure what you are getting yourself into. All you know is that people are disappearing, and you need to find and kill the mafia boss responsible. Oh, and you are supposed to be Six's undercover girlfriend.

❈ Amoreena - Sierra Six x Reader (5.4K) - ❤✨ - You always knew you could never fall in love with a knight. But... you did anyway, and when faced with uncertainty, you can't help but lean into him more than you should.

❈ She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy (2.6K) - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - Court Gentry has been your neighbor for a while now, and you aren't blind to his good looks. When the temperature gets to an unbearable high, you can't help but offer him a drink.

❈ Ticket Master (6.0K) - ✨❤ - Court gets recruited for your mission that's gone south, which gets on your nerves. Why? You haven't seen him in a long time, and now you're both trapped in a cave system with no way out.

❈ San Francisco (2.7K) - ✨❤ - Court has returned to what used to be his favorite city. It's been his least favorite for over a year, but he's out to set things right.

❈ NSFW Alphabet (2.7K) - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - The NSFW Alphabet for everyone's favorite assassin.

The Nice Guys - Holland March

❈ Happy Wife, Happy Life (1.1K) - ❤ - Holland insisted he would pack everything for the camping trip, you didn't need to worry about a thing. He gets a little sidetracked and forgets just a few supplies.

The Fall Guy - Colt Seavers

❈ Boat. Bayou. Boyfriend. (2.8K) - ❤ - With hectic schedules due to filming a new movie, you haven't gotten to spend "real" time with your boyfriend. He takes it upon himself to surprise you.

❈ Dessert, Then Dinner (2.8K) - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - Colt is late to dinner tonight, and he is NOT happy about it. So, he takes it upon himself to make it up to you.

❈ Where? (1.2K) - ❤✨ - While you are out for a hike in the woods, you think you may be getting stalked by a predator. Little did you know, worse was lurking in the woods.

❈ Crash or Crush? (7.5K) - ❤✨ - Colt is tired of everyone getting involved in his love life and trying to turn it around. He doesn't realize it, but he's the one standing in his own way from meeting the girl of his dreams - who ends up being a lot closer than he imagined.

Crazy, Stupid, Love. - Jacob Palmer

❈ Lipgloss (0.3K) - ❤ - Lipgloss + Jacob Palmer

❈ Missing Out (7.7K) - ❤✨ - Your childhood crush and old friend is getting married - there are a few problems, though. 1 - he took you out on a date while dating his now wife. 2 - you decided to go to the wedding. 3 - you need a plus one, and he's not at all what you bargained for.

Barbie - Ken

❈ Caution, Wet Paint (1.7K) - ❤ - Ken + Roomates + "I’m not wearing any underwear. Thought you’d like to know."

Project Hail Mary - Ryland Grace

❈ Better Than That (2.5K) - ❤✨ - When a nightmare that feels too real plagues you, you are forced to face your feelings for a certain blonde-haired scientist.

❈ NASA, Idiot (0.7K) - ❤ - Ryland Grace + Books + "You're an idiot, but… I trust you."

❈ Planning Period (1.0K) - ❤ - The unspoken tension between you and your fellow science teacher is boiling, but neither of you wants to break. Surprisingly, he makes the first move.

❈ Everything Comes Back To You (Part 2 to Planning Period) (4.4K) - ✨ - You thought things were going well between you and Ryland. Flirty comments, talks about going on dates, the whole school knew you two were smitten. Then he disappears.

❈ You Did It, Doctor (2.0K) - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - Ryland makes a pretty incredible discovery, and you think he deserves to be rewarded for his tireless work.

❈ Prehistoric (18.0K) - ❤✨ - You and Ryland are recruited by John Hammond to tour his park to give "opinions" on it. Neither of you wants to break the friendship you've created. But what if you're forced to in the face of danger?

❈ Newton's Laws of Motion (2.1K) - ❤ - Ryland's students have figured out his crush on his fellow science teacher. And now, he's got to figure out a way to tell you how he feels before they do.

❈ Explanation (0.7K) - ❤ - With the world locked down because of the pandemic, Ryland's students are intrigued when they see a familiar figure in the background of his camera.

❈ Soda Tap on the Vat (4.4K) - ❤ - You are Stratt's third in command. The primary crew of Project Hail Mary adore you and Ryland. However, they think something is brewing between the two of you.

❈ Goodness Graces (1.4K) - ❤ - You and Ryland have a fun surprise to tell your students, and you both decide that the Homecoming pep rally is the best place to do it.

❈ Gift Subscription (3.3K) - ❤ - Your fellow science teacher always displays a Christmas tree in his classroom as the holidays grow close. This year, he asks for your help to decorate it.

❈ Infected (11.8K) - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - You and Ryland are both given the amnesia serum so the primary crew has scientists on the Hail Mary. When you wake up 12 light years from Earth, neither of you remembers anything except for an unsettling dislike for the other person. An interaction with alien life has Ryland infected with a disease neither of you have seen before. What are you going to do?

❈ Stressed Out (1.1K) - ❤ - Your boyfriend - the science teacher - doesn't answer his phone. You take it upon yourself to find him and help him relax.

❈ You Know the Drill (1.7K) - ❤ - Your fellow science teacher offers you his blazer when you get cold during a fire drill.

❈ This is NOT a Drill (Part 2 to You Know the Drill) (3.0K) - ❤ - Your fellow science teacher takes you to dinner after offering you his blazer.

❈ Beautiful Stars (2.3K) - ❤ - A joint classroom demonstration has you falling harder for your dorky fellow science teacher. He might have just finished charming you.

❈ Believe in the Hail Mary (1.5K) - ❤✨ - It's been a few days since the escape from Adrian and Ryland is taking it pretty rough. You try to comfort him in the best way you know how.

❈ NSFW Alphabet (1.5K) - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - The NSFW Alphabet for everyone's favorite blonde-haired scientist.

Drive - Driver

❈ The Sweet Shop (3.3K) - ❤ - Car troubles leave you with no other option, and you find yourself outside an auto shop. When things get dicey, a handsome mechanic steps in.

❈ Joyride (4.2K) - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - Driver takes you out to his favorite spot - you just happen to give him another reason as to why it's his favorite.

❈ Seventeen On The Fourth Floor (5.4K) - When music from down the hall is relentless, you find yourself stuck between a rock and a hard place with the man your heart beats for.

Headcanons

❈ Birthday Girl - Sierra Six, Ryland Grace, Colt Seavers, Holland March, Jacob Palmer

Misc.

❈ Release (2.4K) - Colt Seavers x Driver - 💥18+ ONLY! 💥 - Colt's accident was hard to deal with. He shut everyone out and blamed himself. Especially his partner. When it gets to be too much, Driver is there to take care of him.

❈ Hay Days (0.6K) - Colt Seavers x Reader, Court Gentry x Reader - Hay is one of the joys of summer. Not. Colt and Court make it just that much better.

❈ Once Brothers, Always Brothers (1.7K) - Court Gentry, Colt Seavers, and Ryland Grace - The twins, Colt and Ryland, are often left to babysit their niece, Claire. Their older brother, Court isn't a very good cook, but they make it work.

[pencil-n-pen]

—i’m always on my own

fake boyfriend! jack x eldest daughter! reader

“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back I'm always on my own.” -All Them Horses, Noah Kahan

summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.

wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)

tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat

a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)

acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me

masterlist

“Your family’s in town?”

You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries. 

You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone. 

“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”

“Dinner circuit?”

You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”

“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”

You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”

The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.” 

“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”

“So your fucked, basically.”

Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”

Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.” 

“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”

“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”

You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”

He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”

“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”

“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”

“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”

The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”

“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”

“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”

“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand. 

Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”

Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”

“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”

Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?

You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby. 

“Mom?” 

“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”

“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“

She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.” 

“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“

“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”

You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“

“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”

“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” 

Jack. 

Jack fucking Abbot. 

Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.

Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him. 

“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”

You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures. 

Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”

And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway. 

“You work with my daughter?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”

Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke. 

She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles. 

“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”

Proud of the money I send home, maybe. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“

You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better. 

Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders. 

“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”

Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely. 

“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”

Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside. 

The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale. 

“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”

“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”

He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”

You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”

“Are those desired outcomes?”

“Mostly.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”

It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack. 

So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.

“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”

“You could.”

“Wipe out my entire family?”

“Take me to dinner with you.”

Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious. 

“Are you joking?”

He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—

“No.”

You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“

“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”

What. The. Fuck. 

“No.” You gape, incredulous. 

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“

“Jack.” 

You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“

“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”

“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”

“In the ED, obviously.”

“How long have we been together?”

“Month and a half.”

“Why are we even dating?”

“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine. 

“Have you… thought about this?” 

He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”

“Are you rich?” 

There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile. 

“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”

“But you do?”

“They’re my family.” 

Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere. 

You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?” 

“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”

“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”

“Beats drinking beer in the park.”

You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life. 

On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win. 

“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”

Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”

“Flowers?”

“Naturally.”

“You pay?” 

“For every meal.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Navy blue. Mine?” 

You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”

Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients. 

“Will she really be that upset about it?”

“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”

“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”

“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”

Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind. 

“Deal.”

—

Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend. 

Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.

In a way. 

You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.

Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go. 

Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door. 

You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.

Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—

“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”

You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape. 

“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”

Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked. 

Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“

Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?

“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”

Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing? 

He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain. 

“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”

You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”

“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.” 

You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You could swap me with someone else?”

“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”

“Touché.” 

The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically. 

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”

“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”

Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom. 

“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”

“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”

Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go. 

He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly. 

Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.

Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”

“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”

Right. That's probably an unhinged question.

“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”

He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“

“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.

“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”

He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly. 

“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”

“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”

Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”

He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply. 

“You smell good.” 

Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold. 

“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.” 

You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain. 

The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask. 

(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”

“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”

“Fair point.”)

By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them. 

At least, that’s what he says. 

“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”

“Singing your praises, of course.”

Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable. 

The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying. 

As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body. 

The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you. 

You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers: 

“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”

Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you. 

When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves. 

Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“

You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness. 

Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well. 

If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place. 

He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby. 

“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place. 

“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”

Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”

Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack. 

“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“

“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”

Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”

Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”

You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending. 

“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.” 

Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”

Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you. 

“How’d I do?”

You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can. 

To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking: 

“Do you really wanna do this right now?”

Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs. 

Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for. 

“So. Dr. Abbot—”

“Just Jack is fine.”

“—How long have the two of you been dating?”

“A month and a half.”

“Why’d you start dating?”

You take a generous gulp of your wine. 

“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in. 

Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”

You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes. 

That’s going in the mental folder. 

“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”

“Why’d you leave?” 

“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”

You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine. 

The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.

Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear. 

“Mr. Abbot—“

“Either Doctor or Jack works.” 

Ooo. There was some bite in that one. 

Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better. 

But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions. 

This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward. 

“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?” 

Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot. 

Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe. 

“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.” 

For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on. 

But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way. 

He’s perfect. 

Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look. 

Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide. 

Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car. 

“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”

Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“Jack?” 

“They didn’t even talk to you.”

You blink. 

“What?”

“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”

You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?

“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips. 

“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“

“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”

Oh. 

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”

Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”

“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”

“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”

Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed. 

Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.

“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?” 

He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.

(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)

“Of course I remember.” 

There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present. 

The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)

But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone. 

Jack just keeps looking at you. 

He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact. 

He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking. 

“You’re so much more than them.” 

Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold. 

“What?”

“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.” 

You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat. 

“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“

“No.”

Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly. 

An old habit. 

Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.  

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.” 

Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“

“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.” 

“Jack—“

“Please.”

You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain. 

He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”

You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?” 

Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability. 

“I’ll walk you to your door.” 

The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress. 

At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.

Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him. 

(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.  

You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)

You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better? 

“You have that look on your face.”

You frown. “What look?” 

“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

“It’s freaky when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You always know what I’m thinking.”

Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?” 

“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.” 

“Oh.” 

It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad. 

He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you. 

Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”

Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense. 

Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger. 

“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?” 

The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it. 

He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.” 

“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”

“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”

“Maybe I‘ll—“

“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.” 

You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out. 

Sometimes it feels like he balances you out. 

“Goodnight.”

He gives you a little smile of his own. 

“Goodnight.”

—

Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you. 

So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list. 

“This really isn’t a good time—“

“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.” 

“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”

“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“

The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room. 

“She fight back at all?”

“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.” 

“Christ.”

“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”

“Fuck. Do you think—“

“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.” 

Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.” 

“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?” 

“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”

Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”

“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.” 

“That bad?” 

“Yeah.” 

The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand. 

“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”

“It’s different.” 

“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”

“You lost me on that last one.” 

“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.” 

“Is there a difference?”

“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”

“Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“Bit late for that.”

“You could pull back.”

“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone. 

“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”

Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”

The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.” 

He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up. 

“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”

“Worse than you expected?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”

“Fuck no.”

“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.” 

“I save lives too.”

“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”

“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed. 

But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.

—

The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help. 

It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest. 

But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions: 

“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?” 

And: 

“What’s Jack like on a date?” 

The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.

You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him. 

Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume. 

(“…I like layering scents.”

“It’s nice. Suits you.”)

It’s all too much.

Hence the avoiding.

You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner. 

But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack. 

All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack. 

You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else. 

It’s how they treat you. 

You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too. 

But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different. 

It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal. 

“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?” 

You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.

“I’m not hiding from you.”

Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”

“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.” 

“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”

You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Normal how?”

“You seemed pretty upset yesterday. You’re acting like nothing’s changed, but–”

“Nothing has changed.”

Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it. 

You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing. 

It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen. 

“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?” 

“Nothing.”

He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”

He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“You? Worried? No.” 

You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”

“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face. 

“Why do you care?” 

The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place. 

You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do. 

You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense. 

Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense. 

“Why do I care about what?”

“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.” 

It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for. 

He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight. 

“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”

“But why?” 

“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?” 

You snort. “Guilty as charged.” 

Now it’s his turn to sigh. 

“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”

You frown. “It is.” 

“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.” 

You scoff. “So this is about my family.” 

He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They are.” 

“Other people have it worse.”

“It’s not a competition.” 

You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?” 

“Because it’s a big deal to you.” 

The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you. 

It’s Jack who speaks first though. 

“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.” 

A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.

“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.

Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.” 

“We will?” 

“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.” 

“If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”

You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out. 

The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him. 

Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.

You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head. 

“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.” 

He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself. 

That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.” 

He would. He totally would. 

The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring. 

(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)

–

The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years. 

The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before. 

The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own. 

It’s as frustrating as it is hot. 

But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment. 

It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out. 

You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below. 

At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like. 

“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.” 

You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever. 

Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads  to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed. 

You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood. 

“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”

Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule." 

“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.” 

Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three. 

Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over. 

“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.” 

He smiles thinly. “None taken.” 

Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure. 

So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary. 

“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?” 

That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man. 

“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.” 

Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.” 

Your blood runs cold. 

Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”

It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough. 

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”

“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning. 

Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”

Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t. 

“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”

Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.” 

Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”

Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch. 

“He cheated on me with my best friend.” 

At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.” 

“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.” 

Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”

Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.” 

“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.” 

Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober. 

Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service. 

By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment. 

“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?” 

“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” 

He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”

You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.” 

“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.” 

“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.” 

You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” 

You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.” 

“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.” 

You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”

Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.” 

Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.

Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same. 

“And what about me?” 

Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.

The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.” 

“Oh really?” 

“Mmm. Nope.” 

“How come?” 

"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.” 

“You think you’re wrong?”

“Still can’t figure you out.” 

“And how can I show you that I mean it?” 

That’s. Hmm.

“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?” 

“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”

“Competent?” 

“That’s the word.”

If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it. 

“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.” 

“Are you like Bob the Builder?”

“I’m a doctor, so no.” 

“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.” 

“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”

“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?” 

“No.” 

‘Then yes.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t lying.” 

“I know. But I like your cooking.”

You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.” 

It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation. 

When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment. 

His gigantic apartment. 

“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.” 

“Its not that big.” 

“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.” 

You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.

You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober. 

“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”

“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.” 

He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”

You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?

“Only if you don’t mind.” 

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.” 

Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.

He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.” 

Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.) 

Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with  tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so. 

“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that. 

“Looking at the sparkles.” 

“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”

“You made vodka pasta?” 

He shrugs. “You said you liked it.” 

You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.” 

Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not. 

“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.” 

“M’ not fallin’ asleep.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” 

With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?

“What’re’you’ making?”

“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.” 

“Oh. How come?” 

“Because I don’t want you to throw up.” 

“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.” 

“You drink often?” 

“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.” 

“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?” 

“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being. 

“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.” 

“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.” 

“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit. 

Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”

“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”

“It won’t be when you wake up.”

You whine, curling away from him. 

He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”

“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”

“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”

“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”

“I like sleeping on couches.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.” 

You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”

Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”

“It’d be weird to wake up here.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my boss.”

“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.” 

“What would we even do in the morning?” 

“Sleep.”

“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re my guest–” 

“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?” 

Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs. 

“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.” 

Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.” 

The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–

“You okay there?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.” 

He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest. 

“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him. 

Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline. 

You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.

“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”

His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him. 

“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment. 

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Good. Like man.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.” 

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

“Because you’re a sweetheart.” 

“I am?” 

“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.” 

You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.” 

“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.

You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place. 

It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating

And you love it. 

Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn. 

“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.” 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it. 

The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together. 

He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say. 

You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other. 

Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can. 

–

Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit. 

You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again. 

You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place. 

“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.” 

“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”

“Okay. No need to rub it in.” 

He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.” 

“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.” 

Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?” 

“...Yes?” 

“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?” 

You’d nodded. 

He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.” 

Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish. 

The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with. 

He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?

The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety. 

“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.” 

You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle. 

“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”

Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.” 

“True. But what if?”

“I’m not going to help you spiral.” 

“Why not?” You whine. 

He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.” 

You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt. 

When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention. 

But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables. 

The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times. 

Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that. 

There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.

You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.

You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.

You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.  

“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.” 

“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”

“But–”

“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.” 

Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face. 

He looks up when the door opens. “Better?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation. 

Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food. 

It can’t just be over like this. It can't.

When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.

“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.” 

“So it is.” 

“Guess I owe you big time, huh?” 

“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.” 

“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.” 

You lapse into silence. 

Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”

“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”

It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending. 

It felt real.

It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.

Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.

When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning. 

“What do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.” 

Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight. 

“What if I’m wrong?” 

“You won’t be.”

A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.” 

He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm. 

“You do.” 

Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you. 

“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.” 

“You think,” He drawls, “I might.” 

“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry. 

Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh. 

“Come here.” 

You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you. 

Jack does love to prove you wrong.

“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.” 

Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”

“More than a little?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.” 

“Use your words.” 

“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning. 

“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.” 

You frown. “And how would you have put it?” 

“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.” 

You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work. 

You frown. 

Wait. 

“Have you known I liked you this whole time?” 

Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”

He’s known since the second week?

“Oh my god.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”

“Oh my god.”

“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.” 

You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place. 

“Can you take a compliment?” 

“No.” 

He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.” 

“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?” 

“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.” 

“How kind of you to share my bed with me.” 

“I have been told I’m kind.” 

You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips. 

It’s just like your dream. 

Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back. 

And you’re not alone anymore. 

[bibigo-lover]

picking favorites.

summary: after taking the same shoddy bus from your apartment to the ptmc, you’re shocked to find your attending on the same line. you start commuting together.

pairing: jack abbot x gn!reader

word count: 3.9k

tags: fluff and humor, boss/employee relationship, mutual pining, developing relationship, romantic tension, age gap, santos & whitaker interaction, santos/garcia mentioned, abbot & robby interaction, minimal medical terminology used, gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

You have a routine that you like to stick to. The clockwork helps you not lose your mind before shifts: work out in the early morning, have a big breakfast, errands, a nap in the afternoon, before commuting to PTMC. You like to tuck yourself into a window-seat at the exact middle-point of the bus with a good view of the scrolling streets of downtown Pittsburgh. And you’re in this position, the middle-point, when you see your attending crossing the street to make it to the next stop.

Abbot is at the front of the bus, clinking quarters into the meter at the front. The sight of him nearly jolts you into action—pulled tight into yourself, you tilt the beak of your cap down and tuck your chin to your chest. You doubt he’s seen you at all, especially considering that you’ve got a hoodie zipped over your scrubs. When you’re just brave enough to look up, you can see that Abbot’s already passing the first few rows of seats, backpack slung over one shoulder.

You could just ignore him. That seems like the easiest option, really. On the other hand, you feel imminently like he’s going to spot the back of your head after the fact—and it’s worse to ignore your boss thirty minutes before your shift starts. So, you look at Abbot (or gawk, more realistically), with a soft-handed wave. He’s already stopped right next to your row, hand gripping the strap of his backpack. You’re very sure you look terrified. Still, Abbot gives you a gentle nod, “Is this seat free?”

“No, not at all. You’re welcome to sit down,” you tell him, only half-surprised that your voice doesn’t come out stammered. Abbot makes sure to swing his backpack off his shoulder and onto his lap as you sit down. Not much room. His thigh comes flush against yours, and you’re trying not to pay too much mind to it. It isn’t like you have anywhere else to go. “You don’t usually take the bus to work. I mean, like, I haven’t seen you take this bus line.” God, you’re awkward. Worse than Javadi, possibly.

“I’m getting my car serviced, so you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me,” he tells you. A lot more? On occasion, you know yourself to dream of (euphemistically speaking) seeing a lot more of Abbot. Beyond the very obvious, there’s also a clear insinuation that Abbot might be interjecting himself into your routine. Your precious routine—now under siege by your very irresistible attending.

“Oh. It isn’t anything too bad, right?” You’d kill to fan yourself off, maybe crack a window.

“Something off with my brakes. I’d fix it myself if I were still cleared to get under a car,” he explains, knocking on the barrel of his metal leg. “You usually bus? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not too far from PTMC. It’s, like, fifteen minutes,” you say. It’s a bit of an underestimation. You’re more like thirty minutes away, but you’re not very willing to reveal as much to Abbot. It’s easier to make him think that it isn’t a hassle for you to get to work—and that you’re not just the twenty-something year old R3 that he thinks you are. You try not to consider too deeply what Abbot might think about you. If anything, it’ll only make you self-conscious, and that doesn’t help you or the ED.

“Hm. Well, I hope that you’re not taking the bus back half-asleep after shifts. Better to nap in a free room like the rest of us,” Abbot advises. Your next thought—why not share a free room? It’ll help maximize the amount of beds we have open for patients. You nearly want to bump your head against the bar of the chair in front of you. Attending, you remind yourself, he’s your attending. Still, he seems to be warning you: “Don’t want you knocking out and waking up at the end of the line.”

The two of you sit silently for the rest of the ride—contemplative, not too pushy to chat. It’s nice. The sun’s going down in Pittsburgh now, and night shift is soon to start. You don’t have it in you to look over at him, and try to catch a glance of what it looks like to see his silvery curls lit up orange from the sunset. Eyes on the window, you make sure to trace the movement of the cars beside you.

—

The walk in through chairs and towards lockers is exponentially worse. For starters, Abbot makes sure to let you through the entrance, insisting in a very chivalrous manner for you to pass ahead of him en route to the Pitt. This gives you a terrifyingly clear view of your coworkers initial reactions—behind the service window and passing in and out of the ED double-doors. McKay seems impressed, one eyebrow raised as she traces her vision from you to Abbot. Mateo shoots you a very merciless wink from behind a courtesy curtain. Dana, bless her heart, seems to scoff at Abbot directly with a perturbed shake of her head. And, during Abbot’s usual group huddle, everyone has a very forward way of staring at the two of you with the usual kind of curiosity they might lend to a medical miracle.

Worst of all, an hour into the night shift, Santos makes her way up to you while you’re looking up at the main status board monitor. As you’re trying to decipher which patient you should pick up next, she has a clear mission to invade your personal space. Right against the shell of your ear, she asks, “Did you and Dr. Abbot come from yours or his?”

“What?” You have to give her an incredulous look, hands tightening over your biceps twice as hard. When you see her face—wide-eyed and practically glowing with anticipation—you can feel yourself get flustered with rage. It’s impossible not to pay her any mind, especially when you feel like your honor, and by extension, Abbot’s, are at stake.

“The streets are saying that the two of you clocked in for night shift at the exact same time,” Santos details to you, “That can only mean one thing.”

“That we’re both equally punctual?” You lock your attention back onto the monitor, trying not to heed her interrogation. The intermittent twitch of your left eyeball isn’t much help.

“She’s trying to insinuate that you two are sleeping with each other,” Whitaker mutters under his breath, blue-eyes squinting tiredly at the monitor as he works through his charting. Et tu brute.

“That’s obviously impossible,” you respond belligerently. “How could we even—he’s not remotely—” You’re not exactly selling your case well. It shouldn’t be that hard to say out loud: Dr. Abbot is my boss. We’re working professionals. And yet, for some reason, the denial doesn’t want to formulate itself into a complete sentence. You’re lucky to even get out the succinct, punchy “no” that you offer out to Santos.

“Perlah and I agree that you’d probably be more likely to host than Abbot. Who knows what kind of bachelor pad he’s holding up?” she snorts, “Can’t be worse than Robby’s.” Santos crosses her arm with a shiver and a tick of the neck; the mere thought of Robby’s bachelor pad is quite disturbing.

“Abbot got on my bus earlier, ‘cause his car’s in the shop. That’s literally all.” You click your tongue on the roof of your mouth, “Aren’t you supposed to be clocking out right about now?” “I’m working a double,” Santos tells you. It’s her turn to cross her arms. Her usual confidence can only take her so far, because it’s clear that she’s irked by her prolonged presence in the ED.

Whittaker only supplements her distaste for the question. “Doesn’t want to go home on account of her debacle with Garcia last night.”

Debacle? You light up, “She traumatized you out of your own apartment?” It’s a low blow to try and eschew the attention that you have on yourself—but it has to be done. Santos makes sure that you can see her pale-green eyes roll up into her eyelids.

Whittaker shakes his head. “No. Garcia’s working a double, and she’s trying to kiss ass.” And… Santos lets her fall back with a groan. So, it’s true.

Satisfied, you pat her on the back. “Not everybody wants to sleep with their higher-ups, Trin. Projecting is a clear cry for help.” Santos makes sure, in the friendliest way possible, to gently slap your hand away. You’ve spoken at length about her… issues with Garcia. Really, it’s all free rein between the two of you. Good fun—and gossip makes the ER go round.

“Not everybody wants to sleep with their higher-ups, but maybe, everybody’s higher-ups want to sleep with them.” It comes out more jumbled than anything, and Whittaker can’t help but let out a sharp, “huh?” Santos’ aphorism is, at best, crude and complicated, but you know what she’s trying to say. Something akin to a square is a rectangle and not the other way around. It’s clear that your friends are three hours too extended into their shift. She tries again—a little bit more clearly, “Considering the fact that Soldier Boy’s favorite hobby is staring at the back of your head, I think I’ve got it straight on the money.” Santos nods over your shoulder, and you have to brave the quick turn to look behind you.

And… it doesn’t take long for you to spot him, like usual. Abbot is there, standing right next to Robby at the counter right by Central. Except, this time, he is one-hundred percent staring at you. You can’t tell how to classify his expression. Soft, for starter’s. He can tell immediately that you’ve picked him out of the room, because he seems to raise two fingers up at you in the hybrid of a peace-sign and a wave. A gray smile. Robby slaps him on the lower-back and redirects him towards South 18.

You turn back to Santos and Whittaker. “He’s just a good attending. Probably making sure you don’t burst a blood vessel after that pneumocephalus patient earlier. Chronic sinusitis on a ten-year-old boy. Robby had me do a burr-hole.”

“Yeah. There’s definitely a mentor’s touch there,” Santos squints. Before she can shoot you any more of a sideways glance, you decide to pick up your next patient—gastroenteritis, six hours in chairs. 

—

Your next run-in with Abbot is in the break room, halfway through night shift. By now, Santos and Whittaker are long gone, returned to their shared apartment in Santos’ old Subaru. You’ve cracked open a bottled cold brew from a case in the back of the mini-fridge, part of a four-way split between you, Ellis, Cruz, and Shen. He makes sure to knock before entering.

“You holding up okay?” Abbot gives you a thorough glance up-and-down. When he spots the cold brew in your hand, he seems to pull back just slightly. The judgement speaks for itself. Only a young person would be able to accept the high-wire of caffeine this late in the night.

“Better than the Fourth,” you tell him, fingernails tapping away on the aluminum can. “Tonight feels like a walk in the park.”

This makes Abbot laugh dryly, “I don’t think anything will be able to beat the Fourth for a long, long time.” He makes his way towards the fridge, peeling it open and bending over to grab his water bottle from the side-compartment. You hate his stupid water bottle—the way he has to raise his arm up, toned and exposed to your vision. You have to direct your gaze out to the hall as he squeezes water out of the spout. You return back to him only when you know that he’s lowered his bottle. He points it toward you, “I meant to ask earlier—do you take the bus to go home, too?” “...Yes.” It’s like pulling teeth talking about your commuting situation. You might as well wave around the white flag now.

“Well, I was hoping you’d carpool with Santos, or something. Or, at least nap in a free room like the rest of us. Can’t have you falling asleep and waking up at the end of the line. S’just not safe.” Your next thought: why not share a free room? It’ll help maximize the amount of beds we have open for patients. You nearly want to bump your head against the table in front of you. Attending, you remind yourself, he’s your attending.

“My suggestion, and you’re completely welcome to say no, is that you wait up for me after your shift’s over. Nap here or upstairs, and I’ll come find you when I’m finished.” He’s really selling it to you. “That way, we can leave and I can make sure that my favorite resident isn’t getting bus-nabbed.” He doesn’t seem to wait for an answer from you, only tosses his cold bottle back into the fridge and sidles away to go chat with Dana. If you’re not mistaken, it seems like Abbot enjoyed this afternoon’s bus ride as much as you did. Favorite? You never knew you were his favorite.

—

Walking out with Abbot is just as strange as it was walking in. He makes sure to keep by you, warm body hovering just by your shoulder. It’s always strange leaving out the ambulance bay and seeing that you’ve skipped over the nighttime straight into a foggy morning. You make sure to zip your hoodie all the way up over your scrubs as the two of you walk shoulder-to-shoulder. “You work well under pressure. Makes me wonder what you’re considering next,” Abbot grumbles, hand coming into his silvery curls. “Emergency Medicine, I hope. Don’t want the senior Dr. Javadi stealing you away. Or Park. God, I don’t know what’d be worse.”

Abbot is letting you guide him to the bus stop back. It’s been a longer workday than anticipated, no matter how Abbot tries to paint it; he’s tending towards trudging with his prosthetic, so you’re trying not to walk too briskly. He’s making it pretty hard for you with the sweet talking. It’s easier to look straight ahead—and, both ways while you cross the street—than to look him in the eyes. “I could leave the ED,” you tell Abbot, “Are you kidding? Who’s going to make sure Shen doesn’t Dunkin’ himself to death?”

“Right, because that’s the main reason why I’d want you around,” Abbot hums. You try to laugh, but it comes out more choked-up and nervous than you’d like. You aren’t quite sure what he means. He laughs right back, much more fluidly, “I’m serious. You’ve got grit, you’re quick, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you panic on-call.” Not the worst reason, but you find yourself wishing he’d tossed in something more precarious, like being attracted to you.

“Okay, that’s not true. I’ve panicked on-call before.” Multiple times, really, but Abbot doesn’t need to know that. A minute away from the stop, the two of you approach the street corner, stopping just beneath the lip of a curved streetlight. Could it take any longer for the bleary, white “walk” sign to ding on?

“You’ve done a damn good job of keeping it to yourself,” he admits, “Professionalism is… not the most valued thing in our department, but you carry yourself with a respectable amount of it.” You find yourself murmuring a “thanks” back as the cars at the intersection pull to a slow stop. Now, Abbot wants to talk about professionalism—when you’re about to ride home together and you have to act like you’re not hot in the face just sitting next to him.

—

Two weeks later, and you’re still taking the bus to and from work with Abbot. It’s easier than you would have expected to factor him into your routine, especially after finding yourself so terrified within the first two rides. Now, coming to work with him isn’t very foreign anymore. Talk around the ED doesn’t halt; in fact, it really only gets worse. In the meantime, you try to occupy yourself as best as possible with the job and the patients, making sure that your coworkers aren’t losing their minds. You’re on your way to help Javadi close out an asthmatic patient, when you catch the untempered voices of Abbot and Robby in one of the empty rooms in Central. The doors are propped; you can’t help it. You decide to tuck yourself in around the corner of the doorway and take a listen in.

Robby has his arms crossed, gaze tilted somewhere between Abbot’s sneaker and the counter right beside him. He’s shaking his head in his usual, fed-up way, like Abbot’s done something personally to offend him. “You’ve got to quit screwing around.”

Abbot’s head cocks back, “Everything’s running smooth, man. What’re you saying?”

“You’ve been adding a net total of an hour to your commute. Thirty here and thirty back is screwing around,” Robby argues. “If you’d just carpool to work, you’d be a lot more on your game.” Carpool?

“Is that what you do with your hookup and a half?” Abbot replies sharply. Robby can only start laughing at him, keeling over slightly. When he looks back up at Abbot, there’s nothing but amusement. Now, you think you should probably walk away. Javadi’s certainly waiting for you with albuterol and an awaiting patient to lay out treatment instructions.

“Oh, great deflect,” Robby hums, “I’m impressed.”

Abbot can only tilt his head. “I’m just telling it like I see it. And what I see is a paradoxically virile old guy.” 

“Takes one to know one.” Robby zips up his hoodie. “I’m just saying that you should consider hopping back into your Traverse and driving to work so you can have a bit more sleep all around. It’s only catching dust and you’re tiring yourself out,” he insists plainly, “And if you’re gonna miss the commute so badly, just offer rides. It isn’t against hospital policy, and it isn’t going to kill you.”

Abbot’s quiet. Definitely time to leave. You peel off of the doorway and make your way towards South 19. All the while, you’re wondering what you’re supposed to think. You’re still rifling through the conversation as you reach Javadi and the nineteen-year-old asthmatic. It’s an easy procedure, explaining one’s way around an inhaler; the kid picks up on it easily. So, you’ve got a bit of leeway to think over everything. For starter’s, there’s no reason for Abbot to be riding with you if his Traverse is “catching dust.” You thought it was supposed to be in the shop…

—

“How long has your car been fixed up?” Your question sends Abbot into a sudden stillness, even despite the roughness of the bus line rattling against uneven road. The two of you are tucked in your usual midway spot, you against the window seat and Abbot pressed up right beside you. Prior to your interrogation attempt, he’d been gazing out, away from you, at the window of the opposite side. More quiet than usual. When you pop the question—the accusation, rather—Abbot turns his head with a bit of intrigue.

“About a week and a half.” It isn’t difficult for him to figure out, you think. He must know that you’d listened to his argument Robby, or at least heard about it down the grapevine. Both of these options end in the same result of you figuring out the general situation.

“So, it’s been out of the shop,” you outline, “You’ve been taking the bus for a week and a half longer than you had to for…?”

“I wanted to keep you company.” You’re placing Abbot into a boyish sort of vulnerability now; he’s not so sure what to do with it, and he’s completely lost to how you’ll react. He's looking down at his lap, hands clasped together. He’s got to decide how he wants to approach this, approach you.

“I think it’s kind and… thoughtful,” you say, “to keep an eye on your residents. I mean, it’s not like I’ve got anybody to make sure I’m getting to and from work in good health—except for maybe Santos having my location saved on her phone.” You’ve got to dance around the obvious.

“I’m not just doing it to keep an eye on you. I mean, yes, safety first, but I also like to be around you. The commute’s been pretty decent on my mood, you know.” Abbot says, more clearly, “But I like being around you. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

In any other situation, you’d be uncomfortable. He’s your superior. He’s older than you. You’re not even through your residency yet. The same old reasons you always cite when he comes up in your head. It’s a terrible idea in theory, but in practice… it’s Abbot. You trust him. It’d be silly not to see it out. Your stomach lurches. “The feeling’s mutual,” you swallow, “And, uh, everyone in the ED already thinks that we’re hooking up with each other anyway.” Abbot chuckles, letting his head hang a bit in front of him. You have a way about saying things. Your face is starting to heat up despite the usual morning chill of the bus. It’s your hope that Abbot can’t feel it coming off you.

His bus stop is coming up—two away. He seems to edge his body towards you, knee bumping against your own. “So, I’m going back to driving… If you’d want me to, I could drop by your place from here on out. Save you the time, too.” It’s almost as if he’s trying to play it off—not a big deal. The thought of Abbot at the wheel, driving the both of you to work in that quiet SUV, is even more intimate than what you’ve been doing in the past two weeks.

“You want to carpool?” You know what you’re asking, and what you’re asking is if he’s sure.

“Yeah.” He hates the word now; it’s like Robby’s on the bus with the two of you—peering right over his shoulder. “We can chat about the rest later, but can we start at carpool?” The rest… It’s far too vague for you to be satisfied. He wants slow—and that’s fine by you. Nodding along, you tell him, “Of course.” You have to bite your cheek just a bit to stop yourself from reading any further into it.

The bus pulls over on the side of the street, slowing to the stop. It’s Abbot’s. You straighten up as he begins to stand up, bringing his backpack laboriously over his shoulder. He stands up off his seat, looking down at you. “Good. You can text me your address and…” Abbot pauses, “I will pick you up.” Abbot’s just about to get off the bus. He’s got that same soft look in his eyes, and you’re trying to keep yourself from launching off the seat and kissing him right then and there. He must be able to tell you’re pulling it back, because he leans down just slightly to give you a raspy, “Bye, hon.”

And Abbot’s off. You let him go with a half-hearted wave of your hand and a mumbled “bye,” watching his back as he steps carefully off the ledge of the bus door and onto the curb outside. The bus starts accelerating down the street, and you’re left leaning your head back with your hands cupped over your face. It’s difficult to decipher it all at once. You’re going to go out with him—that’s for certain. You’re never going to hear the end of it from anyone at work. And, regrettably, you’re already enjoying the change of pace.

[bibigo-lover]

eridian logic!

summary: your heart-to-heart with rocky leads to a lot of unnecessary teasing targeted towards grace. you can't help it—he just makes it so easy (based on this textpost // @viviennejinx!)

pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader

word count: 4.3k

tags: fluff and humor, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, bad flirting, basically teasing to death, flustered!grace, developing relationship, platonic!rocky x reader, first kisses, gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

Grace is off in the crew quarters trying to take a nap. He’s been all tuckered out, you think, since Rocky decided to start co-habitating with the two of you on the Mary. Though it’s probably the most efficient way to work altogether—instead of moving to and from the midpoint of your ship and Rocky’s—it’s clearly driving Grace crazy. Boundaries, he keeps telling Rocky, There’s a delicate line that’s being crossed. More than crossed. Hopped and skipped. And still, Rocky’s insistent on moving in. You don’t have any major objections, considering that Rocky is a positive change to your usual routine.

It isn’t the most convenient arrangement in the world, but Rocky is having you lug xenonite boxes and panes of glass into the Hail Mary from the connector tunnel. You have to wait a half an hour each for the materials to cool down before you can pick them up, so there’s a whole lot of get-to-know you time. After the first batch of belongings, Rocky is sure to ask you about the basics—what Earth is like, what humans are like, and your expertise on the project. The second batch is exponentially more personal. Rocky asks about how you came to be on the ship, where on Earth you belong to, and if you miss your loved ones.

And, on the third and last batch, you and Rocky are sitting in the connector tunnel on a pile of empty storage crates, effectively repurposed into seating. It’ll be a short break, now, for you to catch your breath. You’re trying to get a good stretch out of your arms and legs as you sit on the slanted crate. You’re certainly expecting to be sore after all the strenuous labor of carrying Rocky’s things. Meanwhile, Rocky is rolling back and forth, back and forth—still testing out the mobility on his new xenonite ball. He seems pleased with the development. Or, bored. You can never tell what he’s thinking when he gets all roll-y. It only becomes apparent here when he decides to ask you: “Is Grace mate, question?”

“Wow. Presumptuous,” you punch out. It’s a nice shock to your senses, the forwardness of Rocky’s inquiry. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, but obviously, it seems that Rocky’s confident that he’s got it all figured out. “Where are you getting that from?”

“Grace make all effort to do bad science jokes. Is baaad.” Rocky says. “But laugh like Grace mate.”

“That could just be me being polite,” you test. “It’s really important for morale, you know, laughing.”

Rocky pauses for a moment, stilled in his xenonite casing. Then, he tries again: “Is it same for heart rate too, question?” He chirps in a repetitive manner, something akin to a chuckle. There’s not much you can do to disprove the physiological facts. Rocky’s as clever as you’d expect—and it isn’t like you’re trying to conceal the nature of your relationship with Grace.

What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.

And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.

“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.

“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”

Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”

“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.

“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.

“Thanks, Rocky.”

—

There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”

Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.

“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.

He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.

The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.

Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.

The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”

Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.

“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”

“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.

“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.

It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.

“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.

A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”

“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”

Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”

“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.

You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.

“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.

You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..

You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.

“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.

—

After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.

Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.

You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”

Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.

“You want me to label it?” you laugh.

“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”

There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”

“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.

“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—

And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”

“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”

“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.

“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.

“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.

Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”

“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.

“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.

Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”

You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.

—

The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”

“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”

“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.

“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.

You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level.  “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?

It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”

You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”

It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.

“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?

“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.

“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”

“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.

“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.

There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.

[castielthinkr]

ROCKETMAN

summary your boyfriend disappears for a week, and suddenly his face is plastered across every tv screen in the world as an astronaut in some earth-saving mission. you find comfort in his twin pairing ryland grace x reader, colt seavers x reader cw not proofread, angst angst angst, not much comfort, colt was written as platonic but alludes to past romance, lots of anxiety and guilt from reader, use of petnames in lieu of y/n, coltland are older than reader, not phm canon accurate notes pleaseeee lmk your thoughts i love the coltland twin au so baddd i’m def writing more

you've been texting colt a lot more often recently, not that ryland knows. it's not even that you're being super secretive or doing anything wrong, you're just worried. really, really worried. you've tried talking to your boyfriend about it, but he's dismissive in a way that reassures you temporarily that everything's fine.

you've lost count of the number of times you've woken up alone or gone to bed alone. it's been far more recently.

do you think there's someone else? you'd texted colt one night, anxious and confused.

he wouldn't. he's not like that. he'd replied.

you can never really tell. i know a lot of people that thought they were with someone sweet and got blindsided, you'd continued.

and i know him.

in all honesty, colt's reassurance had settled you somewhat, but it also raised even more questions.

he walks through the door to your apartment one night looking tired. you don't look much better yourself.

"ry?" you call quietly. he's too tired to pick up on the anxiety in your voice.

"hey, sweetheart. lemme shower and then we can do whatever," he says. he's texting someone and rubbing his stubbled chin in thought. his dismissal only pushes you deeper into anxious thoughts. the bathroom door locks - he never locks it. you only get worse at the realisation.

convinced it’s something you’ve done, or that he’s suddenly done with you, you get up, unable to stay still and wait. you head to the kitchen to grab a glass with shaking hands, thinking water will maybe help, and drop it. you barely flinch as it smashes, just hoping ryland hasn’t heard it over the shower running.

“baby?” ryland calls from the bathroom.

“just a glass!” you call back.

the water turns off, and you drop to a crouch, quickly picking up shards. you barely acknowledge a cut on your finger until ryland’s still-damp hand covers yours. your chest immediately feels warmer - this is the most he’s touched you in days, maybe a week. his hands are warm, a little rough, and bigger than yours.

“you’re bleeding,” he murmurs, breaking the moment. “let me.”

he pulls you to your feet and directs you to a nearby chair, then begins cleaning the smashed glass. things are quiet until he’s done, and he stands with a groan. one of his knees pops. if you were in a better mood, you’d have called him old. he’d have scolded you teasingly, maybe flirtatiously, and you’d have called him a cradle robber.

“i have to leave early tomorrow,” he says absently, back to you as he scrapes the glass shards into a bin.

“again?”

“yeah, sweetheart, they need me.”

“who needs you?” you ask, suddenly pissed off. “because i know it’s not the school. you haven’t been there in god knows how long.”

he falters. “you called the school?” he asks accusatorially, turning to look at you.

“they called me. they said you forgot some things when you left, and they haven’t been able to get in touch with you,” you say. you cross your arms, but it’s hard to feel intimidating when there’s a six-foot-tall man in front of you, regardless of his woollen cardigan and wire-framed glasses. “how long have you not worked there? actually, no, how long have you been lying to me?”

he seems to realise he’s been caught. “i haven’t lied, i just didn’t—“

“you’ve been lying to me!” you snap, standing. “you haven’t worked at the school in god knows how long, you leave before i wake up, an you come home when i’m asleep. what is going on?”

he’s still infuriatingly calm, almost like he’d prepared for this. “i can’t tell you.”

“you can’t tell me?” you repeat. “you can’t tell me?”

“please, i wish i could,” he says, softer.

“don’t start with that shit. you can’t tell me why you’ve been gone for sixteen hours every day?”

“no, sweetheart, i had to sign an NDA—“

“an NDA?!”

“so i can’t tell you what i’m working on,” he finishes.

“ryland, i swear to god—“

“please, just calm down,” he pleads. “why don’t we go sit down?”

“no,” you say, “i need air.”

“air?” he balks. “you’re leaving?”

“you’ve been lying to me for… i don’t even know how long. i need space to— to think. to process.”

he sighs. the sound somehow annoys you more, if that’s even possible. “will you at least turn your location on?”

you nod. despite being pissed off, the last thing you want is for him to worry about your whereabouts the same way you’ve worried about his. “yeah.”

“take a jacket. it’s cold out.”

you take a jacket. like he said, it’s cold, but the bracing breeze calms you and lets you sort through your thoughts. if there really is an NDA, then you suppose it’s not entirely his fault - he can’t tell you what he’s doing, but he could’ve at least let you know that he’s okay, that he’s busy. there’s not much more reason for him to be so secretive.

it’s not the secrets that annoy you, really, it’s how he seems to be hiding everything from you.

your phone buzzes with a text in your pocket.

talk to him tonight. it’s colt.

you nod to yourself. you should really talk tonight, especially considering you’ve calmed down and he knows you’ve noticed something’s up.

you turn back to your apartment. the lights are still on, but ryland doesn’t come to greet you. you look for him, only to find him slumped over on the couch. he’s fallen asleep while waiting for you. there are two mugs of cold tea on the coffee table.

he’s been so tired recently, but he’s so rarely home - rarely with you - that you struggle to decide between waking him. ultimately, you lay a blanket on top of him, kiss his cheek, and wash the mugs. you can talk tomorrow.

***

the talk never comes, and colt’s text goes unanswered.

you wake up after ryland has gone, which was to be expected considering he told you he’d have to leave early. you spend the day planning what to say to him, and head out to buy a few things to cook for him. if he’s going to be home late, he’s bound to be hungry, and it’s better to have a serious conversation when you’re full and satiated. you prepare the ingredients - the main one being a steak, which he only eats on very special occasions after complaining about the price - and wait.

ten o’clock rolls around.

then eleven, then twelve.

he’s usually home by midnight. tired and on the verge of passing out and in no state to do anything but collapse in bed beside you, but home nonetheless. occasionally it stretches to two at the absolute latest.

you put everything away at one in the morning. the veg gets thrown away, but the steaks go back in the fridge in case he comes back late (early?) and decides he wants one.

you’d even let him have both if he’d just come home.

by midday, you start to worry.

it’s been 30 hours, you text colt.

he’s probably hiding, colt replies, though you can practically feel the hesitance in his words. he did it as a kid. he hates conflict.

colt’s reply doesn’t do much to comfort you this time. maybe as a kid ryland would have done this, but he’s always been the one to insist that neither of you go to bed angry. he wouldn’t just run away.

***

a week goes by, and there’s still no sign of ryland.

you and colt have begun texting more frequently. you seem to be taking this harder than he is. outwardly, at least. he calls you at least once a day. sometimes you don’t answer, sometimes you call more.

the chain lock on your front door stays unlocked, despite colt (and your mother) insisting that it’s not safe. you tried locking it one night but couldn’t sleep; what if ryland came back but couldn’t get in because you’d locked it? what if he left again?

you’ve barely spoken about the fight with colt, aside from when you first called him, panicked (we had a fight and now he’s gone!). he’s tried to convince you that you shouldn’t feel guilty, but it’s all you think about. you drove him away. you drove him to hate you so much that he left you. even your boss has noticed and given you time off, citing mental distress.

mental distress is certainly one way of putting it, you think.

158 hours after ryland’s disappearance, you’re walking down a busy street. it’s six in the evening - people are getting off work, going shopping for food, heading out for dinner, and you’re dissociating as you trudge back home, full grocery bag in hand. you walk past countless stores on your way that you barely even glance at, until you pass an electronics store.

it’s sort of retro, in a way. they have TVs in the window, all tuned into the news, like you’ve seen in the movies.

your bag falls to the ground when you see ryland’s face plastered on four of the TVs. something shatters, another item splats. you don’t even register it, too focused on ryland’s photo next to two others, and the headline underneath them.

hail mary spacecraft takes off on journey to save planet, it reads. you almost fall to your knees.

you fumble for your phone with shaking hands, breathing fast, and clumsily search through your contacts until you find colt’s name. you can bring yourself to care that you’re in the middle of a public street in this moment.

colt picks up in seconds. he has ever since ryan disappeared, probably worried you’re having a breakdown - it’s happened once already. “hey, honey—“

“colt!” you choke out, panicked. “turn on the news. now. please.”

“okay,” he says soothingly, “okay, give me a second.” there’s the sound of fumbling, buttons being pressed, then silence. then, so quiet you almost miss it, “what the fuck?”

you almost sob. “he’s in space. he’s in fucking space!”

there’s silence on colt’s end, until he mutters, “i’m coming over,” and hangs up.

you have to get yourself together before you can move, hands trembling so hard you can barely get your key in the lock. the groceries lay abandoned in the street.

colt arrives as you’re taking your coat off, having not even closed the door yet. you didn’t realise you’d been stood outside for that long, or maybe he’d just broken a million road laws to get there. he doesn’t let you finish taking your coat off, just hugs you tighter than ever before, like he needed it too.

“he’s in space,” you repeat, smaller and almost teary, muffled where your face is smushed against his chest. he shushes you and walks the two of you awkwardly over to the couch, where you fall on your ass when the cushion hits your knees. he sits beside you, both of you still leaning on each other, clinging.

“been a while since we’ve done this,” he mumbles, clearly trying to lighten the mood. you don’t bite. can’t. when he realises, his tone changes. “they’re saying online that the astronauts aren’t coming back.”

you don’t react. where colt’s first instinct was to seek comfort, you’ve retreated into yourself.

“don’t do that,” he murmurs. “come back. that’s my girl.”

don’t call me that, you want to say. not your girl, i’m still ryland’s.

“he’s not coming back,” is what leaves your mouth. “he’s gone. he didn’t tell me. he’s not coming back and the last thing we did was fight.”

“you gave him the blanket. you kissed his cheek,” colt offers.

“he didn’t know.”

“he’s a light sleeper.”

you want to tell colt to talk. he has to be feeling this as bad as - worse than - you, but you can barely get the words out yourself. you don’t think you can listen to someone else’s grief right now.

colt seems to think the same. he holds you tight, like he needs you there for reassurance that he’s not having some terrible nightmare where his brother has left everyone behind without a word to go on a suicide mission.

“i’m staying over,” he says. you can tell he doesn’t want to be alone. you nod. you don’t particularly like the idea of being alone either, but it’s how you’ve spent the last week.

you tell him he can’t sleep in the bed. he’d be on ryland’s side, and you’ve been sleeping there for the last five days. if colt sleeps there, it’ll smell like him, not your boyfriend (late boyfriend?). he says he’s fine on the couch, but the second he inches closer to the blanket you put over ryland on his last night, you tense.

he ends up on your side of the bed, and you sleep on ryland’s. neither of you sleep. you’ve cried out all your tears this week already, so there aren’t any left now that you know ryland’s actually gone. it feels like closure; he was working for the government - governments - which explains the NDA, the secrecy, and his disappearance is explained by him being in space. you wish you could’ve had a goodbye, but there aren’t any tears left to cry over not getting one. now all that’s left is to grieve.

you think you hear a sniffle from colt in the early hours of the morning. you’ve been still for hours, so you suppose he thinks you’re asleep. you don’t have the energy to comfort him, not that you think he’d let you.

he doesn’t leave the next day. you don’t ask him to.

[forozren]

ALWAYS TASTE LIKE YOU﹒✶﹒RYLAND GRACE

ryland grace knew his brother was friends with all sorts of troublemakers and constantly surrounded himself with bad influences. but maybe not all of them were that bad after all—not when he was friends with you.

pairing: ryland grace x f!reader

status: ongoing

tags/warnings: strangers to friends to lovers. university au. coltland twins + older brother gentry au. blended smau. inconsistent posting schedule. hurt/comfort. rocky is a bernese mountain dog. kys/kms jokes. suicidal but as joke but not as a joke. mentions of partying/clubbing. alcohol use. smoking. suggestive at a certain level. lots of cursing. everyone here is ooc lowkey. no beta we die like the sun. warnings may change as the story progresses. mdni.

taglist: open, reply to be added

INTRODUCTIONS: colt has skid marks | group 5 gen chemistry ii

PROLOGUE: fuck you and fuck your apologies

CHAPTER ONE: wtf is a ryland

CHAPTER TWO: pathetic, good for nothing, wet cat loser

CHAPTER THREE: etsy witches, get him!

CHAPTER FOUR: easy, white chocolate

CHAPTER FIVE: you're such a fat fucking chud

CHAPTER SIX: wait im bored, delete my number rn

CHAPTER SEVEN: my sleep paralysis demon's twin

CHAPTER EIGHT: maybe that means he's into little girls

CHAPTER NINE: a hello kitty pajamas girl or a goth femboy?

CHAPTER TEN: the living conditions of a poor victorian man

to be continued...

© forozren | do not copy, repost, or feed to ai.

[chrys-lism2]

Muse 𝄞 Sebastian Wilder

f! reader

ao3 link

wc: 2,400+

summary: sebastian's favorite employee at seb's.

tags: fluff, first kiss, age gap (early twenties/thirties), boss/employee, injury and blood (broken plates), mutual pining, mentions of dead family member and funerals

a/n: love you all!!!

divider cred: me!!

Mia was gone. Sure, the larger-than-life portraits and billboards he passed to get to work each day mocked him, but she was gone, married, a daughter, without Sebastian. He had the jazz club, without her. And her visit three months prior was haunting him deeply, the way she’d still made an effort to turn and find his eyes, skin coated with blue light as he painfully smiled and watched what he thought would be his future walk out on him… again. But he forced himself to move on. The flame was still kindled but inaccessible, and he needed to learn to look forward instead of getting stuck in the warmth.

You had applied to Seb’s, freshly graduated from UCLA and struggling to navigate the job market. You’d been hired as a waitress and hostess, shifting where they needed you. You couldn’t complain; the company was friendly, and with it being such a popular spot, tips were decent on a good night. The constant jazz definitely helped, too. The liveliness kept a pep in your step as you waited tables, making it easier to get through long shifts.

Sebastian’s eyes caught on your name as he glanced over his schedule plan, a soft smile finding his lips. His staff was small but tight-knit and strong; guests often told him how wonderful the service was. Over the past few months, you’d become his best server and hostess, effortlessly navigating his space and rarely receiving any complaints from customers. Your tip-outs were always the highest, and he wasn’t blind to the way some of the other servers eyed you with jealousy. 

You’d felt like the first person to break through the fog of his heartbreak, soft eyes and light steps, a constant each night in his life. The music helped, too, of course, by distracting his mind, with patterns and rhythms that slowly eased his heartache. HE refused to acknowledge that your presence was slowly filtering into his music.

“Hey, Seb?” He whirls around to face you, looking up from his notes. Seb’s was an hour from opening, and you’d strolled in to begin opening work.

“Hey, you…” A smile graces his face as you adjust your bag on your shoulder.

“I know, it’s uh– really late notice, but I need next weekend off.” His brow raises as he shifts in his spot.

“Can I at least get a reason?” You give a weak smile.

“Death in the family, I need to uh– attend the funeral.” Sebastian’s eyes soften as he slowly nods in understanding.

“Oh gosh, yes, of course! Do you need any other days? You can have the whole week if you need it.”

“I– are you sure? I don’t–”

“If you so help me apologize, that will be more insulting than asking for time off late.” 

“If I could have next Friday through Wednesday… that would be wonderful.” You watch the man grab the schedule, scribbling your name out and blocking out the dates.

“You’ve got it. Do you… Need anything?” You shake your head softly, eyes moving towards your shoes.

“Hopefully, a busy shift. Helps keep me occupied.” He nods gently, resisting the urge to reach out and give your hand an assuring squeeze.

“I’ll tell Jason to keep a steady flow in your section whenever he gets here.”

“Thank you, Seb… Thank you.” You mutter, fiddling with a piece of your jewelry and avoiding the older man's eyes.

“Of course, sweetheart. You’re the best employee I’ve got. Just let me know if you need anything. Anything, I mean it.” The pet name makes heat flutter along your spine as you nod, gently dismissing yourself towards the back of the restaurant. 

𝄂𝄚𝄚𝄞ㅤ

Your mind buzzed contentedly as your shift passed, music fluttering through the air as you shifted from table to table, between the warmth and grease of the kitchen and the cool blue lighting of the floor. Seb’s eyes would catch you every so often, drifting up from his fingers, watching the light bounce in your step as you breezed between your tables. 

As he started a more somber piece, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. His fingers drifted across the keys, a soft rhythm to mimic the way he saw you work. A deeply forgotten feeling rumbles through his chest as he works his way through the middle of his piece, eyes falling to his hands as the realization washes over him; He might’ve finally found someone else.

𝄂𝄚𝄚𝄞ㅤ

The few days without you were a struggle. He noticed your lack of presence more than ever before, his ugly realization of possibly liking someone again, tearing his mind apart. His music wasn’t as strong, mind stuck between visions of your eyes and his fingers on the keys. He was completely out of it.

When you did return, he could barely face you. A blubbering, awkward mess, making your brows furrow in confusion. “Is everything alright?” He nods slowly, avoiding watching as you shrug your jacket off. You wore a dark green blouse the fitted you kindly, and he had to force himself to look away.

“Everything’s fine. Just get ready for service.” His clipped tone makes your brows furrow as you stop for a moment, mouth parting softly in confusion.

“I can uh– pick up some extra shifts next week to make up for me being gone.” You offer nervously, and his spine jolts with guilt as he realizes his tone made you think he was mad at you.

“Oh god– no– sweetheart, you’re ok. I’m sorry, promise I’m not mad at you– just having an uh– day? Y’know?” You nod softly in understanding, and he watches the nervousness slip off your shoulders as you straighten your posture. “How was the funeral?” You shrug softly.

“It was… a funeral. Sad.” He nods slowly.

“Gonna be alright on the floor tonight?” Your eyes light up for a moment.

“Oh– right– could I just uh– buss tonight? Not really in the mood to try and be cheery for tables.” 

“Yeah, of course! I’ll go let Jared know he’s on tables.” You give a grateful nod before walking towards the back, Sebastian watching you closely as you disappear from his sight. He was fucked.

𝄂𝄚𝄚𝄞ㅤ

“You’re kidding, right?”Lilly laughs, sipping whatever drink she’d gotten, sitting across from you at the small club the two of you had found. “Sebastian? As in your boss?” You groan, setting your martini down and burying your head in your hands.

“I don’t even know what to do! I’ve dropped two trays in the past three weeks because I get so fucking distracted!” Her laugh gets louder, making the smallest smile twist across your lips. 

“I can’t lie and say he’s not gorgeous.”

“And he can sing and play piano! He owns his own club for goddess's sake!”

“At least we know he’s good with his fingers.” She teases, wiggling her brows and making you kick her underneath the table.

“Lilly!” You shriek, moving to cover your warming face again.

“Am I wrong?” She muses gently. A defeated no leaves your lips. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Oh, I don’t know, he could fire me and blacklist me from the club!” You groan, moving to slump backwards in your seat.

“Or he likes you back.”

“He’s like– ten years older than me!”

“Age is just a number! I bet he writes music about you.”

“Lilly!” You groan.

𝄂𝄚𝄚𝄞ㅤ

The clatter that surrounds you as the dishes hit the ground makes you flinch and freeze as you look at the mess on the floor. You can hear the surrounding teasings, ooohs, as you move to start picking up the pieces. A soft hiss leaves your lips as a piece of porcelain slices the palm of your hand, red blooming from the cut. You drop the pieces, biting your lips to soften a sharp cry as you shakily stand back up. 

“Seriously, guys? We cannot keep losing dishwe– Are you ok?” Sebastian’s concern wraps you in a warm blanket as you rip your eyes from the dripping blood and to his eyes. “Margo! Go get a broom and clean this up, please!” The woman nods, rushing off as Sebastian leads you away from the mess and grabs a clean rag to wrap around your hand. “You ok?” He asks again, making your head shake awkwardly.

“Blood.” You murmur, making him slowly nod.

“Ok, ok, breathe, alright? You’re ok.” He soothes, making your insides twist as you manage a nod, eyes focused on a strand of loose hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “Can I take you to urgent care? Please? I’ll cover it.” You send him a long, dazed glance, head swimming at the sight of your blood seeping through the rag. “Actually, you don’t get a choice. C’mon.” One of his hands gently drifts to your back as he leads you out the back door and towards his convertible.

“Your seats– don’t want to mess up the leather.” An affectionate smile graces his lips as he opens the door.

“Well, I don’t want you passing out. Blood can be cleaned, but hitting your head from passing out could lead to a lot worse.” You slowly nod as you take in his words before slipping into the passenger seat and distantly hearing him shut the door.

The ride is a slow blur, your head leaning against the window, wind blowing across your face as you breathe in the fresh air. Your eyes drift from the bright lights illuminating the streets to Sebastian’s face as he drove. His brows were pinched with worry, making a gentle smile grace your lips as you trace the line of his nose. “You ok?” He asks gently, making you nod. “Almost there.”

“It… hurts.” He looks over at you, frowning.

“I bet. We’re almost there.” You couldn’t tell if he was assuring you or himself.

𝄂𝄚𝄚𝄞ㅤ

Your eyes were focused on the speckled pattern of the ceiling tiles as the nurse gently stitched your hand up. Sebastian’s hand was warm in your uninjured hand, which you gave a squeeze at the numbed pressure of the needle in your skin. He watched you closely, heart finally starting to slow. You were ok. The blood on his white cufflink wasn’t lost on him, but he couldn’t find it in him to mind.

The panic that had flared through his body as he’d rounded the corner, frustration searing through his bones at the thought of losing more dishes before it had suddenly frozen at the look in your eyes. His eyes fall to the stained cufflink as you squeeze his hand again. “Alright… we just need to get this wrapped up, and then I’ll print out the aftercare, ok, hun?” The woman says gently, making your eyes snap to her as you give a distant nod.

When you walk back into the parking lot, you take a long breath, Sebastian’s steps sopping behind you. “I hope you know you’ve got the next few days off and then you’re hosting until further notice.” He muses gently, making you nod.

“I’m sorry about the plates.” He shakes his head, stepping closer and lifting a hand to your back.

“Your safety is a lot more important than some plates. And whenever you get the bill, send it my way, ok?” You turn to look up at him over your shoulder, cheeks warming at how close he is.

“Thank you for uh… all of this. Tonight. Yeah– thank you.” You mumble, making his grin widen as he steps the slightest bit closer.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” He asks, voice lower with a tone you couldn’t bring yourself to think too hard about.

“Still a little queasy.” His fingers twitch against your back.

“Come back to my place.” The words are so rushed from his lips that it takes you a long moment to process them.

“...what?”

“Stay at my place tonight. Let me uh– make sure you’re ok.” A soft noise leaves his throat as he awkwardly clears his throat, eyes moving to find something anywhere but yours.

“Are you sure?” You whisper, making his head shake as a smile graces his lips.

“More than. Please.” You were in the passenger seat of his car again before you could blink.

𝄂𝄚𝄚𝄞ㅤ

Sebastian’s apartment was a lot smaller than you anticipated for someone owning such a bustling club. The walls were an uninviting yellow, sparse with decor. The coffee table was littered with a few empty cans and glasses, blazers thrown over the back of the couch. 

Sheet music littered the small kitchen table and the top of the piano, an unopened letter strewn across the kitchen counter. Aside from the counter, the kitchen was the cleanest spot of what you could see. “Do you like to cook?” You ask gently, eyes scanning the fresh vegetables and fruit.

“I do, yeah. I’ll make you something, sorry about the mess– wasn’t expecting company.” You wave him off with your good hand, moving to sit on the couch. His smell enveloped you pleasantly as you traced the gauze on your hand. “Do you need some water?”

“Yes, please…” When he walks over, he hands you a plate and a glass of ice water before sitting in front of you on the floor, legs crossed, back against the coffee table as he looks up at you.

“Feeling better?”

“A little. Still… lightheaded.” 

“The nurse said that it should go away by morning.” You both eat in silence for a long couple of moments, and you pretend not to notice the way your heart flutters each time you notice him glancing up at you. 

“Thank you… again.” He gently waves you off with a bashful grin.

“Anything for my best employee.” Your stomach felt like molten lava as you took the last few bites of food. “You can take my bed. I’ll sleep out here.” He shuffles gently as he stands to grab both plates and move back into the kitchen. You stand to follow, socks against the cool tile of the small kitchen. The space felt hot, and probably not because of the cooking that had just been done.

“I can’t take your bed.”

“You’re not taking, I’m offering.”

“You're back–”

“Who said I have back problems?”

“It’s your bed–”

“So it’s mine to give.” You huff gently as he turns to face you. The world blurs for a long moment before you step forward, grabbing his tie with your uninjured hand and pressing your lips against his. The noise he lets out is one you’d never heard from the man before, his body relaxing as his hands move to your sides.

“Share the bed?” You whisper as you pull away, eyes focused on his mouth and the way it curls into a smile at your words.

“Sharing is good. Sharing sounds wonderful.” A searing kiss meets your lips as his arms tighten around you. 

[softly-potter]

Rookies

Summary: After losing Ada, Leon finds you, a fellow rookie cop, injured in the rubble. He won’t lose someone twice.

Pairing: re2!Leon x rookie!reader

WC/tags: 1704 / descriptions of injuries, giving up, poor baby Leon

A/N: for day 4 of @juneofdoom ‘I won’t leave you’ ao3 link below!!

The wood is stuck all the way through. It’s the first thing you take in when you open your bleary eyes. The second thing is the pain.

For lack of better words, it’s splintering. Shooting up and down your leg, you practically gag from the pain as you try to sit up. Blood oozes from the wound, making your work uniform stick to your skin. It covers the ground and the wood and with shaking hands you touch the bark. A scream erupts from your mouth.

You lean back against the rubble, looking around what used to be the Raccoon City police department. It’s decimated now, with dust and gravel everywhere, and the underlying scent of blood. It must be coming from you.

Your breath comes in shallow, panicked hitches. The world feels too loud and too quiet all at once, the crackle of distant flames, the groaning collapse of broken walls, but no voices. No sirens. Just you.

The badge on your vest is cracked down the middle, still clipped there like it means something now that everything’s gone to hell.

A drop of sweat rolls into your eye as you press a hand hard against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding with torn fabric from your sleeve. It stings like fire every time you move even an inch.

Somewhere above, something scrapes across concrete floorboards. You’re not alone here anymore, and whatever's coming smells blood just as easily as you do pain.

You wonder if you should pray for it to be over. You’re going to die, anyways.

There’s a scuffle of boots, a kick of gravel and you open your eyes. A man, more a boy really, with cropped blonde hair and a face full of dust skids to a halt. He’s breathing hard, his shoulder wrapped and the letters RPD stick out in bold on his chest vest.

His eyes lock onto yours, wide and startled and human, and for a split second, the apocalypse stops.

Leon drops to one knee beside you with surprising speed. The blood on your leg makes his breath hitch. He doesn’t say anything at first, just rips off his tactical vest and presses it hard against the wound like he’s done this before.

“Hey… hey! Stay with me,” he says urgently, voice low but steady despite how young it sounds. His hands are calloused but careful as they work, the same hands that probably signed paperwork this morning before hell broke loose.

He glances toward the ceiling where that scraping came from earlier… then back at you. “Can you move? We gotta get out of here.”

You blink at him slowly, eyeing his badge and your fingers a tingly. “I’m…not going anywhere, Kennedy.”

“Leon,” he says softly. “My names Leon.”

“Hi Leon,” you cough and your leg throbs. “Please let me die in peace.”

Leon’s face twists, something between anger and exhaustion.

“No,” he snaps, sharper than intended. Then softer: “No, you don’t get to say that.”

He shifts closer, ignoring the blood soaking through his vest. His blue eyes are fierce in a way that doesn't match how young he looks, like someone trying so hard not to fail.

“I just got here,” he mutters, more to himself than you. First day on the job. First time seeing this city fall apart, and now this. “First Ada…not you too.”

With careful strength, Leon slides one arm under your shoulders while keeping pressure on your leg with his other hand.

“We’re leaving,” he says firmly, not asking permission anymore, but carrying it like an order from a cop who still believes in saving people, even when they beg not to be saved. “just hold onto me.”

You let out a blood curdling scream as he stands, tears springing to your eyes. The pain is mind numbing, and his movements are clunky, the tree branch moving at odd angles.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispers. “My friends got a car. We’ll get you out of here.”

You don’t respond, don’t even try to hide the tears. Your fingers curl inwards and you try to count the stars that come into view as he moves.

Leon’s jaw clenches with every sob you make, each one hitting him harder than any punch.

He doesn’t slow down, though. Can’t. The station groans around you, walls swaying like they’re about to collapse. He carries you through the debris field, arms trembling under your weight and his own exhaustion.

“Almost there,” he breathes between steps, more for himself than for you now. His face is streaked with dust and sweat; a cut above his eyebrow drips blood he hasn't noticed yet. “I won’t leave you.”

Somewhere ahead, a flicker of light in the broken hallway: flashlight beams dancing on shattered glass.

A voice calls out. “Kennedy?!”

And just as Leon stumbles forward into that narrow beam of hope, your eyes flutter shut from the pain, and everything goes quiet again.

-

Leon Kennedy tried to save your life that night.

That’s what the doctors tell you, and the nurses. He visits you a few times, without saying much. Just sits in the chair beside your bed as you drift in and out of consciousness. Tucks the blankets around you, brushes your hair back from your forehead while you dream.

It’s sweet if it wasn’t so futile.

Leon comes on days when he’s not assigned to clean up the city’s corpse-riddled streets or escort survivors out past quarantine zones. He never knocks, just appears, like a ghost who won’t stop showing up.

He wears different clothes each time: sometimes his RPD uniform, stained and worn, other times a borrowed jacket that doesn’t fit right. His face has changed since that night, the innocence gone from his eyes replaced by something heavier.

Today, he brings flowers, wild ones picked outside town because nothing grows neatly anymore either—and sets them on your bedside table where they wilt slowly over days no one changes their water for you anyway. He holds your hand once while you sleep and whispers something too soft for anyone else to hear.

The doctors tell him the infection has spread. The wood caused more damage than imaginable, and they’ll need to take the leg to stop it. There isnt much of an option.

“No.” You’re firm in your answer, and Leon’s eyes dart between you and the doctor, an older man whose jaw works.

“Ma’am, if we don’t it could spread far, far worse than this.”

You look away, staring out the window. The sky is still grey, October weather cooling the panes. “I don’t care.”

The doctor sighs, rubbing his temples like he's had this conversation too many times already, like every patient in this broken hospital is choosing death over survival.

Leon doesn’t speak. Not at first. He just watches you, the way your jaw tightens, how you won't look at either of them, and something inside him cracks quietly.

Finally, the doctor says: “Then there’s nothing more we can do.”

He leaves a clipboard on the counter and walks out without another word. Silence fills the room again. The only sound is the faint hum of failing fluorescent lights and distant sirens beyond city limits.

Leon slowly stands from his chair, then sits back down beside your bed like he has nowhere else to go now that you’ve decided where your story ends.

“You can’t give up,” he says quietly. “You- can’t.”

“Can’t I?” You murmur, and your voice has dipped.

Leon’s hands curl into fists on his knees, white-knuckled, trembling.

He wants to shout, wants to beg. Wants to grab your shoulders and shake you until you remember how much there is still left, sunlight through hospital windows, the smell of rain coming soon, the way birds sing even now in a world that’s mostly gone silent.

But he doesn’t do any of that.

Instead, he leans forward slowly, and rests his forehead gently against yours. A quiet kiss pressed into skin warmed by fever or maybe just life stubbornly clinging on for one more second.

“I care,” he whispers, the words barely audible, and they tremble like everything else about him right now: “I care, okay? So don’t just… don't. I won’t leave you.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you exhale shakily from his proximity. Your hands find his, and you squeeze, inhaling his scent.

“I appreciate you trying to help me,” you murmur. “Back there. In Raccoon City.”

His eyes are shiny when he sets back. “It’s all I want to do. Help people.”

“You’re going to make a great cop some day.”

Leon swallows hard, blinking fast like he’s fighting back something huge behind his eyes.

“I was just doing my job,” he says softly, but it’s not true. Not really. No rookie cop carries another through collapsing rubble for duty. He did it because you were alive when everyone else wasn’t anymore.

When he leaves, you settle into the blankets, flexing your fingers across the fabric.

The end is coming. You can tell.

The infection has spread too much, and a little part of you would be lying if you didn’t say you weren’t relieved.

The doctors get you to sign all the necessary paperwork a few hours later. They make you comfortable, slide the remote into your hand to control what you watch as you die. There’s no next of kin to notify; just like how you came into this world, you’ll go out it. Alone.

“Can we call officer Kennedy for you?” a nurse asks, and you shake your head.

“Will you tell him something for me?”

The nurse pauses, and then walks to your bed side. “Yes ma’am.”

“Tell him thank you,” you say softly, staring at the tubes connected to you. “Remind him he’s going to make a great officer.”

The nurse listens and nods, tucking the blanket one more time before she leaves your room. You settle into the pillows, inhaling deep before breathing out slowly. Even though you’re young, this made sense, going out the way that you are. You’re satisfied with the brief life you had, never needing something big or grandeur.

It was short, but it was yours.

You try to remember that as you close your eyes.

x

Leon taglist: @yours-truly-andrea @causeofmykoophoria

Ao3 link

Leon Kennedy ML

June of Doom ML

Divider @sunnliqht

[soverdant]

kiss of life | ryland grace

pairing: ryland grace x teacher!biochemist!reader

genre: established relationship; husband and wife stuck in space (but they don't know that yet;)

warnings: anxiety, feeling of pensiveness, feelings that imply thoughts of suicide

word count: 3.8k

author's note: hey soooo, i didn't actually expect the first one to blow up like that WHAT!? thank you so much for the support and positive comments! i'm so excited for what's to come so, hope u are too! my fav work so far but not proofread cuz i'm lowkey tired lol. will be editing everything as well as the summaries for each chapter later after i get some rest. for the mean time, have some domestic ryland grace food.

summary: you wake up in space without any knowledge of how you got there with two corpses for roomates. and oh, if it's any consolation, there's also another person—just that he's as disoriented and clueless as you are.

°⋆. ࿔*:･ part two of about time | previous chapter

you sink into the soft mattress as you lay down. the delicate, subtle smell of fabric conditioner washing over you as you cover yourself up in the freshly washed sheets.

you close your eyes, feeling the burden of perplexity tire you down. the warm glow of the night lamp hovering atop your eyelids and the muffled sound of the shower running lulling you to sleep.

"sun's really dying, huh." ryland calls out from a distance, the door closing behind him. you flinch.

to: astronomy curiosities [email protected]

from: (irina petrova, phd) [email protected]

subject: the thin red line

you tried not to think of it too much when he had sent that email to you—says its from a list he thought he'd already unsubscribed from. especially when he detailed that the sun's output will drop a full percent over the next nine years, and will inflate to five percent in twenty years resulting in an instant ice age.

watching the broadcast didn't help. sitting from the couch, eating piping-hot spaghetti with ryland wasn't what you envisioned you'd be doing when the news would drop, but it was what you had preferred instead of having co-workers and friends around to bombard you with questions.

the inner nerd in you was honestly thrilled about the project despite the situation being so terrifying.

a science fiction novel being brought to life.

unknown dots infecting celestial bodies in space, thriving in venus' atmosphere, contaminating and surviving on the surface of the sun, existing in 5,500 degrees celsius. dimming it, sucking the life out of it, possibly eating it. the possibility of the 6th extinction happening—a slow, painful one. making the earth perish in the cold before entirely wiping the entire biosphere.

there is padding of feet on the hardwood floor. the frail screech of the door hinges, the sound of the knob being pushed as it locks. phone discarded on the bedside table, the descending of mattress from your behind, sheets rustling, lifted up and placed back down again. you roll over to the side and inhale the smell of soap mixed with a mild minty scent, watching him get comfortable as he opens up the laptop placed on top of his lap.

"do you think they're alive?" the question slips from your mouth faster than you have planned. concerned, slightly agitated.

ryland silently types in his laptop, glasses on the lower bridge of his crooked nose, reflecting what looked to be student papers. he leans towards you and place a hand on your arm, fingers tracing shapes onto your skin, trying to think of the right words to say.

"i think," he huffs, pushing his glasses further atop his nose. "that we'll find out for ourselves when the probe gets back." he gives an encouraging nod, hoping that you'd be satisfied by this.

"hey," he shifts. "we'll be alright." hoping to calm your nerves down as much as he hopes it would do the same thing for his.

the night was spent like this—he grades student homework as you keep pushing down your nerves about having alien dots in the solar system under the rug, his hand reaching out to your arm, trailing across your waist, and reaches your abdomen, resting his hand there, before pulling back to return to work.

—

your breath hitches, gaze astray—finally recognizing the silver-colored interior, something that felt so novel at first but so familiar at the same time.

it quickly rises up, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden at the unstable ground you were unaccustomed to.

so that's why.

that explains the wrongness. the unfamiliarity.

it all makes sense now. the artificial gravity and foreign ground that felt unusually unstable than when you first took a step on it.

you were in space.

"it can't be, it doesn't make any sense that-"

"i get it," he interjects. "it's a lot to take in, and— i'm as confused as you are right now, and, god, even my clothes are a mess,"

his statement catches you off guard, disrupting your chain of thoughts, directing your attention instead to the too small jumper he was wearing that forced him to slightly slouch.

"i know, it's a lot to take in—" a giggle accidentally made its way out of your mouth.

he doesn't hear it. instead continues to ramble about all the information he could gather in the couple minutes he was left alone in the hail mary.

hail mary. term coined from american football, used to refer to a final act of desperation.

he explains the mission, frantically, chaotically, since it was still fresh from his memory, but tries his best to do it comprehensively.

first about the sun. the solar system's sol, the massive star holding it together, was infiltrated by these tiny alien cells, gradually sucking the light that illuminated earth and the seven other planets for millions of years, posing a major threat that could lead to mass extinction.

then, the astrophage. the space dots threatening the survival of billions.

tau ceti; the only star in a spill of others to not seem to be dimming despite getting infected and having a petrova line of its own.

explains he already calculated where you were, by using the gravity and star properties.

you were confused, looking at the map behind him. there was a star. you were still in the solar system, you could maybe turn the ship around, going back home.

"if you can see here, we're at-"

"at the solar system. that-"

"that's not our sun."

there's ringing in your ears, his voice gradually muffles out. it makes you dizzy, as if the unnatural force that's responsible for keeping your feet on the ground was slowly losing its grip.

it hits your spine, makes your shoulders slouch, feeling heavy.

then your throat. quickly rising to catch your tongue as well; making you lose the words.

he continues. explains the confusion, the memory loss. caused by the medically induced coma done to preserve food, resources, and most especially your sanity for the long trip.

11.9 light years away from earth, but thanks to time dilation, it only felt like 4 years to you.

finally, he tells you about your purpose, why you were sent there. you were unsure how you would do it, wondering why you would want to be here in the first place. but you were the only ones left, humanity's only hope. it brings you back.

hail mary. you get it.

he stretches out his hand in front of you, the sleeves rising up his arm.

"i'm sorry, i didn't catch your name, i'm ryland. ryland grace"

"hello dr. grace, welcome to your new lab." you were so used to with being called ms. grace for so long; at school, at medical appointments. but the addition of the word dr. before it made it feel so foreign. something that all of a sudden felt like it wasn't yours. something that felt like it only had to be followed by your other last name. the one you had just a couple years ago. "i think it's only right to call you dr. l/n instead? to prevent confusion?"

you blink.

what was that?

was there maybe some sort of connection between you and this man whom you swore you've only met today?

but then you remember the coma, the temporary memory loss.

he asks for your name, sees you hesitate. assures you it would come back sooner or later, says it took him a while to figure his out. you quickly interject, saying your name. or the one that only came to you in a flash of memory anyway.

you shake his hand. it was cold. like there was something you've touched. a subtle weight of a band that felt cool to the touch. but the handshake ends before you could figure it out.

"are you hungry? i'm hungry. i could use something to eat." he pouts, caressing his half-shaven face. you remember you were still, possibly, wearing each other's clothes. but if his says his last name, grace, why does yours say the same?

"i need a drink."

---

the uneasiness doesn't go away. even after a good night's rest, even after getting peppered with ryland's consolations, even after the conscious effort of not engaging in anything science-related, especially petrova-related. it stays, lingers, doesn't disappear.

not when you're at work, talking about a century-old piece of literature from some author; your mind was still on the damn dots.

even after one week when eva stratt first came to your school, kidnapped both you and your husband, bringing you in mysterious suvs with not-so friendly men in suits, driving you to a remote location containing the lab you will be working from on the 23rd, when the arc light probe arrives with the sample from the petrova line.

"we want you to be the first ones to take a look at it."

you already left academia years ago, although not entirely—still choosing to pursue a career that still aligned with teaching, educating. but relatively less competitive than the field of paper-writing and peer reviews.

but honestly, it was such a big honor to be given the task. the possibility of being the first people to make contact with life outside of earth thrilled you as much as it wrecked you.

"be here on the twenty-third at seven p.m. i'll have the sample for you."

stratt had ordered for the soyuz that was supposedly to land in russia, to land in saskatchewan instead, letting royal canadian air force to recover the sample, bringing it directly to san francisco via fighter jet. the authority this woman had was just ridiculously paramount that the russians, canadians, and americans follow her orders without question. it was terrifying, but also astonishing. good for her.

your keys rattle as you reach the door. it was starting to get dark out, getting home late than what you normally did because of a meeting you and ryland had to attend about an upcoming school event. your legs feel like noodles, vision starting to tunnel, and you can't seem to find the right key that opens the front door.

the switch clicks when you flick it on. with no time to adjust your eyes to the sudden light illuminating the hallway, you mindlessly kick off your shoes. you drop your bag somewhere along the floor, quickly stripping off your coat and throw it somewhere, stomach already churning.

ryland calls out from the door, having just gotten back from parking the car.

"y/n?" his voice was low, but full with concern.

"bathroom?"

you couldn't answer, already kneeling in front of the toilet, fisting the material of your sweater, backtracking what you had possibly eaten that resulted in your situation now.

footsteps then followed your path, quick and clumsy. then something that sounded like a stubbed toe, and a loud pg version of a curse word.

"god- you okay?" he says, still hissing from pain. gathering your hair with one hand as the other rubbed your back.

you turn to face him, tears still brimming at the edge of your eyes. he took the chance to wipe the beads of sweat on your forehead with the back of his hand and quickly wiped a tear drop that escaped and trailed your cheek.

"are you alright? do you want water? how about something warm to drink, y'think your stomach can handle that? what did you even- was it the sandwich? i thought it smelled kind of funky, but i don't think it was bad, i mean it tasted fre-"

"i'm fine." you sniffled.

he helped you get up and flushed the toilet. when you were about to ask, he handed you a hair tie, walking with you towards the kitchen with an arm still up on your back.

you took a seat at one of the chairs, taking a quick glance on the clock, a quarter past 6:00. still had time to freshen up, get a change of clothes, before driving back to the laboratory stratt took you to take a look at the petrova samples.

your arms curled in front of you, resting your head on them, as you hear a clattering of dishes in the background and a turning of the water heater.

he returns moments later, now in just his polo, coat hung on one of the chairs, and he pushes a few strands of hair that was still stuck to your forehead and tucked it behind your ear.

"hmm. your hand. feels nice." maybe it was the warmth of his palm, or just the comfort of his presence. maybe it was both.

"was it," he says nervously, handing you a cup of tea he prepared. "the sandwich?" you chuckle.

"i don't think so. probably just nerves."

"about today? the samples coming in?" you hummed.

"should we just, i don't know, not go?" he suggests. his glasses were crooked on his nose and a few strands of hair were standing up, some plastered on his forehead. you smile, adoring the state he was in.

you shake your head, reaching over to push his glasses a little bit towards the left to straighten it.

"we can't not go, you know." you straighten up.

"besides, wouldn't you want to get in contact with possible alien life?" you jerk up your brow, pressing a quick peck on the side of his head.

"you can prove them all wrong," gathering your things you've discarded in the hall.

"survives on the surface of the sun. sounds like a water-based life form to you?"

—

the following hours still feels like a blur.

you now knew about the mission, thanks to grace. but even after everything, all you could still piece together about yourself was your name, and that you know a lot about science—or else you wouldn't be here at all. but still unsure what you did, who you really were outside all of this.

after awkwardly pointing out the vast difference between how your clothes fit on you, you've decided to switch jumpers, still clueless as to why both uniforms would have the same last name stitched on it.

"hey, i never noticed, yours says grace?" he refers to the name engraved on the upper left part of his chest, and he looked at yours which says the exact same thing. he mentions the bag labels as well.

this was something the both of you couldn’t answer. his memories were coming back, one at a time, and yours just wasn't budging, except that weird moment when a woman you couldn't remember was referring to you as grace. or maybe it was just a jumbled-up memory that lacked context. you waited until you remembered more before bringing it up.

grace, who had a few minutes head start from you, led you to parts of the ship he'd explored alone. the control room, the lab, a very small living corner, and the airlock. the one you used to pay respects to your former crewmates and  practicality, to conserve more oxygen and minimize biohazard risk.

you work together to dress them up in your uniform, relieving, for the last time, the feeling of having a complete crew.

you go through their belongings, finding pictures and things that probably had sentimental value, gently placing it with them, the remnants of their final memories on earth.

before passing them on, you dedicate a few minutes of silence to your deceased comrades. grace was crying, silently, but you could hear his sniffles and from your peripheral vision, see him wiping his tears. you felt guilty not feeling anything, just standing there, looking at people you have spent months, maybe even years with, that feel like a stranger to you now.

your head hangs low, overcome with remorse, filled with unfamiliar grief.

maybe you weren't meant to be here in the first place. maybe memories weren't coming back to you as quickly as they did with grace because there wasn't anything to relieve in the first place. maybe this was a mistake.

looking at yao and ilyukhina for one last time, a part of you was thinking it should have been you instead.

—

it was intimidating. a few hours back had you feeling sick about what was to happen, and you were afraid that you might throw up all over again.

the laboratory was the same, just a little bit more upgraded as it was now air-sealed and filled with argon, requiring you and ryland to wear hamat suits.

"is this really necessary?" he raises his arms as he spoke.

"yes. now please, analyze the petrova sample." stratt says through the intercom. she was watching on the other side in another room with very thick glass, along with twenty-something other people wearing different military uniforms, just as interested as she was.

"and try not to rip your suit or kink your air line up. if you breathe argon-"

"we suffocate and won't even notice. thanks" you interject, mainly at annnoyance. it felt like you were being used as guinea pigs. the people on the other side probably don't care if you died, making you face all the risk like this.

but you did your best. opened the many layers of the thick container that provided the sample.

"welcome to earth," ryland mumbles as he takes the final container, inside were the black dots.

you both took the samples you needed and started working on tests individually.

ryland mainly did most of the microscopic examination, looking into the dots, seeing them move. he discovers that they were cells, containing organelles and everything else a biologist would hope to see. you studied how they absorb the radiation, as well as to why and how they kept their temperature at exactly 96.415°C.

overall, you two were a damn good team, taking only 24 hours to figure out the basic profile of the dots. this meant that you had to take the day off the next morning, focusing on the tiny alien cells you were working on.

"what would you call an organism that exists on a diet of stars?" one of stratt's questions after another report regarding your discovery about the dots.

"astro," you say, refering to something in space, and squint towards ryland's direction.

"'stro…phage?" he says, struggling to recall his greek and latin words.

"astrophage," stratt said, typing it into her tablet.

"yeah, astrophage." you say, shrugging.

"okay, take a quick break and get back to work. figure out how they breed." she says, disappearing from your line of sight.

you took the chance to make quick change of scenery, walking to the nearby convenience store, just a few blocks away from the building.

it had been a long time since you worked in a lab for a long period of time straight and it drained you, especially since you were the pioneers in experimenting with them.

ryland grabs a snicker bar and you get a cup of coffee. you wait a few minutes outside on one of the tables placed around the store, taking a breath in fresh air, unworried of argon suffocation now.

sitting in silence, sipping on your coffee, chewing on a snicker, you both quietly enjoy the twilight.

"miss the kids." he says in between a few chews.

"mm," you smile.

"they would be so proud when they hear that mr. grace coined the name for the alien dots in space." you nudge him, taking a sip of your coffee.

you watch him, observing for a while. you can still see the subtle disappointment in his eyes when you found out that astrophage was made almost entirely out of water. he looked fascinated, on how something made majority of h20 could survive in such conditions as the surface of the sun. but you could feel the pensiveness when he was wrong about the only original idea he had.

"can you believe it?" you nudge him again with a smug smile plastered on your face. "first contact of life outisde ea-"

"i can't wait to start a family with you." he cuts you off.

he's looking at you now, instead of zoning out in front of him. his eyes contained with melancholy, and entirely of sincerity.

"i mean, that, if like the sun would get better right? i'm pretty sure it's child abuse to want to raise one in these conditions but- i, what i'm saying is," he starts to ramble off. a habit of his whenever he got flustered or nervous.

"if it all gets better, which, i'm sure it will, i would like to— and only if you want to, of course. y'know, raise kids of our own and have a family and stuff." you rest your head on his shoulder, taking a sip of your coffee.

—

grace was a genuinely good person to be around with. he was a genuinely kind one at that. and you weren't only saying that because it just so happened that he was the only person you had, you meant it.

just a few days ago, while you were staring out at the stars as the hail mary was travelling, he offered to watch a film with him in the "don't go crazy" room, plastered with led screens, or what you liked to call a normal name: the projection room.

it had become an unspoken ritual now to watch films with one another, regardless of wether the other doesn't like the movie or not, which so far was not an issue.

the memories are coming along well, painfully slow, but they are slowly getting better. you studied in uc berkeley, had your doctorate in there, too.

biochem, that was what you did. grace was the one that brought this up. said he remembered it when it was mentioned in a meeting. but so far, that was it. you didn't know your family, if you even had one. you didn't know the things you liked, things you couldn't stand. it still feels like you were just stripped of your humanity.

grace, being the kind-hearted person that he was, has the benevolent willingness to keep you company at all times. you were already feeling alone in your head, he didn't want to amplify that by staying away from each other all because you couldn't remember one another.

"i'm sure we were good friends back there, you know? i can just, feel it." he said one time in the middle of your third rewatch of when harry met sally.

you just shrugged and smiled at him, hoping what he felt was right.

"i think we got along really well," he says without looking at you, fidgeting with the band on his finger, a wedding band.

"you married?" the question finally released itself after the curiosity when you shook hands.

he looks at his hand, not realizing the habit he had.

"guess so. can't seem to remember." he raises his hand so you could see it better.

"it'd be pretty sad if i were, no? just leaving the one you loved behind." there was a look on his face, gone in just a quick second. he does a quick smile before looking back at the movie.

usually when you are wearing a wedding ring on your finger, there's a strip of paler skin underneath. covered by it, protecting it from the heat of the sun.

you take a look at yours and notice that you didn't have one.

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[rotteninspace]

the quilt

ryland grace x gn!pilot!reader

a/n : this not proofread and written while I was very sleepy (I’m like method acting but for writing.. method writing.. yeah…)

summary : reader struggles with sleep but finds it easier with their two new companions

You weren’t tired. You’ve had four years of sleep- you weren’t tired.. At least that’s what you had told Grace and your new alien friend Rocky.

The three of you had been working on a plan to kill astrophage before going on a slight tangent to find a voice for Rocky when Grace had announced that he was tired and going to bed. Which then led to Rocky explaining the Eridian norm of watching each other sleep, asking that you and Grace slept in the tunnel with him.

Grace refused at first but eventually relented..

You wouldn’t retire for the night just yet- you couldn’t- not when the mission to save humanity rest unfinished before you.

Besides, you’d never been one to retire early. Especially not when there was a job unfinished.

So you went back to the ship, tidied up a bit, took inventory, paced around a bit… Your first mistake was sitting down in the cockpit under the excuse of checking the fuel tanks. Your second mistake was grabbing the thin blanket from your bunk because it was always cold on the ship.

You don’t remember nodding off yet you awake with a jolt. You couldn’t have been sleeping for long but the still vivid sensation of falling told you it was long enough for you to have a nightmare.

You weren’t afraid of falling- you were a pilot- you’ve had your fair share of heart stopping drops in your lifetime. But it had still shaken you, leaving you clammy and tense.

At least back home you knew you would eventually come back down if you fell. In space, you no longer had the comforts of gravity. Panic rises in your chest at the realization.

Panic wasn’t good- panic makes you stupid. Needing to snap yourself out of it you blink through sleepy tears and crept back to the tunnel as quiet as you could, hands clutching the blanket.

Your shoulders drop at the sight of Grace and Rocky laying on either side of the glass barrier. They were safe- you were safe, you remind yourself, cautiously walking around the failed zenonite model Grace had been working on to sit near the pair.

Covering yourself with the blanket you leaning back against the wall of the tunnel- intending to fall back asleep when a soft call of your name grabs your attention.

Grace’s head peaks out from under the quilt, looking over at you from his spot against the glass.

“Rocky was right,” you murmur, “shouldn’t have gone off by myself.”

Grace doesn’t say anything- he simply blinks sleepily at you a moment longer before lifting up the quilt covering him in a silent offer.

Oh.

You hadn’t expected that. But you were cold and if panic made you stupid- your tiredness made you completely brainless. The want for warmth and comfort selfishly overtook you and you accepted his offer, slipping under the soft weight and drifting off to a nightmare-less sleep.

The unspoken ritual of sharing the quilt would carry on through the rest of the mission.

Progress- you thought idly one night- who would’ve thought the thing to cure your anxiety induced insomnia was middle school science teacher, rock like alien, and a comfy quilt?

Then it was time to go fishing and whatever process you made quickly unraveled.

There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent the fuel leak. Even if you had piloted perfectly Grace and Rocky had already calculated the distance they needed for the collector- you had to fly that low. It just happened to be low enough for the ship to tear itself apart.

Grace had ejected the leaking fuel bays but was knocked out after being slammed against the control board. You had stayed conscious enough to turn the centrifuge system on, getting gravity back to normal.

Your memory after that is fuzzy.

You remember Grace’s chair being stuck, trapping him against the panel. You remember blood pouring from an open wound on his head and crying as you desperately tried to pull the chair back.

Later you would realize that Rocky’s ball had cracked after being thrown against a wall. Which explained the vague memory of Rocky’s screams and hisses as he broke out to help you. You would pass out after helping him get Grace to Armando. Both of you slumped against your respective sides of his enclosure in the lab.

That was where Grace would find you two when he came to.

He was sure he hadn’t been out for a long time yet your dark circles and rustled hair made it seem like he’d missed days.

You stay there until Rocky wakes up. Grace had tried to gently urge you to stand up and stretch your legs or go rest on an actual bed but you refused to leave the room. Knowing you weren’t going anywhere, he did the best he could, wrapped you in the quilt, and got to work on the taumoeba.

The only time you fell asleep were unintentional and when Grace sat next to you, offering a shoulder to rest your head (which he would then gently lower you onto his lap so your neck wouldn’t hurt when you woke up).

When Rocky had finally woken up you were a mess. The culmination of days worth of stress and little sleep caught up to you as you sobbed against the panes of his ball.

You slept peacefully then, with Rocky and Grace watching over you.

When the three of you finally arrive on Erid, you expected things to change.

The Eridians had been kind enough to build you and Grace separate bedrooms. They’d even asked if you wanted two houses but the time spend in close proximity made it difficult to even imagine not sharing the same space anymore.

You were grateful for the privacy- in concept you were overjoyed to have your own room again! But the first night officially moved into your new home you couldn’t sleep. Not without Rocky standing guard or at the very least, Grace’s warmth beside you.

So after an hour of tossing and turning you finally tip toe over to Grace’s room.

It was weird seeing him in a bed for once. He looked cozy, domestic- all bundled up in the sheets and blankets. You decided on joint custody of the quilt when the two of you were dividing things from the ship. Now, with the picture perfect view you had of him tucked underneath it- you were grateful you let him take it first.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he whispers as you came closer.

“I’m blaming Rocky,” you whisper back, crawling under the covers.

“Mhm me too,” he opens his arms, giving you space to press yourself against his side before wrapping them around you.

The rest of the galaxy drifted away as Grace’s soft snores reverberated throughout his chest and you sank deeper into the safety of his embrace.

[moonlight-in-the-sea]

disparity — colt seavers x reader

something something the stark difference between how colt treats his injuries vs. yours

Normal people's extremes are Colt Seavers' norm.

Being set on fire and put out after, falling down from heights enough to make one's head spin just to imagine standing on, being pulled out of a wreck after doing a car roll are all daily occurrences to him.

Not only that, but he actually has fun with the aforementioned predicaments. Trying over and over again to get the perfect shot, it's as if he's living to do his stupid thumbs up gesture to signal he's okay after pulling the most outrageous stunts. The way he shrugs off his bandages and stitches, let alone casts when he's broken something is nothing short of concerning, even if his reasoning is sound as he explains that bodily injuries basically come with the job. Might as well be integrated into the contract, really.

It would be a lie to say you haven't noticed how squeamish he gets when you try to fuss over him, quickly diverting your attention back to this really sick shot he pulled off that you just have to see once the movie is out, anything to tear your scrutinizing gaze from his injuries. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that not only does he love his job, it's also about the sense of accomplishment he gets from pulling off the impossible. So any injury, no matter how big or small, is proof of a slip-up in his mind whenever you dwell on it.

It's bullshit. Makes you want to punch the daylights out of him — and Ryder, too. Oh, that absolute fucker, taking credit for and leeching off of Colt's talents, skills, injuries with the whole "I do my own stunts" nonsense while he can barely sit in a car in front of a blue screen setup.

It's as if Colt thinks himself invincible. That he's Tom Ryder's best stuntman, that he's the best stuntman there is — which he probably is, to be honest, but he's not immortal. And he acts like you're slapping the unavoidable truth of it in his face whenever you dare to show concern, or God forbid, get upset when he gets injured.

You try to make it work, somehow. It's not like you don't understand not wanting to show vulnerability, changing your approach accordingly so he doesn't take offense to you doing things for him. That it's just because you want to do things for him, and not because you think he's an incapable, worthless piece of shit, or whatever other atrocious thoughts that he's brewing up in his head.

So imagine your surprise when Colt "I-can-walk-off-anything" Seavers fusses over you like no tomorrow whenever you get injured.

The first time it happens, it's a mere papercut.

Yes, a stupid papercut.

The reason why you yelp and then hiss in annoyance is solely because it's unexpected, and while it stings a little for now, you know it'll sting for at least for the rest of the week before it fully heals rather than the actual pain levels it causes.

While you're no Colt (nobody is), you're not that fragile.

"You a'ight?" Colt's head peeks in from the doorway, and upon seeing you clutching your finger with barely a drop of blood pooling at your fingertip, disappears momentarily. The sound of heavy footsteps running echoes in the corridor before he re-emerges with the first aid kit.

The whole kit. You bark out a short laugh at the sight.

"Let me see," Colt gingerly takes your hand in his, gently wrapping a bandaid over your finger, crossing the ends over so it doesn't slide right off, then briefly brushes his lips over your finger, "All good."

Your boyfriend who used to shut you out when you tried fussing over him is unironically kissing a papercut better. With his whole chest — lips, whatever, — even.

Another time it happens, it's more subtle.

You had a persistent ache in your wrist that made it hard to bend your wrist or squeeze things for a few weeks, and the orthopaedist has diagnosed it as a Ganglion cyst — nothing to worry, pretty common really. Here's your pills and spray, don't force it. It's nothing you can't manage, though it flared up occasionally during some menial tasks like chopping ingredients to cook.

Which is an odd time for fully chopped — sliced, diced, julienned and minced, also — ingredients to spawn in your freezer, filling it to the brim.

In Colt's defense, he did wait a few days after he saw you taking small breaks while prepping ingredients, squeezing the physical therapy ball to relax your muscles in between, to execute his nefarious plan.

You don't point it out directly.

"Aww, you might as well roll a red carpet for me to walk on next time," you press a loud, exaggerated smooch on his cheek, and he preens.

"Uh oh, careful what you wish for!" he hums, catching your lips in a soft kiss before you can fully pull away, "You know I would."

This time, you see Colt all but jerk forward as he lunges in your direction when you lose your balance.

He manages to catch your upper arm in a firm grip, though your knee is already grinding against the pavement. You grit your teeth as you scramble to get up through the stinging pain.

Fuck, please don't be a wardrobe malfunction. It's not like you planned on falling on gritty pavement when putting on the thin, breezy pants to combat the heat, but please, please, please, don't be a wardrobe malfunction.

"Thank you," you mutter to whoever is helping you up from the side. As soft of a fall as it was, you can't bring yourself to look at them, and with Colt ushering them away with a surprisingly assertive "I've got her, man," you don't have to face them after all.

"I've got you, baby," This time, it's directed towards you, voice considerably softer, though before you can utilize the hand you have on his shoulder to finally stand upright and thank him, your feet are swept off the ground.

A small noise of surprise rips from your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck on instinct.

Eyes flicking down momentarily, Colt clicks his tongue, yelling to no one in particular as he picks up his pace, "Can we get a medkit in my trailer?"

"On it, buddy!" You hear Dan call from a distance.

Looking down also, there is more than just a wardrobe malfunction in this situation.

Ignoring the giant hole in the knee of your pants, the flimsy fabric flapping down pathetically at the sides of a wound, there is a trail of blood that is quickly travelling down to your ankle, the red a stark contrast to the light cloth that absorbs it.

Colt pushes the door handle down with his elbow and shoulders the door to throw it open, promptly seating you on his bed, ushering the guy who brought the first aid kit to hand it over before shooing him away, slamming the door shut right after.

"Oof," he kneels in front of you, carefully lifting the fabric to get a closer look at the wound, brows furrowed with concern, opening the first aid kit with practised ease. "That looks like it hurts."

"It probably looks worse than it is," you murmur, "It was quite a soft fall, really."

Colt doesn't seem satisfied with the answer, the crease between his brows deepening as he gives your pants a light tug. "Need these off so I can clean it off before the bandages."

"Mister Seavers," you gasp, clutching your pearls in mock horror, "What scandalous requests are you making..!"

Colt fixes you with a look. Despite not wanting to play along, it seems like he doesn't have it in him to scold you, either.

Tapping your knee, "Can you lift yourself up a little?" he asks, fingers already at your waistline, undoing the button and zipper before sliding your pants off your legs, letting the fabric pool around your ankles before dabbing antiseptic on some cotton, lightly pressing it to the wound, mumbling "Sorry," the moment it touches your skin.

It's odd, seeing him this fussy over a bit of blood. It's not like you're playing hero or whatever; it really was a soft fall, and while there is arguably a lot of blood, you can tell it's merely a nasty scrape.

"You're fussing," you offer lightly, running your fingers through his hair.

That seems to help, seeing as his shoulders sag when some of the tension leaves his body.

"Obviously," he huffs, "I don't like seein' you hurt."

"Knee scrapes are nothing compared to what you go through every day when shooting."

He looks up at you through his lashes, gaze a mix between exasperated and fond. Mostly exasperated, because how dare you compare the two.

"You look pretty," you speak up before he can, trying to diffuse the situation. You've made your point, he knows.

"You're so full of shit," he cackles, throwing his head back, "I know for a fact you're not concussed. Bit late, but I caught you, remember?"

"Yeees," you drawl, "All the more reason for you to believe I'm speaking with my whole chest, pretty boy."

"Uh-huh," he nods, sporting a wide grin as he finishes bandaging up the wound.

"Looking for Tom Ryder's stunt double for scene 43."

"Ugh," both of you groan, glaring at the walkie-talkie on the counter as if it personally offended you.

A moment of silence passes before Colt speaks up.

"I'll be right back after my scene," he nudges your bare thigh, just above the bandages with his nose, "Don't you go anywhere."

"Doubt I'm gonna walk around the set without pants on, babe."

"Fair point." He nods, pointing to the door with his chin, head hanging low since he has to leave you. "I'll bring the actual medics along to take a look just in case, okay? ... And a pair of sweatpants, or whatever I can find for you to wear."

Falling back on the bed, you reach your hand out dramatically towards him as he turns around, wheezing out a sickly; "You must continue your journey without me..."

"Easy," He laughs as he opens the door, "Kung Fu Panda."

"Try not to use skadoosh on Ryder, handsome."

"No promises!"

[surturedberries]

⋆˚꩜｡ thinking about . . . holland march apologizing with a boom box outside your window

author’s note: saw a tiktok saying that a reason ryan gosling’s characters are very lovable is bc their identity often revolves around their relationships with women (daughters, friends, lovers, etc.) isnt that lovely?? big difference between that and many other male actors

holland march has accepted that he isn't anything without you. he can't call himself a man if you don't think he's one. there are days that he can be reckless, impulsive, way too energetic, and completely out of line, and sometimes you're there for him. you wrap up his injuries, kiss his forehead, pull him out of the line of fire, whatever you have to do. but sometimes, he's forgetful, unalert, doesn't know when to stop talking, and pushes you more than you can take. those days, you leave him to his own devices. he's a big boy, he can take care of himself.

and yeah, when he sees you turn away instead of helping him out, he knows he could technically, theoretically, possibly live on his own. he's gone 5 years without his late wife, and many decades without anyone. nothing is telling him otherwise. and yet, the moment he sees you make the choice to be angry at him, you strip him of his dignity. and there he's left, standing on the corner of a four way stop in los angeles as you go home to let him sit with the decisions he made.

he allows himself an afternoon to mope. he kicks rocks, sighs, maybe cries a bit on his drive back home. he would turn for a drink, but when you're upset at him, nothing feels worse than getting wasted and upsetting you more with that. he steers clear from his liquor cabinet. and once evening hits, he brainstorms. apologies are frequent between you and holland. the two of you are very different sometimes and conflicts arise easily. so, holland has accumulated a list of many gifts and acts of service that usually show his regret.

he starts writing the classics, a few extras, and eliminates them as he goes. flowers are too easy, and recently, he's been trying to switch their role in your relationship from something apologetic to celebratory. date nights and anniversaries, plus times to remind you of his love. cooking? he'll burn the house down. he'd be too distracted by the image of your disappointed frown. writing a card, a nice dinner, getting you a day off from work. he writes them and cuts them and writes more and more.

throughout his brainstorming, the sun begins to set, and holly finds herself next to her dad, rubbing his back. "you really have gotten a lot of practice with these apologies," she mentions. whether this is supposed to be comforting or shameful, he doesn't pinpoint it. instead, his head remains in his hands.

"you know, i just really wanna keep her happy. wonderful woman, one of the most patient and generous people i've ever met. the energy she has, how much work she puts into being a good person, it's incredible. i don't know how to keep up with her. i don't know why she lets me try."

hearing this, holly straightens her back and offers, "sounds like you just have to keep trying." holland is about to sink into the couch until he hears her add a second thing: "even if you suck at everything, the fact that you always try... i mean, that consumes energy. and it must take a lot of energy to keep trying with all the times you mess up."

in different context, he would have been offended. but in this situation, he shoots up onto his feet, accompanied by a little lightbulb that just went off in his mind.

he drives to your place, him in the driver's seat and healy's boombox in the other (apparently a kid couldn't pay for his services and offered this instead. "it's the new thing," healy reported with as much suspicion as holland had upon seeing it). inside the pocket of his suit, a cassette tape. around this time, you're usually having dinner and reading the latest edition of US Weekly. lucky for him, because you have a window that faces your lawn and the rest of the cul-de-sac.

you can never really guess what holland's next move is. whatever was going to happen after you ditched him during that case, you figured you'd find out tomorrow or later this week. you were content with just unwinding and going to sleep uncertain. currently, twisting some spaghetti around your fork, you keep your head buried in articles. that is until you hear a muffled engine outside swing by, come to a halt, and a man start talking to himself as he exited his car.

at first, you hesitate to look. none of your business, most likely. and then you hear it. through some kind of speaker, a recording starting up and the jackson 5 beginning to sing.

there was holland, standing in your front yard, holding a boombox above his head. his car was parked on the sidewalk, and his eyebrows scrunched up like a pleading, dejected puppy.

"i can't believe it..." you mutter. you stand up and slowly make your way to the front door. the music clears as you open it, and stepping out, the regret on holland's face grow more and more. not regret of trying to pull this off, no. there was no embarrassment displayed. it was the regret of letting you down yet again.

sorrowfully singing along to michael jackson's 10-year-old voice at the time, during the recording of who's loving you, he attempts the riff, "i treated you bad," fails quite greatly on the pitch, and lets his head drop afterwards. it would be comedic under different circumstances. but slowly, those circumstances seem to appear before you.

you were mad because you were upset, worried he'd hurt himself if he continued to be as clumsy and impulsive as he usually is. but right now, you see it. holland's an idiot. and sometimes, he just doesn't know any better. for some reason, that's one of the main reasons you stick around. because when he can't plan even two steps ahead, he's never able to lie to you, and his heart shines brightly on his sleeve.

you sigh, a smile making its way onto your face, and walk over. his eyes are squeezed shut, trying not to cry again, but you kiss his cheek and whisper for him to come inside. you have enough dinner to split up for two. he sniffles and asks, "do you hate me?" you laugh before you can think about holding it.

"i could never hate you. c'mon. turn the boombox off. let's go." to which he nods, lowers his arms, and turns off the cassette, letting you lead him inside.

[scandalscontained]

i love how you characterize holland march he's literally my wife :( can you write something small about holland and reader calling him out whenever he's a mess? like reader is nice and sweet and normal! but when it counts they're just like "holland. you stink. take a shower :/" he needs someone to just tell him to lock in

first, this is such a high compliment, thank you so much, hun!

I really loved this request. It took me down a few rabbit holes (I was very happy to go down, by the way) to bring you this! And I know you asked for something small, and I tried.. really, I did. But then somehow I ended up with something not small.

˚౨ৎ ⋆ the two times you tell holland to lock in— and the one time you kiss it better

h.march x fem!reader ⋮ mentions of drinking ⋮ allusions of alcoholism ⋮ un-labled relationship dynamics ⋮ coworkers to lovers ⋮ fluff and angst ⋮ misplaced weapons ⋮ Holland just needs some love and reassurance ⋮ reader being a mature queen

ONE - The Time You Were On A Case Together

"It's better to split up." You say, gently tugging on the sleeve of Holland's blazer to get his attention.

The house you're in is alive with bustling movement. Drunk and drugged bodies are grooving to disco music, base thumping loud enough to be felt in your chest. If Holland could smell the weed permitting the place, he'd be horrified.

He looks over at you, eyes squinting as if that would make it easier to hear you. "What?"

You cup your hands over the sides of your mouth. "Find more clues. Talk to more people. Split up!"

Holland finally understands. His mouth opens into an 'o' shape, a hum falling from his mouth. He nods. "We can do that. I'll, uh, go over there!"

When you follow the direction he jutted his chin in, your eyes fall to the bar and woman dancing on the counter top. She was wearing next to nothing. but you knew she wasn't who Holland was looking at.

You look back at him, brows furrowed. You weren't surprised. "Focus on the case. Don't drink too much."

Holland rolls his eyes, moving his hand to pat your shoulder. "I won't. This is detective work, sweetheart. You know I'm good for it!"

You weren't sure.

But he's an adult. One who has a steady job, so, it would be rude of you not to believe him. You offer a nod before walking in the opposite direction.

While you were gone, you'd been able to talk to three people. Two girls and a guy. They were all related to Victoria Shnaps, the daughter of a dangerously wealthy local politician, who's recently gone missing. The girls were her sisters while the guy was her cousin. Two days before she went missing. None of them gave you viable information— except for her youngest sister, Jazalyn. She's seen her sister talking to some guy called Steve.

You only knew she was being honest because she's got quiet after she said that. Like she wasn't allowed to. Her words had faltered, mouth hanging open, before closing and forcibly clearing her throat. She wasn't media trained. And that was a slip up if you've ever seen one.

When walking through the throng of bodies, your eyes glaze over the room in search of your partner. It doesn't take you long to find his dirty blonde mop of hair.

He's not at the bar.

But even from a distance, you can see him swaying on his feet. It looked like he was being subjected to a gentle breeze like a hung up piece of linen. He's talking to someone. That's good.

When you walk up behind him, your fingers graze his back. Just a gentle way to announce your presence. A soft smile captures your lips when you gaze up at him and glance to the woman he's talking to.

Holland startles, looking down at you with hazy eyes. It takes a minute for him to realize who's touching him and to feel comfortable. His eyes light up when he recognizes you.

"Oh!" His voice sounds like water running over rock. He motions to the woman standing in front of him, amber liquid sloshing out of the rim of his glass. "T—This is her! My partner.. in detective work. Told you 'bout her, yeah? Best—" Holland cuts himself off with a hiccup. "In the country, no, world."

The woman glances down at you, utterly perplexed.

You offer a tight smile.

The woman standing in front of you both was Cassandra Nettles. Long blonde hair, silk wrapped body, and a string of pearls around her neck that costs more than the budget for a presidential campaign. She's a person of interest.

And he's talking to her about things that don't matter— even if they are sweet.

"Okay." You splutter, taking the glass from his hand so he wouldn't spill any more of it. "My apologies, ma'am, it's been a long night."

Holland huffs. "We got here an hour ago." He looks back at the woman, eyes narrowing. "Wait, do I know you?"

Your hands fall to the small of his back and onto his bicep. The hand on his arm squeezes hard enough to shake him, not to be painful. "No you don't. You're drunk as a skunk— and you need to rest."

Holland relents, tearing his gaze from the woman fully. He looks down at you. Red-rimmed blue puppy eyes. Just a single look at the slight frustration in your eyes makes him quiet.

After an apology is given to Cassandra, you practically guide him by the scruff like a mama cat towards the door.

"M'sorry." He murmurs on to way to the car.

"We were here for Intel." You sigh, pointing in the direction of the car. "Not to drink."

"I know." He murmurs quieter this time, like those words coming from you hit harder.

TWO - The Time Holland Lost His Gun

"We'll be back later tonight." You're crouched on the ground, speaking to Holly with a soft smile on your face. "I left twenty bucks for pizza and cookies— don't tell your dad about the sweets."

Holly rolls her eyes. "He won't care. He doesn't."

You frown down at her. "He does care, kid. I promise. He'll be sad if he knows you got cookies without him."

She shrugs, standing from her criss-crossed position on the rug and walking away from you. She turns the corner down the hall towards her room.

A sigh leaves your lips, chest feeling the dull ache from the implications of her words. She didn't think Holland cared. You knew it wasn't your place to say anything more than 'he does'— but gosh, you really wanted to.

But you'd only joined the Nice Guys Agency a few months ago. You weren't enough of a permanent person to have any precedent in their lives.

So, you force yourself to stand up and walk towards Holland's room.

He'd been in there for the past twenty minutes, supposedly getting ready for a stake out. But he'd been in there for a little too long. Your knuckles wrap against his half-opened door to push it open further.

Holland is pacing around the room, dirty-blonde hair mussed and shirt half unbuttoned. His fingers rake through his hair. When he sees you, he stops in his tracks. An annoyed huff leaves his lips.

"I can't find it!" He grunts.

"What?" Your hands fall to your sides, head tilting slightly.

"My gun." Holland turns around, hands jutting out to rip the comforter half-off his bed. There's nothing there. So he moves on to demolishing the pillows.

"Your gun?" Your voice rises, unable to curb the surprise that gets frayed with panic. Your throat works around a swallow. Then, softer. "You lost your gun?"

"Lost?" He breathes, turning to look at you. "Misplaced. It's just... not here."

A silent curse falls from your lips. Your hands find purchase on your hips. "Where'd you leave it?"

Holland shrugs his shoulders, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be looking for it. Would I?"

His words land harder than they should. You physically recoil, taking a step back to look at him with widened eyes. There was no reason for him to have been rude.

"Shit— I— sorry." His voice quiets, head dipping down. "I'm frustrated. I can't— I can't just have a gun laying around the house."

You nod. Being sensitive was something you understood. Especially when you were on a time crunch and lost something important. "I know. I'll go look— just, please, lets find this quickly. Healy's gonna be pissed if we're late. We'll find it."

Holland runs his palm down over his mouth. He hums.

On a whim, you turn to walk down the hall. The bathroom was just a few doors down. You'd seen him go in there a few times in the mornings you came by to pick him up for work. Maybe, if you were lucky, you'd find it in there.

The bathroom light is turned off, the room bathed in darkness. It takes a few seconds of whacking your hand on the wall to find the switch. When the room is emerged in golden overhead light, the first thing you notice is the Jack Daniels.

It's practically empty— say for the sliver of brown liquid barely coating the bottom of the bottle. There's an empty glass next to it.

Walking into the room, you step on a balled up towel. The sudden change in flooring startles you, almost taking a tumble. A ghost of a smile twitched at your mouth. Getting scared over a towel. Yep, seemed like you.

You bend down to grab it when you see it. The glinting metal. Half shoved under the bathroom sink, like it had been kicked by accident. It was Holland's gun. You could tell by the 'H' poorly etched into the handle.

The towel drops to the floor. You grab the weapon and stand back up.

Your eyes once again drop to the empty bottle of booze. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. As much as you adored March— he had a problem. Enough of one to make him forget where he 'placed' his killing machines.

"Hey, March." You call his name, trying to keep the frustration in your chest from fraying your words. "Come here for a second?"

There's a moment of silence.

Then, his feet pattering down the hall.

He slides into the door frame, hand grabbing at the wall to stop himself from tumbling. He looks at you with big, hopeful eyes. "Did you—"

"It was kicked under the sink." You say softly, trying to keep your voice down. So Holly wouldn't hear you and he didn't think you were accusing him of anything.

Holland pauses. His brows furrow like he was confused— he raked his brain for the memory of even bringing his gun into the bathroom. Just to come up empty.

"How the.." His gaze drops to the empty bottle.

Oh. That.

Holland's cheeks heat up. His arm bends to scratch the back of his neck, chuckling softly. "Guess I must have had a bit too much last night."

"I can't believe you're legally allowed to carry this." You sigh, looking at him with a disappointed expression.

Your words sink into his skin. His mind immediately puts him on the defense, arm dropping back to his side. "Christ, c'mon now—"

"Holland." You whisper-shout his name, shaking your head. Your voice stays a fevorent whisper. "You can't leave this for Holly to find."

Holland gapes at you, trying to find some way to come back to that. There wasn't much. He puts his hands on his hips, grasping at straws. "She knows how to handle a gun."

You stare at him.

He looks at you.

Holland wants to flinch. It sounded terrible to admit out loud. What other twelve year old little girl knows her way around a gun? Most girls were probably drawing rainbows in their notebooks and listening to the beetles.

You just keep looking, waiting for something. Like he'd take back his words. But he doesn't.

You inhale a deep breath to keep yourself grounded. "That doesn't matter. She shouldn't be around this stuff— you know that."

Your voice is quiet, almost a plea.

Holland's lips press into a line. He glances down at the floor, like the tiles turned into the most interesting thing in the world.

He's quiet for a minute.

"I'm a good dad." He says quietly.

Your guard falls at his words. The gun gets placed onto the counter, your arms falling to your sides.

"Of course you are." Your voice is gentle, filled with conviction. "I never said you weren't. This—this is an accident. It happens. It doesn't mean I'm calling you a bad dad—I'm telling you to be more careful."

Holland absorbs your words, sniffling.

He nods.

"You're a great dad, Holland. Okay?"

"Yeah."

THREE - The Crisis That Leads To Cuddles

The more time you spent with the March's, the more glaringly obvious it became that Holland had no idea how to handle a teenage girl.

His approach to more sensitive topics was that of a man's: meaning, if Holly was upset about something, he'd ask her if she was getting her period. He'd have such a straight face when he did it too. Then, of course, he'd wonder why she got even angrier.

Holland tried. Don't get him wrong. He'd bend over backwards for his daughter in a heartbeat, no matter how he acts. Being in any kind of argument with Holly felt like his chest was being ripped apart.

That leads you to tonight.

You came over to make them dinner— something you did on Friday nights. It started a few months ago when you joined the Nice Guys Agency. Holland made a passing comment about not having a real home cooked meal since his wife passed, and you decided then to make sure he and his daughter had a slice of familiar domesticity. Even if it was once a week.

Over those few months, you and Holland got closer. There would be laughter drifting through the kitchen, the occasional mini-food fight, and even, if he was feeling bold, hands trying to take bites of the food before it was set. That always got him a chaste whack to the hand.

For a while, Healy would come too. It would be all of you sharing a meal after work. Eventually Healy didn't come as often. He had other arrangements on Fridays. So, it would just be you, Holly, and Holland.

Tonight was different. Holly was sitting at the counter, swiveling in her chair. The two of you were talking about school and whether or not she was excited about the next year. Her answers were less vague than they used to be— she was coming out of her shell around you.

When Holland came into the kitchen, he'd have to swear his brain turned off. There was just something about seeing his daughter comfortable with you. It was a glimpse back in time to what used to be. His heart broke a little when you told her a story about your 8th grade graduation. Holly threw her head back like a little kid and let out a big belly laugh.

He hadn't heard that laugh in over a year.

He walked up behind Holly, palm pressing against her back. He leaned over himself to press a kiss to the top of her head. "Hey, ladies."

Holland made his way around the counter top, acting on pure instinct. The floral pattered button up he was sporting was less buttoned than usual— with no glinting ring strung around his neck.

You look over to watch him advance towards you. The scent of aftershave and pine filled your senses. It was unmistakably Holland, earthy and cozy. His hair was damp like he'd just gotten out of the shower.

"Hey, dad." She muses, leaning over to grab a piece of pepper you'd cut up.

Holland wraps his arm around your shoulders like he'd done it a hundred times. The warmth of him instantly bleeds into your skin. The proximity makes your pulse jump, throat working around a swallow. You fit perfectly against his side when he pulls you into his side.

Then, he presses his lips to your temple.

It's gentle. Loving.

Holly watches the interaction, expression falling. She blinks. Almost like she couldn't even begin to believe what she'd just witnessed.

"How are my girls?" He questions as he pulls back, a genuine smile gracing his face.

You look up at him in disbelief. Holland had never been so affectionate— especially in front of Holly. You were used to winks and side hugs when leaving. Or the occasional thumb swiping across your cheek if you'd wiped flour on yourself by accident. This was uncharted territory.

"We're fine." Your voice comes out heavier than you intended it to. "Uh, tacos are almost ready."

"Smells good." He nods, thumb rubbing a circle into your shoulder. When he finally drops his arm away, he looks over the both of you with a small smile on his face.

The smile doesn't last long.

Holly stands from the chair, offense clear in her eyes. "Where's your ring?"

Holland's head snaps to his daughter, her harsh tone startling him. His ring? His hand goes to his neck, finding only the neckline of his undershirt. He wasn't wearing his ring.

He splutters for a second. "Honey, it's just upstairs. I took it off to shower—"

"You're never supposed to take it off!" Her voice rises, hurt fraying her tone. It sounds like there's something in her throat. Like the words are physically painful for her to speak.

She turns and stomps off, her hands going to her face before turning the corner.

Holland stands there absolutely stunned. His jaw is hanging open, eyes wide, and palms facing upward like he'd just gotten smacked.

You didn't even need to be observant to know what that was about. A dull ache forms in your chest for Holly. She must feel betrayed— like her father was replacing her mother with you. And that's not your intention at all.

With a flick of your wrist, you turn the stove knob down.

"What the hell was that about?" He questions, turning to look at you.

"Go talk to her." You breathe, glancing in the direction she ran off in.

Holland bites his lower lip, hands taking purchase on his hips. "I don't understand. I just forgot to—"

"Holland."

He quiets at the serious tone of your voice.

You watch as his shoulders deflate, slouching in on himself. A somber expression takes over his face. You can see the gears turning in his mind, replaying exactly what happened.

"She's sad." Your words come out soft. Almost gentle. Like he's fragile and you're horrified of breaking him. "You should go talk to her."

Holland absorbs your words.

He lets them sink into his skin and roll around in his mind. Finally, he nods.

"Alright." He shakes his head, reluctantly turning on his heel and following in Holly's footsteps.

Your palm flattens over your chest, trying to soothe the ruminating ache. There was no way you could imagine just what she was feeling. You weren't in her mind.

Minutes pass.

Or, what feels like minutes.

Your fingers drum against the counter top. Anxiety starts to creep up your throat. There's a second where you think it would be best to leave.

Then you hear it.

The unmistakable muffled sound of Holly shouting 'I hate you'. You flinch. Your eyes close and a sigh leaves your lips, head dipping down. This was not how you envisioned your Friday night going.

Glancing at the half prepared chicken tacos, you give leaving some extra thought. That's what's probably best. To do it quietly, maybe make up their plates before you do so. But you were probably the last person Holly wanted to be near.

You're about to grab your purse. It's hanging right on the edge of the counter chair. It almost glows like an exit sign.

Holland sulks back into the kitchen. He looks like a smaller version of himself. Slouched shoulders, trudging steps, and gaze tilted to the floor. Your name falls from his lips like a plea.

A curse enters your mind.

Then, you get a good look at him. His eyes are glassy like he's about to cry.

One thing about Holland that most people don't know: he values his daughter's opinion more than anyone. Losing his wife was terrible. But if he even thought Holly had a negative view of him? His whole world shattered.

"I don't understand." His voice sounds paper-thin. There's a lost look in his eyes, like he was a second away from falling off a cliff. It broke your heart.

"Hey." You murmur, motioning for him to come over. Moving around the counter, you tentatively step towards him.

"She... she.." He clears his throat, head turning away to blink roughly. Try to stop the tears that threatened to fall. "Am I bad dad?"

A frown tugs at your mouth.

"No." You say quickly, shaking your head. Certainty drips from your lips like honeysuckle. "She doesn't mean that, March."

His gaze stays on the ground.

He blinks hardly.

"She does." He whispers.

You want to hug him and slap him at the same time. Once he gets an idea into his head—good or bad—he's a damn bull. Too stubborn to avoid tunnel vision.

Is this even your place?

It's not like he's your boyfriend or anything— though those professional lines have been blurring. And that kiss definitely meant something. But do you even have any place here? If anything aren't you just his kinda-situationship?

Maybe it was best to have left.

But now you're here.

And you feel like you're being ripped in half knowing some of your favorite people in the world are hurting.

So, you outstretch your arms and motion for him to come in.

Holland accepts. He walks slowly towards you, arms snaking around your waist. His nose gets buried into the crook of your neck. Little droplets land on your skin. Your arms wraparound his back and give him a gentle squeeze.

Silence envelopes the two of you.

There's a moment where you just let Holland soak up your embrace. He shakes a little, sniffling to hold back the mess of tears that threatened to fall.

"You're doing your best." You whisper, voice barely audible. "Kids don't come with manuals, right? Even the best of the best make mistakes."

Holland slumps against you. Like a giant dog jumping onto your lap, thinking he's smaller than he actually is.

"Mhm." He mumbles, pulling away from you to wipe at his face. His movements were quick— like you'd suddenly burned him. Or he realized he was leaning on you and got embarrassed.

"You're a good dad." Veneration wraps your words. "Say it."

Holland huffs. "I'm a good dad."

"Little louder. Like you mean it." You offer a gentle smile, rubbing at his arms for motivation.

Despite his saddened expression, the ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "I'm a good dad."

"There he is." You murmur, chest warming a little.

Holland wipes at his eyes with his wrist. He blinks and gazes down at you. Eyes hazy, he looks like a kicked puppy.

"I still don't know what I did to make her..." He trails off, cutting himself off with a sigh.

There's a moment of silence as you try to gather your thoughts.

There wasn't any good way to say this. Especially since you and Holland weren't together.

"I think she's feeling a little betrayed." There's a softness to your words. "You usually wear your ring. Tonight, you didn't. And these past few weeks I've been coming over to cook for guy—"

"I don't see why that means—"

"Let me finish." Your correction is gentle, keeping your voice calm.

Holland closes his mouth. He nods and mumbles an apology.

"She might think you're replacing her mother." You opt to get straight to your point, trying to cushion the blow with your tone. "Having me here, cooking for you guys. You even kissed me tonight, Holland."

For the first time ever, he's quiet.

"I know that's not your intention." You watch for his response, trying to see how he was taking your words. "But she doesn't. She sees me doing things her mom did— and that makes her feel some kind of way."

Holland darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip. His head twitches in a half-nod, like he's barely able to move anything. Like he's frozen.

Silence settles.

It's the uncomfortable kind of silence. The kind that worms into your ribs and presses against the walls of your bones, stabbing at your lungs when it tries to make space for itself.

Holland sighs.

"What should I do?" He asks gently, puppy eyes boring into yours.

"Give her some space. Then listen to her." You raise a brow at him. "Really listen to her. Then talk with her."

"Okay."

You tuck some of your hair behind your ear. "I'm gonna.. uh, get out of your hair. I feel like I've outstayed my welcome." A soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Dinner's ready. All you've gotta do is assemble the tacos."

Holland's brows furrow, taking in your words. "No." It tumbles from his mouth quickly, hands jutting out to grasp at your wrist. But he drops his hands, teeth sinking into his lips. "You... you could never overstay your welcome here."

Your heart flutters at his words. "I know." You offer a smile to reassure him. "But I think it's best for Holly to be alone with just you."

Holland eventually accepts it. That was what was logical, after all. You were always right about things like this.

"Okay." He scratches the back of his neck. "Thank you... for everything tonight. I'll see you in the office tomorrow?"

You nod, turning to collect your purse. "You will."

Holland follows after, gingerly grabbing your coat and handing it over to you. He watches you slip yourself into it. There's something stirring in his chest. Something he hadn't given much thought to.

He did kiss you. Pressed his lips to your temple like it was nothing. Called you his. He wasn't sure what that meant. Though, he knew he'd have to dissect it to know.

The two of you walk towards the front door. He opens it for you, standing at the threshold to make sure you get to your car okay.

"Have a good night, March." You say with a small smile, waving your fingers at him.

He does the same. "Yeah. You too."

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[harbours-lighthouse]

TO MOVE SLOWLY FROM SIDE TO SIDE

ryland grace x fem!reader

✦ tags: angst; hurt/comfort; one (1) use of y/n.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

You found Ryland and asked him to hold you. 

It was a vulnerable thing to request, and a sharp lump sat in your throat. Your hands shook with nerves. You wanted to explain yourself, create a sort of a scientific graph with all of your emotional data and present it to Ryland like you’re doing nothing but a simple task on the ship. But human things—messy human things—rarely made themselves easy to communicate. Least of all in a scientific way. 

All you knew was that the strangled feeling stuck inside your chest were all different colours. One was coloured grief, the other anger, and another as guilt. You’re still trying to recall the memories that explain that one, but you’re terrified of what you might find. 

You fidgeted with your hands in front of your stomach, confidence shrinking by the second. 

“If it’s okay with you?” you added quietly. 

Ryland’s face had morphed from confused, to concerned, to hesitant (but not unwilling). He stepped closer to bring his hands to yours, gently prying them apart and guiding them upward. You followed his silent instructions, and wrapped your arms around his neck. 

You heard him expel a breath, somewhat shakily. 

“This okay?” Ryland asked, and his arms folded behind you, pressing into the small of your back. 

You nearly sobbed (you should be asking him that), but choked back the sound by pressing your nose into his shoulder. In many ways, Ryland continuously reminded you that regardless of the situations he found himself in, he gave up his comfort (and his physical body) to help. He was a constant string of sacrifices, an endless loop of giving. 

It made an ugly feeling strike through your gut. When was the last time he asked for something in return? 

Closing your eyes, you sunk deeper into Ryland’s hold and hoped to convey wordlessly that he could hold you the way he needed to. That he could hold you tight; grip you selfishly.  

The seconds ticked by, and the awkward silence that had settled over the ship began to morph into something softer. You realised that Rocky was also in the room, but hadn’t made a single sound. Not even his translator echoed mechanically in the air, asking questions.

Ryland quietly cleared his throat. “Did you want to—uh, talk… about it?” 

His question was followed by his thumb rubbing a small crescent into your back. You turned your head to press your cheek against Ryland’s shoulder, gaze idly running along the floor. 

“No,” you murmured. “But thanks for asking.” 

Ryland nodded his head, exhaling through his nose. After a short moment, you felt his cheek press against the side of your head. 

You couldn’t say when the two of you began to sway, but, at some point, your heart rates had synced with one another, beating in tandem while your bodies rocked side to side. There wasn’t any music to accompany you; you weren’t sharing a romantic dance.

Your lips briefly twitched with a faint smile as you imagined Rocky asking you about it. 

Why Grace and Y/N move to side on repeat. Question. 

You weren’t good with numbers or molecular biology like Ryland, but you knew a lot about the human body. And you knew that people rocked themselves when they needed comfort. Maybe Eridians did something similar? You’d explain it to the overly enthusiastic alien, but the thought left you when Ryland moved his hand up your back, palm splayed against your spine.

“This is nice,” Ryland whispered.

You hummed, and tears crowded the edges of your vision. 

“Same time tomorrow?”

You let out a wet giggle, muffling it into his shirt. 

Ryland let out a soft huff, his smile trailing after his breath and hidden from view.

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